Jack held her firm. "Is that a promise?"

"Yes!" Tarissa was on the ground in an instant. A second later she was chasing him back toward the cottage.

In his whole life, Jack could not remember ever being so happy. He had been worried in case Tarissa hadn't wanted to come with him; after all, the only life she knew was here in Halcus. Rovas was many things: a liar, a user, and a bully, but he provided well for his family, and Tarissa would be giving up a life of comfort and stability. She was taking a risk coming with him. There was no telling what Rovas might do when he found out that she and her mother were gone. He considered them his property, and he wouldn't take kindly to them taking off without his permission.

Jack kissed Tarissa lightly on the cheek. He would not let her down.

There was nothing he wouldn't do for her. Jack's mind raced ahead of his legs. He would work day and night. Surely someone would employ him as a baker. In the evenings he could scribe by candlelight. He no longer felt worried about people discovering he wasn't normal: sorcery seemed a thing of the past. If anything happened again, he felt confident he could control it. As long as he had Tarissa, he could do anything.

There would be problems, though. He had no letters of introduction, no proof of his trade. Money would be very tight and they might have to live roughly for a while. And then there was Magra. She had to come with them; Tarissa would have it no other way. They were mother and daughter, and Jack understood the value of family. There would be three in the party for Annis.

Jack knew it was a great responsibility that he was taking on, but he felt as if he needed to do it, not only for Tarissa, but for himself. Two nights back something had happened; it was almost as if a part of him had been taken away. He felt lighter and more free than he had in months, yet the sensation of weightlessness, of having no ties, no responsibility and no fate, left him with a feeling akin to hunger.

There had to be a meaning to his life. He didn't want to drift aimlessly with no purpose or commitments, with nothing to worry about but feeding and clothing himself. His back was built to bear more.

Tarissa and Magra would be his purpose. He would spend all his waking hours working to give them everything they needed It would be a welcome burden.

After a minute or so of being chased, Jack decided to let himself be caught. Tarissa ran toward him, giggling and cursing and out of breath. "So I'm forced to go with you to Annis?"

"You wouldn't want to break your promise."

"I wouldn't want to be without you." She raised her head and kissed him softly. "I love you, Jack," she said, taking his hand and leading him back toward the cottage.

Eighteen

Rovas was waiting for them. A bench lay upturned on the floor and Magra was busy mopping up what looked to be the remains of a bowl of stew. Jack was instantly on guard.

"Where have you been?" demanded Rovas, his voice dangerously low.

"I have already told you that," said Magra, looking up from the floor and speaking very precisely. "I sent Jack to look for Tarissa. I was worried about her. She had been out on her own too long."

Magra was giving them an excuse. Judging from the shaking of her hands and the disorderly state of the cottage, she had just been subject to one of Rovas' temper tantrums.

The beginning of a matching anger began to rise within Jack. Magra and Tarissa were his family now and he wouldn't stand for anyone upsetting them.

Jack moved forward and came to stand directly opposite Rovas. Although smaller than him, the smuggler was twice as wide. He was barely two feet away and his breath reeked of ale. "Well, we're back now," said Jack, turning his voice to a threat. "So there's no need for you to worry."

The two men looked at each other. Rovas' eyes were filled with loathing. Jack didn't want to think about the reason why the man hated him so much. Such thoughts were best kept in the dark. He was aware of a buildup of tension within his head and a burning sensation in his throat. Sorcery or fear-it was hard to tell. Whatever it was, he worked to keep it under control. Afraid that his bile might carry a sting more deadly than acid, Jack made a determined effort to stop his stomach from contracting. He wanted to deal with Rovas alone. With muscle, not sorcery as his weapon.

Rovas backed away.

Sighs of relief could be heard from Tarissa and Magra. Part of Jack wanted to sigh along with them, but he stood firm, never once taking his eyes off the smuggler. He was suspicious: Rovas was not a man to back down lightly.

"Well, Jack," he said. "It's obvious you're ready to avenge your sweetheart's death. Aggression like that will come in useful when it comes to dealing with Captain Vanly."

"He's the man who murdered Melli?" Jack was tense. He had managed to control the swell of sorcery, but at what cost? His heart was beating wildly and he was aware of a warm trickle of blood running from his nose.

"Murdered and raped her, then cut off her head." Rovas' lip curled to a sneer. A sharp intake of breath sounded from Tarissa.

The words were a finely aimed barb. Jack covered the space between him and the smuggler, his hands grabbing for the man's throat. Rovas was ready. A mighty punch sent his head reeling. The two men fell on the floor. Pots and pans scattered about them. Jack hit his jaw on the side of the table and the smuggler landed on top of him. Tarissa was screaming. Sorcery was building. Rovas had got hold of a knife.

Then someone threw cold water over them. Jack looked up. Magra stood above him like a goddess, an empty bucket in her hand. She bent down and started beating them both with the wooden bucket. Her fine features were wild with fury. Jack could see where Tarissa got her physical strength from; the blows were fierce and biting. He and Rovas submitted to the beating like naughty children. After a while, however, Rovas clearly had enough.

"Leave me be, woman," he said. "I'll be black-and-blue tomorrow."

"I hope you are," cried Magra. "And that goes for you, too!" she said, turning to Jack.

Rovas smiled ruefully and held out his hand. "Come on, lad, I'm sorry for speaking out of turn. I don't know what got into me.". Jack could feel the considerable force of Rovas' charm working upon him. "No hard feelings, eh?"

To keep the peace for Magra and Tarissa's sake, Jack took the smuggler's hand. "No hard feelings," he lied. The tension in the room collapsed upon itself, leaving relief in its wake.

Rovas helped Jack to stand up. The sorcery, for there had been no mistaking its metallic tang, seemed to have dissipated naturally this time. Although beating quickly, his heart now felt under less strain. The nosebleed had stopped.

Magra had swapped the bucket for a pitcher of ale and poured them both a brimming cup. Jack took the offered cup and downed it in one. "So when do I see to Vanly?"

Rovas wiped the froth from his upper lip. "The day after tomorrow. I just got word that Kylock has invaded western Halcus, so it won't be long before Vanly is called to the front."

Jack dropped his beer mug. Kylock invading Halcus. He never heard the sound of the mug crashing to the floor. At the mention of Kylock's name, something pulled sharply at Jack's thoughts, causing them to refocus on Bren and the war, and then, unexpectedly, on the man with the golden hair. It seemed the thread hadn't been severed after all.

Baralis warmed the oil in a crucible over the flame. When it reached the desired temperature, he added a dull gray powder to the mix. His hands shook with fatigue. The pain in his joints was unbearable. The pain in his chest was torture.

Crope had laid out the body on the bed. The unfortunate girl, whoever she was, had been lured here with promises of gold. Baralis didn't bother to ask where she came from. She was a whore, that much was obvious, and judging from her coarsely dyed yellow hair, she was a low-class one at that. She would not be missed.

They were in a small inn in the whoring quarter. It was shabby and flea-ridden. The rushes on the floor stank of mold and the stains on the bedclothes told of sex and blood and urine. A place where no questions were asked once the innkeeper had tested the worth of one's gold. The journey here had been almost intolerable. Crope had to carry him from the palace and lift him into the waiting litter. All the time, the skin on his chest was weeping into the bandage. Pain had accompanied every footfall of the litter carriers. It had all been necessary, though. Even with the duke away, Baralis could not risk anyone at the palace discovering what he was up to. Too many hostile eyes waited eagerly for his downfall.

"It's not enough to place the cloth over her face," he said to Crope. "It must be tied, so she cannot see."

The girl was unconscious, but if she were to wake, as she surely would, it would be better if she didn't see what was happening to her. "Bind her hands together, as well." Baralis had watched the effects of fear on many people, and he'd seen enough to know that extreme terror could sometimes provoke great feats of strength, so he was taking no chances. This girl had to die so that he might regain his strength. He needed new skin for his chest.

The powder had dissolved in the oil. A light scum floated on the surface and Baralis drew it off with a spoon. He allowed a drop of water to fall into the crucible; it hissed and skittered. Good, the oil was ready. He picked up the crucible by its long tapering handle and carried it toward the bed. Pushing back the cloth from the girl's forehead, he poured the oil over her scalp.

The girl convulsed. A low groan gurgled in her throat and then her jaw started working on a scream. The wad of cloth in her mouth stopped the sound from escaping. Her body thrashed wildly on the bed and under the cloth her eyes opened. The fine linen gave away every terrified blink. A fatty, meaty smell filled the air as the oil burned its way into her flesh.

Baralis stood and watched. After a few moments the powder that was borne on the oil began to work its commission. The girl settled down, her jaw no longer straining to be heard. One scarred finger scraped along the crucible's edge, and the last drop of oil was brought to Baralis' lips. He let it fall under his tongue. It was cool now, but bitter all the same. Quickly, so quickly it worked. The room blurred sharply and then refocused, more vivid and more menacing than before. The girl became known to him.

Her seedy little life appeared in patches before him. She was no different than a thousand whores: greedy, vain, pathetic.

The drawing would be half sorcery, half alchemy. A particularly potent mix, which was still practiced amongst the nomads who roamed the Great Plains. In those ancient grasslands, where survival depended on the whims of nature and the speed of a spear, hunters were second only to God. The herdsmen tended the herds, while the hunters rode out on their swift and graceful horses and slew any man or beast that was a threat. If a hunter were maimed or injured, a herdsman would forfeit his life. The sorcery created by the sacrifice would save him. It was a hard law, but one Baralis had come to respect during the year he'd spent with the nomads. Survival of the tribe was all that counted.

Set apart from the civilized world that encircled them, the nomads had managed to keep and cultivate their magic. The elders held generations worth of knowledge in their heads. Nothing was recorded: methods and ingredients were passed from father to son. Their sorcery was thick with earth and blood.

Crude and powerful, it depended on the flesh and bones of sacrifice. Even the lacus, that most fetid of potions which could cure a man of a hundred different ailments, was the product of ritual slaying. A score of goats and one newly born child went into its making. Squeezing the animals' stomachs rendered a pale silvery liquid, but it was the sacrifice of the child that gave the lacus its life. Without it, the lacus was as insipid as milk.

The nomads kept their secret close. Few knew of the true nature of their magic. When he arrived on the Great Plains, fresh from his time in the Far South, the skills of the herdsmen had seemed crude and blundering compared to the heady, subtle magic of Hanatta. He knew differently now. They were closer to the source: blood and belly, earth and nature; the mind and its intellect almost disregarded. Sacrifice took the place of thought.

Baralis readied the blade. There was a balance to all things, and the knife must be as warm and as salted as the skin it would cut. Crope hovered behind like an anxious nursemaid. He would be there to catch him when he fell.

The herdsmen had saved his life. He had left Hanatta in disgrace. His teacher thought his niece was too young for amorous advances. Thirteen, she was, her pubis barely downed, her hips newly curving, yet the girl was ready all the same. There was more seduction than modesty in her coyly given glances. His teacher had discovered them together. There was blood on the girl's thighs and a matching stain on his lips. Baralis left for the north the next day.

Journeys had always proven dangerous for him, and this one was no exception. He fell in with a group of traveling musicians; they were headed for the court at Castle Harvell in order to perform at the betrothal ceremony of Arinalda and Lesketh. It was during this time, listening to what the minstrels knew about the Four Kingdoms, hearing how King Lesketh was weak and cared more for hunting than for politics, that ideas began to grow in Baralis' mind. By all accounts, the country was lacking in firm leadership and there were great opportunities for those with the ambition to take them.

It would be four more years before he found his way to the kingdoms. Their party was attacked by bandits one hundred leagues north of Silbur. They were outnumbered three to one. Baralis made the mistake of performing a defensive drawing. The attackers were superstitious fools; they thought he was a devil and the minstrels were his minions. They slaughtered everyone in the party except him. Devils would not die by the blade.

Beaten and bound, they dragged him to their camp. They jeered and taunted, and when they grew bored they resorted to torture. His hands were thrust into hot coals, not once, but many times. He felt the pain even to this day. Eventually they tired of him and carried him out to a rocky plain and left him there to die.

The luck of the devil saved him. Delirious with exposure and thirst, too weak for even the simplest drawing, Baralis came so close to death he could smell it. He reeked like carrion. Visited by visions, on the edge of madness, the stars gave him glimpses of greatness. There was much to learn on oblivion's cusp. He saw it all. Fate unraveled itself before him; it tantalized with an image of the north that was ripe for the taking and chastised with the threat of death and obscurity.

By the time the nomads found him, he'd done his deal with the devil. Or fate, or whatever it was that played one man or one country off against another and then waited to see who would win. He became a force of nature on the plains while he lay dying, and the two men who eventually found him had no choice but to bow to his fate. They brought him to the heart of the tribe. Once there, the elders tended him as if he were a hunter, and in many ways he was. Buming with a newly discovered cause, they called him "the chosen one" and offered up their resources like gifts to a god.

One year to the day he spent with them. Unconcerned with good or evil, the herdsmen respected strength, fertility, and fate. His time with them honed his body and spirit and filled his mind with ancient learning. He emerged from the plains with a mission and the means to carry it out.

Baralis forced his mind to the present and focused it upon the girl. She lay still now, her eyes closed, the linen still wet with her tears. The powdered oil was a bond shared, but the blade was for her alone.

Oh, the pain was intolerable. His chest, its muscles and the tender tissue beneath, all damaged to save the life of a silly girl. Catherine of Bren would find herself with a considerable debt to pay.

With hands that were steady despite the pain, Baralis took the blade and slit the fabric of his victim's dress. Chest and breast and belly were revealed by the taper's light. Not quite as young as he would have liked, yet still of an age when the skin would smooth quickly from a pinch.

"Turn her for me," he ordered- Her back would provide a more appropriate stretch of skin. Crope stepped forward and did his bidding. "Good. Now bring me the second container." Baralis' eyes rested upon the girl's back. It was just what he needed.

Crope fumbled around by the table until he found the freshly pestled leaf. "Is this the one, master?"

Baralis nodded. "Hold it for me." He bent over the girl and nicked the flesh at the base of her spine.

Blood welled bright and gaudy. It ran along the salted blade and into the waiting pot. The sap of the leaf rose to meet it. Baralis bit hard on the tip of his tongue. The taste from the oil filled his mouth. His own blood dripped into the mix and the potion was complete. He stirred it once with bare fingers and then drew his power into the pot.

Such weakness, it made him sway where he stood. Crope waited in the shadows, arms ready if needed.

The potion took sorcery's spark and became greater than the sum of its parts. Baralis leaned over and smeared it onto the skin of the girl's back. Immediately he felt a corresponding bum upon his chest. The pain reached new heights of torment. The girl upon the bed began to move. The blade drew itself to her skin, Baralis merely its keeper.

Around her back it traced a course, across the neck, along the arms and above the buttocks. The girl arched her spine to meet it. Baralis began to lose himself; he felt every cut of the knife. Head pounding, hands soaked in blood, Baralis wavered as the darkness beckoned. He knew a single, terrifying pain and then the girl, beautiful in her abandon, was his.

Backward he fell. Past and present no longer held meaning. His chest blazed like an inferno and his flesh was consumed by the flames.

From somewhere he heard a voice: "Pretty necklace has owls. Can I keep it, master?"

Baralis never knew if he nodded or shook his head.

Maybor was pleasantly pickled. Life was good, but the ale was better. A drink in his hand, two girls in his bed: who could want for anything more? One young lady lay eyes closed, bottom up, worn out by the breadth of his passion. The other girl, a saucy vixen if ever there was one, was eyeing him up for another go around the maypole.

He wasn't quite up to it yet.

In fact, now that he'd had a brothel keeper's fill, his urges had receded along with his codpiece. His mind was still active, though, even if his fishing rod wasn't.

He stood up, modestly covering his vitals with a huge cushion. Shakindra was the name of the boar-hound the duke had given him. Maybor had shortened it to Shark. "Shark," he called, moving toward the bedside chest. "Here, boy." Maybor chose to ignore the fact that Shark was actually a girl.

"I'm telling you now, matey," piped up the vixen from the bed, "I ain't gonna do no kinky stuff, not for any amount of money."

Maybor ignored the girl and beamed at the dog. "Good boy. Good boy." At first he'd been a little wary of the scarylooking creature, but now, seeing it come toward him, tail wagging, eyes bright with intelligence, Maybor began to feel rather fond of it. The dog came up and licked his face. "Who's a big bastard, then, eh?" said Maybor fondly. He reached into the chest. "Got something for my big boy.

Something to get his teethy-weethy into." Pulling out Baralis' linen undershirt, Maybor stuffed it against Shark's muzzle. "Kill, boy. Kill. "

Shark growled like a hound from hell and tore the shirt into shreds. The dog's jaws frothed in frenzy; its chest shook with intent. After the creature had destroyed the shirt, it continued to worry away at the remains as if they were a threat to its life. Maybor smiled, well pleased. Shark was aptly named.

After a few moments he turned his attention back to the vixen on the bed. What was it she said about kinky stuff?

Melli hitched up her dress and rubbed fragrant oils into her thighs. The ladies at Castle Harvell had told her many times that such preparations were essential for lovemaking.

Apparently men like nothing better than to follow their hands and their noses up to the flower with the honey. Melli hated such silly talk: flowers with honey, indeed! The ladies at Castle Harvell should call a spade a spade!

Melli breathed a sigh of relief as the oil worked its fancy upon her flesh, soothing, cooling, easing the pain. Lovemaking might not be on her mind, but rider's chafe was on her thighs. Six hours in the saddle!

It was enough to make even the most hardened rider walk bowlegged for a week. Oh, the scenery was breathtaking: all purple mountains heavily topped with snow, and lush green meadows in the first flush of spring, but it wasn't quite enough to offset the strain of the ride. She was sorely out of practice. At one time riding had been like second nature; however, once a girl's blood flowed it was considered unseemly to ride astride in the company of men. Another silly court custom! And one she was pleased to say hadn't been adopted for the journey to the lodge. In fact, the duke himself had helped her onto the horse, cupping his hand in readiness for a foot meant to mount, not sit.

Unfortunately that was the only gallant thing His Grace had done all day. For the entire six hours he had ignored her; she rode at the back along with servants and supplies. No-one had spoken to her, they just stared and whispered amongst themselves. It was a fair-sized party, nearly twenty in all: the duke and four other noblemen, several grooms, two dog handlers, an array of men servants and kitchen staff, and a lady's maid, who Melli presumed was meant to attend upon her. She didn't count the armed guards in the numbers.

Bailor did not accompany them. Melli had hoped he would, for he was the nearest thing that she had to a friend in Bren. They had arrived at the lodge by midafternoon, and the first thing the duke did was change his horse and ride out on a hunt-so she'd had no one to talk to all day.

The lady's maid came in the room. Besides Melli, she was the only other female in the party. Obviously such trips were usually for men alone.

The girl bobbed a reluctant curtsy. "I'm supposed to see to you, lady," she said. The word lady carried all the effect of a verbal sneer.

"Well, you could have come sooner," snapped Melli, upset by the girl's manner. "I've been on my own for hours."

"Didn't think you'd want anything until now." The girl picked up the jar of fragrant oil and sniffed the contents. "The duke said you are to join him in his private apartments for supper. So I suppose you'll need seeing to."

For some reason Melli felt close to tears. No one, not even Mistress Greal, had treated her with the contempt that this serving girl did. The worst thing was that she had no defense: she was little more than a slave and much less than a prostitute. Anger was her only recourse. "Leave me now. I do not require anything from you. If you should happen to see His Grace, then kindly tell him I have dismissed you because of your insolence."

That certainly seemed to do the trick. The girl instantly recognized and then reacted to the nobility in her voice. She actually re-curtsied. "I'm sorry, miss. I didn't mean to offend you."

"That was exactly what you meant to do, thought Melli. Very well, I will let the matter pass this time.

Please fetch me a measure of red wine and some bread and cheese. I haven't eaten anything since this morning, and I've no intention of waiting upon the duke's call before I line my belly." Ever since arriving at the hunting lodge, Melli had been alone in her room, unregarded and unfed. So much for hunting and feasting! "And when you come back, you can help me change. I've little desire to please His Grace, but I've even less desire to sit here any longer in a dress that reeks of horse sweat. Now run along and be quick about it." It was so easy to fall into the old ways of court. Servants had to be treated harshly in order to gain their respect.

"Yes, miss." The girl performed a hasty curtsy and was off, now eager to do her bidding.

An hour later Melli was nibbling on the last of the cheese while being laced into her gown.

"Oh, miss," cried the girl, "if you eat another morsel, the seams will surely rip."

"Well, don't tie the laces so tight then, Nessa, for I intend to eat some more when I see the duke."

"Yes, Nessa," came an amused, sardonic voice. "I will be feeding your lady with the game I caught earlier. 'Twas a large beast and will need plenty of belly."

It was the duke. Both women looked around, startled. Nessa immediately dropped to the floor in a low curtsy. Melli barely inclined her head.

"Really, sir! Are all the men in Bren as bad mannered as you? For I pity the women if they are." Melli turned to Nessa. "Get off the floor, girl, and finish my laces. His Grace won't mind waiting, as he surely came hoping for a show."

Nessa reluctantly left the floor and finished her work on the dress. Melli could feel her hands shaking.

The duke seemed not in the least offended by her words, and this rankled Melli further, as they were intended to do just that. He walked about the room with an air of proprietorship, pausing to stoke the fire and then pour himself a quarter glass of wine. Out of the corner of her eye, Melli noticed that whilst the glass reached his lips, the level of liquid never fell.

"Nessa and I had an interesting little conversation about half an hour back," he said. "She tells me you are quite the high lady with your orders and chastisements."

Nessa shot Melli a "forgive me" glance. Melli was not about to forgive anyone. First she turned to the duke. "Next time, instead of a lady's maid, perhaps you could send a scribe to help me dress. He might not be able to improve my looks, but at least he can record what I have to say word for word."

And then to Nessa: "As for you, my girl, I'd be careful with that tongue of yours. Things that loose have a nasty habit of falling off." Melli was seething.

The duke's face showed no emotion. "Leave us," he said to Nessa. The girl almost raced from the room.

When she had gone he held out his arm. "Come, I will accompany you to my chambers. The meat is growing cold."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I will be forced to carry you there."

Melli did not doubt that he could. He was a strong man; his arms bore the muscles of a soldier, not a duke. She was just about to issue a scathing reply when she caught herself: she'd been such a fool!

Acting like a great lady with no thought of where it might lead. She was supposed to be the illegitimate daughter of a minor lord, yet here she was not only taking servants to task, but reprimanding the duke himself as well. He was already suspicious; a man of his standing never stooped to questioning maid servants without good cause. Melli cursed her stupidity! He had all but accused her of being a high-born lady, and instead of denying the charge, she had, by both words and attitude, practically admitted to it.

She blamed her father. Maybor's blood had long been thick with arrogance, it was no wonder that hers was, too. Determined to make no more mistakes, Melli quietly took the duke's arm. He was surprised by her submission-a slight raising of his eyebrows gave him away-but he walked her out of the room without a word.

The lodge was modestly named. It was huge. Built from pine and cedar timbers, it gave more of an impression of warmth than the palace. They walked along a high-ceilinged corridor that was painted with hunting murals, down a short flight of stairs, and then along a lengthy corridor that ended in a beautifully carved doorway. The duke opened the door and bid her enter his chambers.

He did not stand on ceremony. He sat down at one end of a solid pine table and motioned that Melli should sit at the other. The duke had been right when he said the meat was getting cold, for a huge haunch of something lay steaming on a platter. One servant waited upon them. To calm her nerves, Melli took a deep draught of wine. It was a mistake, for the drink was fortified and stronger than she was used to. The duke noted her surprise. "Bring the lady some water," he commanded the servant.

Melli didn't know why this annoyed her, but it did nonetheless. "Tell your man not to waste his time, I will take my wine as it comes." She knew it was a mistake--coming so soon after her just-sworn resolution to be meek-but the duke's arrogant demeanor brought out the devil in her.

"So be it," he said, and waved his arm in dismissal. The servant left the room. He turned back to Melli.

"Try the meat." It was as good as an order.

Melli hacked off a fair-sized portion of the crackled and roasted flesh. It was delicious: juicy, bloody, marbled with fat. She couldn't remember the last time she'd tasted anything so wonderful.

"Good?" prompted the duke. He sat back in his chair, regarding her as if she were a moth in a jar. A full cup of wine rested in his hand. The servant had not refilled it once.

"It's a little tough. What did you say it was?"

"I didn't. It was a young and fleet-footed buck,"

"Tastes more like an old and slow-stepping stag."

The duke threw his head back and laughed. He slammed his cup on the table. "By Borc! You are an annoying wench!" He didn't sound in the least bit annoyed; in fact, he sounded rather pleased. "Tell me, did you get that tongue of yours from your father or your mother?"

A tiny warning sounded in Melli's head. An innocent question? Or was he trying to catch her out? Why couldn't she keep her mouth shut? "From my father, I think."

"Hmm, that was Lord Luff, wasn't it?" Melli was growing nervous. "Yes."

"Strange. I met the man once. He didn't strike me as being particularly quick wilted."

He could be bluffing, but it was best not to put it to the test. "Aah, well my mother was no shrinking violet, either. I could have got it from her."

The duke's demeanor visibly changed. He looked at her coldly. "You are lying," he said.

Try as she might, Melli could not stop the heat from rushing to her face. There was nothing for her to do but stand up and turn her reddening face to the fire. A second later she felt the duke's hands upon her shoulders.

"Look at me," he ordered. He gripped her flesh so hard that Melli had no choice but to obey.

Melli turned toward him. Her own guilt was clearly reflected in his flint gray eyes. He reached up and, for one moment, she thought he would hit her. Instead he took her chin in his hand. He smelled like the game he had hunted. Squeezing his fingers into her cheek, he said: "Tell me who your father is." His voice was low and menacing, it allowed no space for falsehood or evasion.

Panicking, knowing she had only seconds, Melli searched for a convincing lie. It was too late for backtracking.

Annoyed at her hesitation, the duke dug his fingertips deeper into her cheeks. "Tell me," he hissed.

A knock sounded at the door. The duke did not take his eyes off Melli for an instant. "Do not disturb me," he called. "Your Grace," came a muffled voice, "there is important news. A messenger has come from the court."

The duke swore and pushed Melli back toward the fire. "Come," he cried, voice harsh and impatient.

Even as she struggled to find her footing, Melli breathed a sigh of relief. Her shin caught against the grate.

It was red-hot and she pinned her lips together to keep from crying out. She hated him!

In walked two men. Melli recognized one of them from the journey; the other still had his cloak and leathers on. Neither of them as much as glanced at her.

"Your Grace, Kylock has invaded Halcus."

"When did this happen?"

"A week ago," said the cloaked one. "Pigeons arrived at Bren today."

"What are his numbers?"

"Two battalions, with another following."

The duke clenched his fists. "That is no border-keeping force. The man means to take more than the River Nestor. Is there any news of the battle?"

"No news yet, Your Grace. But Kylock had surprise on his side. The Halcus expected him to wait until full spring." A small, dry laugh escaped from the duke's throat. "Then the Halcus are fools." He started to pace about the room. When he next spoke, it was more to himself than the two men. "Kylock has moved quickly, his father has barely been dead a month. There wasn't enough time for him to train an army, yet the fact that the Halcus are badly undermanned will work in his favor." He addressed the messenger.

"Who in Bren knows about this?"

"No one except the handlers, Lord Cravin, and myself, Your Grace."

The duke turned to the second man. "I want you to ride back to Bren tonight. No one is to know about this until I return."

"Yes, Your Grace," said the man. He bowed and left the room.

"You," he said to the messenger, "will do me the favor of accompanying this lady back to her room.

Your news has given me much to think on."

The man bowed and made his way toward Melli. He looked tired, but friendly, and he offered his arm.

The duke didn't even bother to look at her as she left.

Nineteen

Tavalisk was sorting through his morning communications. The letter from He Who Is Most Holy was hardly worth the parchment it was written on. His Holiness, Borc rot his spineless soul, was becoming nervous about events in the north. He had heard about the four-city force that had been sent out to protect southern trade, and he thought it might be perceived as-how did he put it? The archbishop skimmed the page: "as a hostile act, sure to inflame tensions that are already dangerously asmoulder."

Tavalisk dropped the letter. His Holiness should keep his nose out of world affairs and stick to what he knows best: praying and poetry. He should have had the courage to excommunicate the Knights of Valdis years ago. It was nothing short of a disgrace that they were allowed to worship the same God and the same savior. Let them invent a God of their own, he thought. Though they were welcome to the savior: Borc's legend grew shoddier by the day.

If he were in His Holiness' position, he would have had the knights hounded as heretics throughout the entire continent. All their lands would be annexed, their business interests would be confiscated, and their leader would be burned at the stake. Tyren was such a greasy little individual he would take to the flame like a fatted calf.

Tavalisk settled back in his chair and picked at the remains of his breakfast. Oh, to go back to those glorious days when He Who Is Most Holy had wielded real power. Armies marched on his orders and leaders waited upon his every word. Over the past four hundred years the Church had declined like a decrepit old man. His Holiness was the latest in a long line of weak-kneed, over-philosophizing, underopinionated fools! Why, the only reason that he, Tavalisk, had power was that he had the guts to take it. Before him the archbishop's seat at Rom had been nothing but a heavily cushioned footstool. He had made it a throne.

If Marod's Book of Words was anything to go by, even the feeble remains of the Church were in danger.

There was little doubt that the line The temples will fall, heralded the downfall of the Church. And, knowing that snake Baralis, it was likely to happen sooner rather than later.

Despite the early hour, Tavalisk poured himself a small measure of brandy. He could not allow the northern empire to flourish. The Knights of Valdis would like nothing better than to destroy the Church as it existed and appoint themselves as leaders of the faith. Where would that leave him? On the streets, powerless. This was such an alarming thought that the archbishop downed his drink in one. At least he wouldn't be penniless. A certain treasure-filled mansion, in a discreet street not a stone's throw away from where he sat, was proof of that. But wealth without power was like food without salt: dull and unappetizing. No, he simply couldn't allow it to happen. His Holiness was obviously going to be no help: he was so busy keeping a middle course that he was becoming as thin and predictable as the line he was treading. He would have to do it all himself.

Indeed, that was his destiny. Tavalisk's hands brushed against the cover of Marod as an idea occurred to him. Surely if he managed to save the Church, greater glory could be his. He would become the ultimate defender of the Faith. The clergy would be so grateful, his name so exalted, he could make a successful bid to take over His Holiness' position.

Tavalisk, in his excitement, took the Book of Words and brought it to his lips. Marod was a genius. The rewards for following his predictions were greater than he ever imagined. He could become leader of the Church!

A knock at the door caused the archbishop to hastily place Marod on the table. It wouldn't do for him to be caught kissing books--people might get the wrong idea and think he had returned to his scholarly past! "Enter," he called.

In walked Gamil. "Your Eminence, there is important news."

Tavalisk was still basking in the glow of future glories, so he felt inclined to deal benignly with his aide.

"Is there, indeed? Then you'd better sit down and tell me what it is."

Never once in his ten years of devoted service had Gamil ever been asked to sit down in the archbishop's presence. He looked decidedly wary. "Is Your Eminence feeling well?"

"Never better." The archbishop beamed. "Come along, Gamil. Don't stand there all agape like a wife who's just caught her husband bedding another woman. Tell me your news."

Gamil did not sit. "I've just received word that our fourcity force has had an unfriendly exchange with the knights."

"Were there any casualties?" asked Tavalisk, rubbing his hands together in glee.

"Yes, Your Eminence. On both sides. Two of our men lost their lives and twenty of the knights. Valdis was outnumbered five to one."

"Excellent! Excellent!" Tavalisk poured brandy into two glasses, one of which he handed to his aide.

"News like this is worth celebrating. Marls, Camlee, and Toolay have now stuck their heads up so high that there's no going back. Mark my words, Gamil, this will be the start of open conflict between the south and Valdis. Tyren is probably seething as we speak-"

Gamil looked at the drink the archbishop had just given him as if it were poison. "Forming the four-city force was a very clever idea, Your Eminence."

"Not just clever, Gamil, brilliant." Tavalisk made an encouraging gesture with his hand, prompting his aide to drink up. "So, tell me, how did this altercation happen?"

"Our scouts spotted a small group of knights traveling just north of Camlee. They hurried back to the camp, telling the other soldiers that they'd been fired at by the knights. Apparently, all the men in the camp were so bored with sitting around whittling wood all day and guarding the odd cargo train, that they seized upon this information as a good excuse to go and slice some skin. By all accounts there was quite a bloodbath. The heads of the dead knights were mounted on stakes by the roadside. No one passing from the north to the south can fail to see them."

Tavalisk smiled widely. His Holiness certainly had cause to worry: there was nothing more inflammatory than a head on a stake. Everything was coming together beautifully, the battle lines were being drawn and the time was fast approaching when everyone who counted would be forced to choose their side. The events that had just occurred north of Camlee had practically forced the south into declaring their position. They could hardly oppose the knights without opposing Bren, and by implication, the kingdoms as well.

Or could they? At this point, the south might argue that their quarrel was exclusively with the knights.

Tavalisk rubbed his chin. Perhaps matters required a little more help.

"Gamil, were the knights guarding any cargo at the time of the attack?"

"Yes, Your Eminence. Several wagonloads of fine cloth bound for Bren."

"Perfect. It couldn't be better." The archbishop's mind raced across the possibilities and reached for the best like r cherry-picker at the tree. "I think it's time we started a rumor, Gamil."

"Another plague, Your Eminence?"

"No. Something more subtle than a plague." Tavalisk stood up and walked over to the window. "We know that Catherie of Bren is due to be married soon to King Ky lock."

"Yes."

"And what do all brides need?"

"A groom."

"No, you fool! They need a wedding dress. What if the cargo that we seized had contained the cloth that was due to be made into Catherine's bridal gown?"

"But the duke of Bren would know otherwise, Your Eminence."

"That doesn't matter, Gamil. Don't you see? If we claim to have seized their beloved Catherine's wedding dress, it will be a humiliation for Bren regardless of whether it's true or not. It's as good as burning their flag. Once word gets out, it will look as if the south is opposed to the knights and Bren. The seized wedding dress will become a thrown gauntlet."

"I will start the rumor today, Your Eminence."

"Knowing you as I do, Gamil, I'm sure half the city will know about it by sundown." The archbishop waved a negligent dismissal. He felt too pleased with himself to bother issuing a menial task or an insult.

Besides, Gamil needed to conserve all his energy for his tongue.

"So how big is the garrison?" Jack's voice was blunt. In reality he was scared. He was just beginning to realize the immensity and danger of the task he had sworn to do.

He and Rovas were sitting face-to-face across the kitchen table. The women had-gleft them alone, muttering about herbs to be gathered.

"There's over twenty score of soldiers stationed there full-time," said Rovas. "The number increases depending on the time of year and where the trouble spots are. At this point, everyone's eyes are to the west. Kylock's invasion has taken them all by surprise."

"So they'll be on their guard?"

Rovas gave him a shrewd look. "Not stuck out here in the east, they won't. They'll be so busy training and recruiting and putting edges on their blades that they wouldn't even notice Borc himself arriving for his second coming."

Jack took a sip of his ale to give himself time to think. Rovas was downplaying the dangers. He couldn't really blame the man for doing so; after all, there was no way he Would agree to steal into the garrison if he thought twenty score of soldiers would be armed and waiting. Still, it gave Jack cause to be wary: what other perils might Rovas choose to minimize or ignore? "How many men are set to guard at night?"

"Outside there are four pairs. One pair mounts the garrison, two guard the main gate, and one guards the service entrance at the rear." The smuggler spoke with assurance and Jack had no cause to doubt him.

"How are they armed?"

"The ones on the battlements have crossbows. All the others have spears and short swords."

Jack nodded. "What about inside?"

"That's more difficult to say." Rovas pulled in his cheeks and made a slight sucking sound. His face was red and peeling. Too much ale, sun, and wind had caused the blood vessels to break on his nose. "I won't lie to you, Jack," he said, endowing his deep voice with a measure of affection. "There could be as many as ten pairs. And I can't say for certain where they'll be stationed. They could be practically anywhere."

Jack wondered when he had become so suspicious. To him, Rovas' attempt at disarming truthfulness seemed calculated to win his trust. Strange to think that only a few months earlier, when he was working as a baker's boy in Castle Harvell, he had taken everyone on their word. Trust was now a thing of the past.

It was easy to forget what Rovas really did for a living. He was a smuggler, a con artist, and a thief. He preyed on people who were poor and hungry and sold them goods that were an insult to their meager purses. Rovas liked to project an air of rakish good humor, but he wasn't a rake at all. He was a villain.

He had tried to force Tarissa to murder a man. The same man whose murder they now sat around the table plotting. Rovas had found someone else to do his dirty work for him. Jack shifted to the edge of his seat. He needed to be wary of every word that left the smuggler's lips. "So what's the best way to gain entry?"

"The service entrance. There's no need to force your way in. I'll give you a barrel of ale with the mark of the local inn upon it." Rovas leaned forward as he told Jack of his plan. "It's Spring Blessing, so they'll be wanting all the ale they can get. There'll be all sorts passing through that door tomorrow night: whores, cooks, musicians. You don't say a word. That accent of yours will give you away in an instant. Simply turn up at the door with the ale and they'll let you through. No one will pay the slightest attention to a dumb and unarmed tavern boy."

"Unarmed?"

"Aye, you'll be a stranger to them, so they'll search you for sure. Your weapon will be strapped to the inside of the ale barrel! It'll be a little wet, but deadly nonetheless." Rovas was looking rather pleased with himself. "O' course you'll have to find a pick or a bar to get inside the barrel, but that shouldn't be difficult. At worst you can simply smash it against a wall. If anyone comes, just pretend you dropped it.

Chances are that everyone will be so drunk that they won't even care."

The plan sounded feasible, yet Jack found it hard to accept that it would be so easy. On feastdays at Castle Harvell, the guards who were on duty were strictly forbidden to drink. "Everyone won't be drinking, though?" he prompted.

Rovas moved back and the light from the candle fell from his face. "The only ones who won't be tippling will be the four pairs of external guards." He looked straight at Jack from the shadows, challenging him to question his word.

How much could he believe? Rovas was a practiced liar: anyone who could pass off fish painted with blood as a fresh catch had to have a tongue that dripped oil. Yet Jack knew he had no choice but to accept what Rovas said. There was little chance he was going to catch the man out, and, all things considered, the smuggler did want Vanly murdered. So why would he lie about the dangers?

Jack was afraid. He was playing at being tough, nothing more. What had he ever done in his life that readied him for this? Oh, he could handle a blade now, but he was still happier kneading dough than attacking an opponent. Jack smiled despite himself; that wasn't quite true anymore. It felt right to have a sword in his hand. He'd learned fast, almost as if it were second nature. Already he was developing the ability to know what his opponent's next move would be even before he made it. Rovas had told him to watch the eyes of his opponent if he wanted to see what they'd try next, but Jack had learned that wasn't quite enough. You had to watch the line of their muscles to see which were ready to contract, and you had to memorize all the moves that had gone before: a man was always anxious to pull something new from his hat.

In many ways baking had prepared him for fighting: long hours had honed his endurance, working under Frallit had given him a strong sense of self-discipline, and kneading dough for six hours a day and hauling sacks of grain from the granary had given him arms of steel.

Nothing had prepared him for stealing into a garrison, though. Nothing made him ready to kill a man in cold blood and then make an escape. Nothing. If it wasn't for Tarissa, he might not have gone through with it. Melli was dead. Revenge paled beside that one, irrefutable fact. If anyone was to blame for her death, it was he, not Vanly. To kill the man in her name would be as good as a lie. So he would do it for Tarissa, instead.

"How do I know the guards will let me into the garrison with the ale? They might just take it from me."

Jack knew his only safeguard with Rovas was to.question every detail.

"That's easy. I'll make sure you get a barrel with an Isrotap. No one except tavern-keepers know how to open them. They'll have to let you in if they want the ale to flow."

Rovas smiled charmingly. "And believe me, they'll want the ale to flow. There's nothing like Isro Amber for putting a fire in the blood."

"Where will Vanly be?"

Rovas' whole face lit up at the question; he'd obviously been eagerly awaiting it for some time. "Aah, well, that's where my inside information comes in. I know for a fact that a troop of dancing girls are currently on their way from Helch to the garrison. Now, these dancing girls are little more than whores, and one of them is said to be so beautiful that men fall to their knees at the very sight of her. Knowing the good captain as I do, he'll be spending the evening trying to bed her." Rovas winked merrily. "And knowing the dancing girls of Helch as I do, he won't have to try very hard."

"So he'll be alone except for this one girl?"

"I'm almost certain of it. He'll eat with his men in the mess hall about sundown. He'll get drunk by downing a few skins of ale, and get randy by watching the Helch girls dance. Then he'll retire for the evening with the most beautiful girl in the room on his arm."

"How do I find his quarters?" asked Jack. They were coming to the most dangerous part; entering the garrison wouldn't be that difficult, but if he were caught wandering around the officers' quarters it would mean certain capture. Or worse.

Rovas spilled a heap of flour onto the table. He spread it out flat with the palm of his hand and then proceeded to draw a rough sketch of the garrison in the powder. "Here," he said, tracing the outline of the south wall, "is the service entrance. You simply turn to your left, head along the east wall until you come to a covered arcade." Rovas accompanied each word with a corresponding line in the flour. "At the end of the arcade is a set of double doors, pass through these, take the short flight of stairs on your right, and the first door you come to will be Vanly's sleeping quarters."

Jack was not looking at the map. He was watching Rovas' face instead, searching for the slightest sign that what the smuggler said was a lie. He didn't find one. There was one glaring omission, though: the officers' quarters were bound to be guarded. Jack didn't believe that Rovas had innocently overlooked that fact. "What about guards?"

Rovas shrugged. "There might be a pair of them guarding the double doors. If you wait long enough, you'll be able to slip by when they change. Who knows, they might be so drunk that they let you sail past.

With that long hair of yours they might even think you're an officer's friend-if you get my drift. Though you're a little too tall and muscley for the normal type." Rovas laughed at his own wit. "Anyway, the point is it's Spring Blessing; wine and women will be on everyone's mind, and those who aren't thinking about merriment will be worried about the war in the west. We couldn't pick a better time to make our move."

It was time for the most important question of all. "How do I escape?" Jack watched Rovas like a hawk.

Of all the things the man was likely to lie about, this was the only one that really counted. Jack knew he would be at his most vulnerable once the deed was done.

Rovas looked Jack straight in the eye. "There's a tunnel leading from Vanly's quarters all the way out into the woods."

"Why can't I use it to get in?" Jack had already heard the answer, but he wanted to make sure anyway.

"It'll be bolted on the inside."

"How do you know about this tunnel?"

"You forget, Jack. I used to be in business with the man. We used that tunnel all the time to take goods back and forth." Rovas brushed his hands over the flour, cleaning the slate for another sketch. "It was built at the same time as the garrison. It's not unusual to have escape tunnels situated in an officer's quarters in case of the need for quick escape. If the garrison was ever under siege, it would be used to smuggle food and supplies through." A fat finger traced the corner of the garrison. "Look, here's Vanly's quarters. The entrance to the tunnel is located under the bed. The floorboards are hinged and underneath is a barred trapdoor. Once you raise the trapdoor, you're looking at an eight-foot drop, so be careful: don't jump blindly, or you could break a leg. Lower yourself feet first. It'll be pitch-black in there. You could take a candy, but it would just slow you down. Best to work in the dark. There's only one way to go, so you won't get lost."

Rovas traced a curved line leading out from the garrison. "The tunnel itself is about four feet high, so it won't be easy going. It's long, too. It doesn't slant straight to the woods, because a stream cuts through its path, so the tunnel has to curve to avoid it. When you reach the other end, it's going to take all your strength to shift the opening. A large rock lies atop the entrance. So don't be fooled into thinking it's just a case of raising another trapdoor. There are footholds cut in the timber; hike yourself up and push with all your might."

Jack found it difficult to doubt what Rovas was saying. The man seemed to have a lot of convincing details at his disposal. Still, he pushed to find holes in the man's story. "I thought you'd be waiting for me."

"I will, just not in the woods. A patrol comes around about once an hour. It's too much of a risk for me to wait -I have no way of knowing how long you'll be." Rovas poked away at the flour, indicating the woods. "See here at the edge, where the stream grazes the trees, that's where I'll be waiting with a spare horse."

"Won't a man with a spare horse look suspicious?"

"Aye, lad, you might be right. Though I'd hoped to go unnoticed, it's a pretty remote area by the stream.

The guards only patrol the center of the woods, because they know there's a tunnel there."

"Then they'll we watching the tunnel entrance?" Somehow, Jack knew Rovas would have a convincing answer ready. He wasn't disappointed.

"No, lad. Only the officers know the exact location of the tunnel. It wouldn't do to have every soldier in the garrison knowing how to sneak in and out whenever they pleased." Rovas rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Come to think of it, the guards might not even know there's a tunnel. There's no need to tell them the real reason why they have to keep an eye on the woods."

Jack searched for any lack of logic or inconsistencies in Rovas' story, but could find none. But there was one way to call his bluff. "Take me to the tunnel entrance tonight."

Rovas didn't flinch. "Very well, as you wish. We'll have to wait until the small hours, though. If we were spotted, we'd have to call the whole thing off."

"It's all right, it doesn't matter." Jack was satisfiedthere was no reason to go there now. If Rovas had hesitated even for an instant, it would have been a different story.

Feeling more relaxed, Jack asked one final question. "How do I know I can trust you, and that I won't end up getting caught or killed?"

Rovas' light blue eyes looked straight into his. "Magra and Tarissa would never forgive me if you didn't come back."

Maybor was waiting by an open drain just off the butcher's courtyard. Apparently the duke's palace didn't have need of a middens. All their chamberpots were emptied straight into the lake. A sorry arrangement if ever there was one. How was a man to conduct a discreet meeting without a ghastly smell to put off potential eavesdroppers? There was small consolation to be found in the fact that there was a distinctly unpleasant odor emanating from the drain. Blood and decomposing entrails might not smell quite as bad as a middens, but at least they drew the same amount of flies.

Here was the man now. Lord Cravin did not look at all pleased to be summoned to such an inauspicious spot. Still, the man managed to step over the bloody carcasses with a certain amount of grace. He was wearing rather fine shoes, as well. Maybor saw Cravin's discomfort as a personal advantage; he had successfully thrown the man off guard.

"Well met, Maybor," said Cravin a little testily. "If I'd known you had such a fondness for carnage, I would have suggested meeting in the sanitarium, that way you could have watched people having their limbs hacked off."

"No, farm animals will do just fine." Maybor picked up a slice of what looked to be a pig's ear with the toe of his boot and flipped it into the gutter.

Cravin appeared to calm himself. "I trust you found the ladies to your liking?"

"More than adequate, my friend." Maybor was feeling rather superior. "Though the second girl was a little skinny for my taste. Her hips were like a lentil grower's feast; pleasant enough, but lacking in meat.

As for the first--"

"Enough," hissed Cravin. "I did not come here to discuss the female form." He took a step closer, the right half of his face falling under the shadow cast by his hooked nose.

"Hear my piece now, or walk away from this meeting with nothing but the blood on your boots to show for it."

"I'm listening."

"How well do you know Lord Baralis?"

The question took Maybor by surprise. His first instinct was to be guarded. "I could tell you a thing or two."

"Then you're aware that he's a dangerous man with dangerous ambitions?" Cravin's eyes shone shrewd like a hawk.

Maybor, feeling uncharacteristically cautious, merely nodded.

"The marriage between Catherine and Kylock is no spur of the moment affair. Baralis has planned for it for over a decade-perhaps even longer."

"And how would you know this?" Maybor had decided his policy: say nothing and let the lord from Bren spill his guts.

"For ten years now Baralis has crushed, murdered, or suppressed any party who sought Kylock's hand in marriage."

Melliandra! Maybor's thoughts darted toward his daughter. Outwardly, he remained calm. "Go on."

"Has it never occurred to you to wonder how a prince of Kylock's standing managed to reach his eighteenth year without as much as one formal offer of betrothal?" Cravin didn't wait for an answer. "I'll tell you why, because Baralis, in his position as king's chancellor, managed to stop any proposals before they reached the ears of the king."

"The duke of Highwall has a daughter approaching her fifteenth summer. When she was but eight years old, he opened negotiations with the kingdoms for Kylock's hand."

"Baralis sent the girl a gift: a box of sugared delights. One week later she succumbed to brain-fever. One month later she couldn't remember her name. To this day she lives in a tiny room in the duke's castle, strapped to her bed to prevent her from injuring herself."

Maybor believed every word: Baralis had tried no less with Melliandra. "Did suspicion fall on Baralis?"

"There were whisperings, but Baralis silenced most of them by stating that he was still willing to go ahead with the betrothal, regardless of the girl's condition. Of course he knew the duke would never allow it, but it looked good all the same."

The stench of decomposing entrails seemed a fitting accompaniment to such talk. "What else have you heard?" Cravin stood and contemplated for a moment; his tough and wiry body all angles beneath his robes. "I myself once entered into negotiations with Baralis. It was many years ago now. My eldest daughter, Fellina, was a match for Kylock in age. I sent a letter to the king, outlining my proposal. He never sent a reply. Baralis did. He was most gracious, saying that he had heard tell of my daughter's beauty and refinement; however, he said my letter had placed him in a difficult position as he had recently received a similar proposal from my great rival, Lord Gandrel. He pointed out that, while he favored Fellina's suit, he was barred from choosing between us, as the king didn't want to offend either party."

"Your daughter got off lightly," said Maybor, surprised at the emotion in his voice.

Cravin nodded grimly. "I am forever grateful for that. I learned a few years later that Gandrel had never considered marrying any of his daughters to Kylock. Baralis had invented the whole thing. He is a clever dog, he knew there was no way I could confirm Gandrel's proposal; at the time I hated the man with a passion and never spoke to him except in anger."

"Baralis kidnapped my daughter several months back," said Maybor. "I haven't seen her since."

Cravin did not look surprised. "Baralis will stop at nothing to get what he wants."

Maybor looked to either side of him, checking for ears that belonged to humans, not pigs. When he spoke, his voice was low and urgent. "What is it that he wants?"

"Power," murmured Cravin. "He wants to control the north. With Bren's armies at his disposal, he thinks he can dominate Annis and Highwall and Borc knows who else."

He turned and looked Maybor straight in the eye. "As I said before, Baralis is a dangerous man."

Everything was starting to fall into place for Maybor. Why hadn't he thought of it himself? Baralis wanted to create a northern empire. The five-year border war with the Halcus fitted in nicely; he was merely softening the enemy up, so when the real war came he could hit them hard. "My son told me Kylock plans to invade Halcus once spring is fully here."

Cravin pulled back his lips to show a sharp-toothed smile. "Kylock has already invaded. I received word by pigeon yesterday."

Maybor hid his astonishment. "Aah. He decided to move fast, then."

"It would appear so," said Cravin. "Surprise was obviously his main consideration." A gust of wind caused him to draw his cloak close. "One thing's certain: the duke won't like it one little bit."

"Why can't he call the marriage off, then?" asked Maybor, wishing he too had brought a cloak.

"It's not that simple. The betrothal has gone too far now. He'll lose face by backing down, people will call him a coward. The best thing he can do is come up with a way of neutralizing the marriage."

"What d'you mean?"

"He should let the marriage go ahead as planned, but somehow-by either direct action or treaty-he should try and take the edge from the whole affair. At the moment the situation is fraught with risk: Annis and Highwall are nervous, the knights are having trouble in the south, and now Kylock's busy invading Halcus." Cravin shook his head. "The duke must do two things: first, he needs to dissipate tension in the north; and secondly, he needs to put Baralis in his place."

Maybor couldn't argue with that. Despite the flies, foul smell, and cutting wind, he was beginning to enjoy himself. "Do you think he can pull it off?"

"I would never underestimate the duke," replied Cravin. "However, it's up to you and I to monitor matters carefully. If an opportunity presents itself, and in my experience one usually does, we must be there to seize the moment." A naked glance left Maybor with no doubt that the man was talking about treason.

Cravin reached in his cloak and pulled out a slip of parchment no bigger than the palm of his hand. He held it out to Maybor. "Take this, it is the address of a lodging of mine on the south side of the city. It's very discreet, no one knows it exists. If you ever need to meet anyone in private and don't want the eyes of the court upon you, feel free to use it as your own." Cravin began to move away. "The servants there always know how to contact me if you should ever have need." He bowed once and was gone in an instant.

Maybor tucked the parchment under his belt, waited a moment, and then began to trace Cravin's path back to the palace. The man's footsteps were stamped in blood, so his path was easy to follow.

Twenty

Melli followed Nessa into the stables. Long forgotten smells filled her senses: hay and dung and grease for the tack. The duke, who had seen fit to ignore her all of yesterday, had requested that she accompany him for a short ride. So here she was, dressed in a sturdy cloak with not a single frill to soften the eye, determined to pick the best mount she could find. Her father had kept stables in his estate in the Eastlands, and she knew from experience that nothing annoyed a horse owner more than when an inexperienced guest chose to ride his best mount. Melli knew that she was far from inexperienced, but the duke didn't, and he would be furious at her selection.

"I'll take that one," she said to the groom, indicating a fine chestnut stallion.

"But miss," said the groom, "the duke likes to ride Sparsis himself."

Melli turned to Nessa. "Did the duke express the wish that I should take any horse of my choice?"

Nessa nodded vigorously. Having spent a full day together, Nessa was now firmly in Melli's court.

The groom did not look happy, but complied with Melli's wishes. He saddled the horse, muttering words to the effect that it just wasn't decent for a woman to ride a stallion.

He led the horse through to the courtyard and held his hand out for the mounting.

Melli straddled the horse like a veteran. She settled herself in the saddle whilst her feet found the stirrups. Everything fit beautifully-the groom had a good eye. The horse she had ridden here was nothing compared to this powerful creature. She bent down and whispered gentle words of encouragement in his ear. They were going to be friends, she was sure of it.

"Where does His Grace intend to ride today?" she asked of the groom.

Seeing how well she sat the horse, the groom looked a little more respectful. "Well, miss, I can't be certain, but for short rides he likes to go to the meadow at the green side of the valley, behind the trees."

He pointed to a place that looked to be no more than three leagues away.

"Very good. Tell His Grace that I shall meet him there." Melli pulled on the reins and turned her horse.

Both Nessa and the groom were openmouthed, but she gave neither. of them time to protest. Her heels kicked against the stallion's flanks and she was off, trading cobblestones for grass in the swish of a horse's tail.

The wind was in her hair, fresh air was in her lungs, and a mighty beast lay between her thighs. It was wonderful. Melli felt free for the first time in many weeks. Even to be outside was a treat. The view was breathtaking. The lodge was situated on the curve of a slope that led down to a breathtaking valley. A lake lay at its center and trees, mostly firs, formed small groups around its edges like women at a dance.

Ahead of her lay the mountains, terrible in their splendor, still white with winter's weeds.

The horse was nervous of its new rider and reacted skittishly to her commands, but Melli persisted in treating it gently, but firmly, and gradually, as they made their way across the valley, the stallion became settled.

It would be so easy to just ride away and never come back. Easy, yet dangerous. Melli valued her life too highly to risk galloping off into the mountains. Funny, but the idea of escape didn't appeal to her much at the moment. She was in no physical danger and the duke hadn't pressed her for any sexual favors, so she felt safe for the time being. And, if she were honest with herself, she was actually looking forward to the duke catching up with her. Melli couldn't wait to deal haughtily with his anger and then confound him by showing off her skills with a horse. He was such an arrogant man, practically begging to be taken down a peg.

Melli thought he would have requested her presence yesterday. All afternoon she had waited for his summons, hair dressed, pretty shoes pinching, and cheeks bright with the flush of fine wine. She was disappointed when no word came. Staying in her room was dull, and Nessa's company left a lot to be desired. The duke might be annoying, but at least he wasn't boring.

Her best policy concerning her mysterious parentage was, she decided, to stick to her original story, and no matter how hard the duke challenged her give nothing away. Stubbornness came naturally to Melli, so this course shouldn't prove too difficult. The duke wouldn't be able to trick, or catch her off guard, again.

Aware that her horse had not used a tenth of his potential, Melli urged him into a gallop. For an instant she was scared by the power. Then, a second later, she was thrilled by it. She brought her body down and gave him the reins. Ditches, streams, fallen logs, and boulders: her horse leapt them all with the grace of a demon. She could feel his sweat soaking her skirts. The ground was a blur and the distant trees were a target. She couldn't tell whose heart was beating faster: hers or her horse's.

The minute she pulled on the reins, Melli became aware of a sound behind her. Hooves were thundering at her back. It could only be the duke. She brought her horse to a halt and spun to meet him. Minutes passed as he drew close. His first words were: "Are you out of your mind! What were you thinking, taking my best stallion? It's a wonder it hasn't killed you."

Melli raised an eyebrow to an arch. "I didn't realize you had such protective instincts. Perhaps in a former life you were a shepherd." She turned her horse on a pinpoint and galloped off.

Unable to keep the smile from her face, Melli struck a path for the far trees. She heard the duke pursuing her, and after a minute he seemed to be gaining. "Come on, Sparsis," she whispered to her horse. "Time to show your owner your worth." A squeeze of thighs and a guiding pull on the reins and the course was altered enough to take in a filigree of tiny streams that were bent upon the lake. Horse and rider jumped them like gods. Then came one final leap. The stream rested in a depression and the breadth was hard to judge until they were on top of it. The bank on the other side was sharply sloped.

The stallion cleared the water, and then slammed into the slope, shank first.

Melli was thrown forward. Almost in slow motion she saw the rocky bank approaching. She even knew which rock was hers. Crack! A sharp pain in her forehead, a sharper pain in her side, and then everything went black.

Jack felt a sudden pain in his forehead. He was holding a cup of water and lost his grip, sending it smashing to the floor.

Magra looked up. "Jack, are you all right?" There was genuine concern in her voice.

He wished she'd never spoken, for until her words had skimmed across his thoughts, he'd been seeing a vision of Melli. Gone now. Even as Magra got up from her chair, he was beginning to doubt it had happened.

Magra ignored the broken cup and took his hand. "Come on, Jack," she said. "Sit down by the fire for a while." The lines of her beautiful, haughty face were taut with worry. She led him to the bench and forced him to sit. Then she surprised him by kneeling down at his feet. Her cool hand still held his.

"Jack," she said softly, "you don't have to go through with it tonight." He started to protest, but she spoke over him. "No, hear me out. You can leave the cottage today. I have some gold set aside-not much, but enough to ease your journey. Please take it." She squeezed his hand tightly. "I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you." Jack looked into the deep blue of her eyes. She was speaking the truth. It had been a long, long time since anyone had worried about him. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. Such smooth and fragile flesh. His mother would have been the same age, if she lived. "There's no need to worry about me," he said. "I'm going to be coming back. I promise you that."

"I expect you to keep that promise, Jack." Magra smiled, and for one instant she looked so like Tarissa it took his breath away. One final squeeze of his hand and she was up, brushing down her skirts and tut-tutting over the broken cup.

Tarissa came bursting into the room-Jack liked the fact that she wasn't one for discreet entrances.

Seeing Magra picking up pottery fragments, she said, "What's been going on here? I only left to feed the chickens and when I get back, you two are busy destroying the place."

Jack and Magra laughed. The atmosphere in the cottage was so much lighter when Rovas wasn't around. Tarissa went for a cloth to soak up the water and Jack turned back to kneading the dough for the week's baking. They had no proper oven, so the freshly prepared dough would be taken to the town to be baked. It was nice to be here, all working around each other, exchanging jokes and small talk, holk warming on the fire, tallow burning with a smoky flame. It felt like home.

Jack was struck by a sudden deep hatred of Rovas. How could he have threatened to throw these two honest and hard-. working women out of the house unless Tarissa did his bidding? He was a truly despicable man. Magra and Tarissa deserved better than someone who sought to control them by casting out a net of dependency and shared guilt.

Once finished with the kneading, Jack placed the loaves on a large wooden tray. With a sharp knife he slashed the top of each one and then covered them with a damp linen cloth.

Magra stepped forward. "If they're ready, I'll take them into town." She went to pick up the tray.

"But Rovas has taken the cart," said Jack. "You can hardly walk all that way on your own. I'll come with you."

"No, Jack. You can't risk going into town." It was Tarissa. "Mother will be all right. She'll find Rovas once she's there and he can bring her home."

"That's my plan," agreed Magra.

Jack realized that it was indeed a plan, drawn up by both women in advance to give him and Tarissa a chance to be alone. He took the linen cloth off the tray and removed half the loaves; he was not going to let Magra carry such a heavy weight all the way into town. She started to protest, but he stopped her. "I won't allow you out of the house, otherwise," he said. "Besides, I'm sure I can bake these into something on the fire. They might be a little flat, a little burnt, and a little tasteless, but if nothing else we can feed them to Rovas."

Everyone laughed. Magra picked up the newly lightened tray whilst Tarissa held the door for her. "Take care, Mother," she said, laying a kiss upon her cheek. Jack came and stood beside her, and both watched as the older woman walked up the muddy path and onto the muddy lane.

"Are you sure it's safe for her to go alone?" asked Jack as Tarissa closed the door.

"Really, Jack, you know Mother, she's a lot tougher than she looks. She might have been a delicate court beauty once, but that was over twenty years ago." Tarissa slipped her arm through his. "Come on, let's not waste a minute." She pulled him toward the fire.

Tarissa's words about her mother started Jack thinking about a subject he hadn't considered for some time. "Who is your father?" he asked.

Surprise flitted across Tarissa's face. "Why do you ask now?"

"Why not? Is it such a big secret?"

Tarissa sighed and turned her face toward the fire. "He was a very important person."

"Was?"

"He's dead now." Tarissa spun around. "Please, Jack, let's not spend today dragging up the past. I won't ask you any questions, so please don't ask me any." She took his face in her hands and kissed him full on the lips. "If we must talk about anything, let it be the future."

He kissed her back. Her saliva acted like a drug, taking his mind from its purpose. Nothing mattered anymore, only following the slope of her tongue to the softness behind her teeth.

They made love by the slow-burning fire. It was nothing like the first time; there was no terrible frenzy, no feeling that it was salve upon a wound. There was gentleness and touching--and wonder as he looked upon her form. When finally they fell apart, sweated skin resisting the separation, it was a feeling of tenderness, not relief, that united them.

Jack tilted Tarissa's chin and looked into her eyes. Tears welled at the corners. "What's the matter?" he asked, immediately thinking he'd done something wrong.

"Jack, I'm so worried. I might never see you again." As Tarissa spoke, a heavy tear slid down her cheek. "Promise me you won't do anything brave or daring. If it looks dangerous, just get out of there as fast as possible."

"I promise." His second today. Jack realized that Rovas' words were true: "Magra and Tarissa would never forgive me if you didn't come back. " Surely then the smuggler could be trusted?

Jack had given Rovas' plan a lot of thought and there were still things that bothered him. "Did you ever help Rovas smuggle goods into the garrison?" he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

"Yes, I used to stand guard near the tunnel entrance, keeping watch for the patrol." Tarissa wiped the tears from her eyes. "Why do you ask?"

"That's how I'll make my escape. Did you ever enter the tunnel?"

"No, but I know it leads somewhere in the officers' quarters." Tarissa began to pull on her clothes. "You know there's a huge rock above the entrance?"

Jack nodded. He was pleased with what Tarissa said: it confirmed all that he had been told by Rovas.

"Will Rovas be there to help you out?" she asked.

"No," said Jack. "He said I could manage it on my own and that guards patrol the area regularly. So it would be too dangerous to wait around."

"For Rovas, maybe---that man couldn't hide in a blackened barn--but for me it would be easy. I used to do it all the time. I'd hide up a tree until I saw the rock moving, then I'd slide down and help push it out of the way. If the patrol was passing I'd hoot like an owl, so Rovas would know it was best to wait."

"You're not coming," said Jack. "It's too dangerous."

"Oh, yes I am. I won't even tell Rovas. I'll just be there to help with the rock. I'll find my own way back."

"No, you won't."

"Yes, I will, and you can't stop me." She was quite determined now.

Although Jack didn't like the idea, he couldn't help admiring Tarissa for her bravery. The thought that she was willing to risk her own safety for him was heartwarming. He grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her close. Tarissa squawked indignantly. She was in the middle of pulling on her drawers and landed in an unladylike heap in his lap. Jack burst out laughing; he couldn't stop himself. Tarissa slapped him, not at all gently, and scrambled to her feet. "Well, I'm coming and that's final. I'll have no man tell me what I can and can't do."

How could he prevent her? In some ways Tarissa was like Melli: stubborn to a fault. Part of Jack was pleased at her resolution. It was nice to think she would be waiting for him. "Well, it seems I have no choice but to agree."

Tarissa came and flung her arms around him.

"But," he said, disentangling himself and pushing her back so he could look directly in her eyes, "you must make me the same promise that I made you: no unnecessary daring, no bravery. First sign of danger and you're gone."

"I promise."

Jack held her arms tightly and wondered how he could strengthen the promise; it seemed too flimsy to guard the safety of one so precious. "Do you swear on your father's memory?"

Tarissa gave him a deep, unreadable look, and answered, "I do."

s

Tavalisk was eating otters. Sea otters, to be exact. Such adorable furry creatures and so tender when caught fresh from the womb. These ones had been caught by a master: no club marks to mar their fragile skulls. They must have been smothered, and carefully at that. The rocky coastline just north of Toolay was the only place these rare creatures existed. According to the men that caught them, their numbers grew less each passing year. The archbishop didn't believe a word; it was all a ploy to up the cost. Take these six beauties here: nearly a gold apiece at current market prices. It was nothing short of outrageous!

Still, little was wasted. He intended to have a fine collar made from their pelts.

Oh, but they were succulent, though. All one had to do was hold a bone in the mouth and suck; the flesh came off more quickly than a cleric's robe in a brothel. All things considered, it was rather a strange-tasting meat: a little salty, a little fishy, a little piquant on the tongue. In fact, it wasn't really to his liking; but it was expensive. Sometimes that was all that counted.

There was a knock at the door and in walked Gamil. He was carrying a wax-sealed letter. "This has just arrived by fast messenger, Your Eminence. It's come all the way from Bren."

As Gamil leaned over him to hand him the letter, Tavalisk took hold of his assistant's robe and used it to wipe the grease from his hands. Gamil had little choice but to ignore the indignity.

"Aah," said Tavalisk, breaking the seal. "It's from our friend Lord Maybor. My letter must have been forwarded to him in Bren." He raced through the spidery script. "The man writes like a blind monk.

Hmm, he's still in our corner, though he is urging caution, he says-" Tavalisk read from the letter "`. . .

there are ways to rid ourselves of the dark villain without opposing the match.' He's obviously afraid that if he comes out openly against the marriage, then his lands and position will be endangered, which of course they will. Kylock as sovereign could hardly let one of his subjects brazenly flout his wishes."

Tavalisk read on. "Maybor is basically asking me if there is any way I can use my influences to have Baralis killed: `You are a great man, with contacts throughout the Known Lands, you must know someone in Bren who could do the deed."' The archbishop broke into a high, tinkling laugh. "No. No, my dear Maybor. I'm not falling for that one. There'll be snow on the drylands before I do another man's dirty work for him."

"I don't understand, Your Eminence," said Gamil.

"I am surrounded by fools!" Although he sounded annoyed, Tavalisk was really rather pleased by the statement: rather fools than foxes. "Maybor is a self-serving coward. He probably has some personal vendetta against Baralis and thinks he can use me to settle it for him." The archbishop picked up an otter's rib and dipped it in sauce. He brought it to his lips, bit on it, and then began to wave it at Gamil as he spoke. "Now, I dislike Baralis as much as the next man, but the time isn't right to assassinate him yet.

There are other factors to be taken into consideration first."

"Such as, Your Eminence?"

"The Knights of Valdis for one. Kill Baralis now and the pot will be taken off the boil; I'll lose my one chance of finally putting Tyren in his place." The archbishop was about to mention his plan to become head of the Church, but then thought better of it. He wasn't sure how much he could trust his aide.

"Anyway, as a man of the cloth, it wouldn't be right for me to sanction murder." Was that a snort he heard from Gamil?

"So what does Your Eminence intend to do with Lord Maybor?"

Tavalisk ran his tongue along the bone then sucked upon the tip. "Lord Maybor will soon come to realize that he's involved in something more important than a mere petty rivalry. At such a time he will need the support of his friends. Write him a letter stating that when he finds the courage to follow his convictions, then I'll be ready with the gold to back them."

"Very good, Your Eminence. Is there anything else?"

"Yes, actually, there is. I've been wondering about our other friend, the knight. It's been a long time since I heard news of him. If memory serves me correctly, didn't the Old Man send out two of his cronies to track him down?"

"Yes, Your Eminence. I had the traitor interrogated in order to find out what the Old Man was up to, but he died on me."

Tavalisk paused in tearing a leg from the otter. "That was rather careless of you, Gamil. I wondered why you'd kept silent about the whole thing."

"I beg Your Eminence's apologies. I am not as skilled at these things as you are."

"Well, at least you recognize that fact. Go on." Off came the leg, tendons flapping in futile protest. Thigh meat was not as appetizing as rib.

"The last we heard about the knight, he was due to fight the duke's champion. I haven't been able to ascertain yet whether he won or lost, but by all accounts he was in pretty bad shape, so it's highly probable that the outcome was not favorable. If he's not already dead, then his days are surely numbered. The Old Man is not famous for his missions of mercy, and his two cronies would most certainly have arrived in Bren by now."

"Yes, I'm sure they have." Tavalisk had lost interest in the otters and pushed the platter aside. "Before you leave, Gamil, I wonder if you can do me one small favor."

"Certainly, Your Eminence."

"I'd be grateful if you could just run over to the market district for me. These sea otters are tender, but I think they might be off. Be so kind as to get me a refund. Tell the stall-holder I intend to keep their pelts as punishment for selling shoddy goods. Obviously I'm willing to accept any further gifts he may feel the need to bestow upon me once the subject of informing the magistrates is mentioned."

Gamil bowed. "Your Eminence is master of the judicious threat."

Tawl had to get out of the palace. He needed to be alone to think, to walk the dark streets and look up at the stars. Feeling better than he had in days, he rose from his straw pallet. Tawl's first instinct was that of a knight after combat: mentally he checked every muscle, every tendon, every cell in his body for damage. Running through the procedure he'd learned at Valdis, he started at the heart and worked his way outward. Following the lines of the major arteries, his consciousness swept along with his blood.

Straight away he met a blockage. The blood vessels in his upper chest were damaged, some were blocked. Blayze's knife had severed them, the cauterizing iron had sealed them.

There was muscle damage, too. He would need leeching to encourage the blood to flow through the tissue. Upward he traveled. His brain was swollen from the sleeping draughts. Envisioning the unnatural substances as debris, Tawl concentrated on sweeping them away with his blood. Next he went downward to his stomach. There was some minor internal bleeding: a legacy of either the hemlock or the fight. A gentle constriction of the blood vessels would give the lining a chance to heal. His kidney was recovering from a wellplaced blow; there was a little swelling, but nothing that wouldn't mend on its own.

Finally, Tawl traveled to his limbs. A myriad of damaged veins and arteries caused him to switch his path like logs across a road. Blayze had given him a score of bruises, some barely registering, while others, like the one on his left shin, were surrounded by pools of yellowing blood. Tawl worked quickly, forcing blood through vessels that were threatening to close and drawing the flow away from ones that were too weak to bear the strain.

The last thing he came to were his circles. The burn was healing slowly. Skin was forming around the scab. Pink and shiny, fragile as a newborn babe, it was beginning to bridge the gap. It would be many months before his arm was fully recovered. There was nothing Tawl could do to quicken the process-even Valdis had its limits.

The monitoring complete, Tawl drew his mind from his body. A slight dizziness accompanied the shift.

The doctors had done a good job. He'd be left with a few more scars but little permanent damage. A wiry smile crossed his lips; it was obviously going to take more than one man to kill him. Nabber was nowhere to be seen. He was probably off somewhere looking for loot or trouble. He'd probably find it, too. Tawl smiled again, this time with real pleasure. There was no one like Nabber for getting himself into trouble.

A full ale skin lay resting upon the table. Tawl picked it up, unstoppered the cap, and began to pour the contents onto the fire. When the skin was half empty, he raised it to his lips and took a healthy swig.

Never again would he lose himself to drink, but it wasn't in his nature to live like a saint. One mouthful was enough, though, and the rest of the ale he sent hissing to the flames.

It was time to deal with the past. Slipping his knife through his belt, Tawl made his way across the kitchens. A pretty maid showed him the way out and then hinted that she was free most evenings. He bowed deeply, tempted by her offer, yet declining it all the same. She was too young, too innocent, and he needed too much. He would strip her of all her illusions.

Outside the air was cold. The wind cut past his cheeks, clearing away any last traces of drowsiness. His chest pained him as he walked toward the gatehouse. The palace guards waved him through the gate.

Shadows grew longer as he watched, and by the time he'd made his way across the square, they'd all merged into one and named themselves the night.

Bevlin was dead. To complete his quest now would be meaningless; he didn't know why the boy was important, or what he was fated to do. Tawl brushed his hair from his eyes.

It wasn't that simple, but it would do for a start. He had to bring order to his life. He was no longer a knight, but he'd lived by Valdis' code for so long that it had made him who he was. Discipline and duty ran deep within his veins. The need to be worthy ran even deeper. Es nil hesrl. I am not worthy. They were the last words on every knight's lips, and doubtless he'd die with them on his own. Valdis would follow him to the grave.

Tawl lifted his bandaged arm. Surely there was some way to make amends for his mistakes. Not public amendshe was long past caring what other people thought-but personally, for himself. Forgiveness could never be his, so all he could hope for was a sense that his sins weren't committed in vain. The only thing he had to hold on to was his newly sworn oath to the duke. There at least was a chance to serve someone well; with honor, if he were blessed.

He had taken the oath entirely aware of what it meant. He wasn't drunk with liquor or punches, or lightheaded from loss of blood. He was stone cold sober. It marked the end of his knighthood and his quest, and knowing that he spoke it gravely. In a way it was little more than an official declaration of what he'd known since the night he'd murdered Bevlin: there was no going back. The oath was his way of severing all ties with the past.

Taking a turn-off, Tawl found himself in a narrow street lined by dark buildings. The full moon, which had shown itself earlier, was hidden behind chimneys and slates. A foot fall, light as a landing bird, sounded in the distance behind him. Without conscious thought, Tawl's hand stole toward his knife. There were two of them. The breeze carried their odors and they disturbed more rats than one man alone.

Out came the blade, not a sound to mark its passing. Tawl slowed down and gave his pursuers chance to catch him. He counted to twelve and then turned around to meet them. He hoped they were well armed; it would be good to die fighting. Just as he leapt forward, a man's voice cried out:

"Here, Tawl! Leave it out. We didn't come all the way from Rorn to be murdered down a dark alley, did we, Clem?"

Clem shook his head. "No, Moth."

Tawl struggled to right himself. He couldn't believe it. What were two of the Old Man's cronies doing following him? An instant later he answered his own question: they'd come to Bren to kill him for Bevlin's murder. Only they didn't look very murderous.

"I see you finally got your hands on some nice weaponry," said Moth, eyeing his blade. "Course, Clem's got a better one, ain't you, Clem?"

Clem nodded enthusiastically.

"I see you're a little surprised to see us, my friend," continued Moth. "I must say we're a little surprised to be here. Never thought we'd get to see the beautiful brazen battlements of Bren, did we, Clem?"

"Not the brazen battlements. No, Moth."

Tawl didn't know how to react. Part of him wanted to clasp both men's arms and take them for a drink.

Another part of him felt too ashamed to do anything but wait and discover their purpose. How much did the Old Man know?

"You're a difficult man to track down, my friend. If it wasn't for Clem here, we would never have found you."

"How was that, Moth?" asked Clem.

"Well, you were the one who insisted we take a walk in the full moon."

Clem smiled proudly. "That I did, Moth."

"So the credit's all yours, Clem."

"But you were the one who spotted him, Moth."

"You have a point there, Clem. I say we both did the Old Man proud."

"Why are you here?" demanded Tawl. He had the distinct feeling that, if left to their own devices, Moth and Clem could carry on like that all night. "Have you come to take me to the Old Man?"

"Not at all, my friend. You wouldn't be standing here if that was the plan. Would he, Clem?"

Moth had a point. Last time Tawl had encountered them he hadn't even heard them coming.

"We've got a letter to give you, ain't we, Clem?"

Tawl felt a pulse begin to beat on either side of his forehead. The smell of the abattoir caught in his nostrils. "Who is the letter from?"

Moth took off his cap and nudged Clem, who did likewise. "The letter is from the recent and most tragically deceased Bevlin."

Tawl couldn't look at either of them. There was a dry lump in his throat. "Why give it to me?"

"Because it's addressed to you, my friend," said Moth. "Just before the good man died, he sent a missive to the Old Man with a second letter inside it. Apparently he left instructions that-" He turned to his companion. "How did he put it, Clem?"

"That in the event of his death it should be forwarded to the knight, Moth."

"Beautifully done, Clem. No one can remember word for word like you."

Tawl felt sick. He'd come this far, sworn an oath that forever damned him, and had just found a measure of acceptance for his new fate. He didn't want to resurrect the past.

There were too many memories that could drag him down. The only way he could cope was to keep it all behind him. "I don't want the letter."

Moth looked a little taken aback. "Well, we've got to deliver it, my friend. Will you do the honors, Clem?"

Clem searched in his tunic and pulled out a folded parchment. As dark as it was, Bevlin's seal could clearly be seen in the wax. It was the color of blood. Clem held it out for Tawl to take.

Despite everything, Tawl could not keep his hand from moving forward. His fingers itched to feel the smooth surface of the parchment. Just as he was about to take the letter, the moon rose over the chimneys. Full and large, it seemed to fill the sky, yet there was only one destination for its light: Tawl's arm. The bandage covering his circles glowed white in the moonlight. Instinctively Tawl pulled his arm away, the moonlight followed the move. He tilted his arm away from the moon, but somehow its light still caught the bandage. Under the linen lay the circles. Under the circles lay a man not worthy to bear them.

He was no longer a knight of Valdis. There was no quest. He didn't have the right to take the letter. He served the duke of Bren now, not Bevlin's memory.

Tawl pulled back his arm. "I can't take the letter. I'm sorry. If you'd found me four days earlier..." He couldn't finish the thought, let alone the words.

"But we came all this way," said Moth. "The Old Man won't be pleased, will he, Clem?"

"He'll be right mad, Moth."

"Look, me and Clem are going to walk away. We're going to leave the letter on the ground. When we're gone, you can take it and no one will ever know."

Tawl smiled at Moth and shook his head. "It's not as easy as that. I wish that it were."

"Me and Clem hate to see you upset, Tawl," said Moth.

"Is there anything we can do to help-on the quiet, like, not a word to the Old Man?"

"No, nothing, but I thank you all the same." Tawl held out his arm and clasped both men's forearms in turn. "Please leave. Do whatever you have to with the letter."

Moth and Clem pulled aside for an instant and exchanged a few hurried words. "Clem wants to know if you need any coinage," said Moth.

"No, thank you, Clem." Their kindness was almost too much. He didn't deserve it.

A few more hurried words and then they both turned toward him. "Well," said Moth, "it looks like me and Clem will be on our way. We've decided that we're going to leave the letter anyway, haven't we, Clem? Can't go back with the thing. It wouldn't look good."

Clem nodded rather solemnly and placed the letter at Tawl's feet.

"Me and Clem wish you profit on your journey."

"And health at your hearth," said Clem.

"Nicely put, Clem," said Moth. The two backed away from Tawl as if he were a king. Shuffling backward they reached the end of the street, waved once in silent salute, and then were lost in the shadows of the city.

Tawl wanted to call them back. But he wouldn't. He wanted to read the letter. But he couldn't. He stood in the moonlight, a lonely figure without a cloak, and waited until he was ready. The letter shifted in the breeze, its corners lifting seductively. A trace of text could be seen for a moment; it was written in Bevlin's clumsy hand. Tawl knew he had to go: stay any longer and he would succumb to temptation and tear the letter open. His soul screamed to read it. Duty demanded he wouldn't: he was the duke's to command now. One oath broken was enough.

He turned and walked away.

Twenty-one

Nabber watched from the shadows, hardly daring to breath. Every part of his still small body was intent upon willing Tawl to pick up the letter, but he didn't. The knight-for Tawl would never be anything except a knight to Nabber-walked away from the letter and never looked back. A very real pain constricted Nabber's heart and a very real tear fell down his cheek. Swift's words echoed in his ear: "That's what you get for snooping where you're not wanted."

How could he have let Tawl go out on his own, though? The knight was weak, injured, and obviously deranged: he'd poured a full skin of ale on the fire! A man like that needed watching, closely.

Nabber had spied on Tawl from the moment he got up from his pallet, eventually following him out of the palace. The castle guards had given him a bit of trouble; they didn't believe that he was a guest of the duke. Nabber snorted indignantly. He soon put them right, even had them apologizing and offering to share their supper. Round about now Nabber was wishing he'd taken them up on the offer: there was a hole the size of a decent pork pie in his stomach and it was getting bigger, and not at all quietly at that.

There had been moments when Nabber thought his stomach had given the game away. It rumbled viciously while the two cronies had been talking to the knight.

Nabber knew they were from the Old Man before they even opened their mouths. Their menacing mismatched forms were a familiar sight on the streets of Rorn. No one messed with them. Quite a pair, by all accounts, their specialty being beating up reluctant shopkeepers. Nabber couldn't remember their names, but their faces were hard to forget.

When he'd first spotted them, he thought they were going to slice Tawl to ribbons. There had been one hairraising instant when he felt sure he was going to have to jump in and save Tawl. Again. Wasn't to be, though. They'd come to talk to him. Seemed right friendly, they did. Nabber then decided they were going to kidnap the knight insteadparticularly when the big one reached inside his tunic. But it wasn't a knife he wielded, it was a letter.

Nabber had quickly scuttled nearer. He wanted to catch what was being said. He was barely feet away, body pressed against a rotting timber, feet buried in a mound of ... waste. Evil rats chewing at his toes, the smell of the abattoir on the breeze. It was just like home. He could hear everything. The letter was from Bevlin, and Tawl didn't want to look at it. Although the knight was adamant, Nabber felt sure that he would pick it up once the Old Man's cronies were gone. Only he didn't. Two minutes ago he'd walked away, leaving the letter unopened on the ground.

It wasn't right. There was no way that he, Nabber, friend of the great thieves and one-time disciple of Swift, was going to leave that letter there on the street for any milkmaid or barrow-boy to pick up at their leisure. No. It was private property. And if Tawl didn't want it, then he certainly did.

A quick look left and then right, a sharp sniff of the air, and then he waded through the waste and onto the street. He went straight over to the letter and slipped it in his tunic.

Strange, but in all his life Nabber had never really considered himself a thief; pocketing was more of a pastime than a crime, yet now, as he made his way back toward the palace with the letter resting against his chest, he felt for the first time that he'd taken something that wasn't his to take. He vowed he would never open it. The letter belonged to Tawl, and it was his duty to keep it for him.

As soon as Rovas dropped him off in the cart, Jack realized he had no idea how to carry a barrel of ale.

Wider than a man, it wouldn't rest well on his shoulder, and it proved hard to get a decent grip if he held it at his chest. The sweat on his hands didn't help, either. He was scared. Talking about murdering Vanly was one thing, actually going through with it quite another. He was on the far side of town, and according to Rovas the garrison lay half a league to the south.

Jack lifted the barrel for the final time, dipping his head down and bringing it over his shoulder. If he kept his torso bowed forward, he could keep it balanced on his back. Rovas had filled it close to the brim. He could hear the ale sloshing away as he walked. The momentum of the fluid worked against him, slowing him down and causing his feet to hesitate as he stepped. He probably looked drunk.

After walking for five minutes he felt as if he needed a drink. His back strained with the weight and with the unnatural angle. The muscles in his arms were beginning to protest at being held over his head for so long, and he'd exuded enough sweat to fill a second barrel. The most annoying thing, however, was his hair: it had fallen down in a wet tangle over his face and now he couldn't see where he was going. Letting go of the ale was out of the question-if he put it down now he wasn't entirely sure he'd be able to pick it up again-so he was forced to walk watching his feet.

The night air was cool, but not cold, and the full moon illuminated every step. Not a good night for discreet getaways. Carrying the ale actually helped to calm Jack's nerves. On the journey here his throat felt so dry that he couldn't manage a word to Rovas, but now, forced to concentrate on bearing a load that weighed about as much as Tarissa, but was a lot more awkward to handle, his mind was firmly on the job in hand.

To lighten his mood, Jack began to whistle a tune. He knew it was a mistake as soon as he started, for the small low noise just made the night seem larger. He decided to carry on anyway, at least till he got to the chorus.

A cartload of people passed him; they were drunk and merry and laughed at his burden. Jack smiled and bowed his back further. He was close to the garrison now. Approaching from the north, he would come to the service entrance first. The road became muddy, and two people on foot walked past him.

They paid the man with the barrel no heed. The dryness returned to Jack's throat as he fell under the mooncast shadow of the fort.

The cartload of people were applying for entrance. There were two guards armed with spears and shortswords, just as Rovas said there would be. Everyone was laughing, guards included. A hamper was unloaded from the cart and the lid was taken off for inspection. The smell of roasted chicken hit Jack's nostrils. It made him sick. His stomach was too tight for food. After rummaging in the hamper and picking out a few morsels for themselves, the guards let the party through. They then turned their attentions to Jack.

"What you got there, boy?"

Jack swung the barrel down from his shoulders and placed it on the ground, tap up, in front of them. He brushed his hair back from his face and pointed at the barrel.

"What's the matter with you?" sneered the second guard. "Cat got your tongue?"

Jack's heart was beating so wildly, he was sure the guards would hear it. He shook his head violently, and then as an afterthought, bowed deeply to both men.

"He's dumb," said the first guard. "Look's a bit simple."

"Aye, he does that," agreed the companion. "His hair's right long, as well. Don't remember seeing anyone with hair as long as that in town before. Where you from, boy?"

Jack had no choice but to point toward the town.

"You're not going to get much out of him, Wesik. He's one arrow short of a full flight. Probably been employed by Ottley at the tavern. He's always on the lookout for cheap labor."

Jack nodded vigorously. He was tempted to back this gesture up with a simple smile, but opted for more nodding instead.

"You heard what happened at the tavern last week, Grimpley," said Wesik, the second guard. "A merchant got murdered in cold blood, throat slit and all. Who's to say it wasn't young long-hair here?"

"Leave it out, Wesik. This boy ain't no killer. The muscles in those arms were shaped by shifting barrels, not bodies."

Jack nodded again. He was getting tired of acting stupid. He would have like to punch both men in the faceWesik first.

"All right, all right. Have it your own way. What's in the barrel, boy? From the looks of that tap, it's Isro Amber." Jack nodded and Wesik continued. "Well, don't just stand there, pour us a cup."

Jack didn't have the slightest idea how to work the tap. "Come on, come on. Quick about it."

As he reached toward the tap, Jack's hands were shaking uncontrollably. Under his breath he cursed Rovas for not showing him how to use it. The tap was tooled from brass and had a bolt, a lever, and a screw protruding from it. He opted for the lever first and then began to turn the screw. Both guards hovered over him, watching every move. Jack didn't realize how much he was sweating until he brushed his hand against his forehead: it came back soaking wet. With the screw loosened sufficiently to let the ale pass through the tap, Jack removed the bolt. Nothing.

"What are you playing at, boy?" demanded Wesik. Jack felt as if his heart was about to burst. Panicking, he started to pull, twist and flip indiscriminately, desperate to get the ale to flow.

Wesik swung his boot into the back of Jack's head. "Damn fool!"

Pain exploded in Jack's skull. He was sent forward against the barrel, chin catching against the metal tap.

"Leave the boy be, Wesik," said Grimpley, placing a restraining arm on his companion. "There's ladies coming." Jack tasted blood in his mouth. Looking up, he saw three women approaching on foot.

"You armed, boy?" asked Wesik, eyes upon the women. Jack shook his head.

Grimpley ran his spear point along Jack's tunic and down his legs, prodding every few inches to test for metal. "There's nothing on him."

Wesik crouched down beside Jack and grabbed the collar of his undershirt. "Listen to me, boy," he said, his voice a slow, threatening drawl. "I'm going to give you fifteen minutes. If you're not out of here by then, I'm going to come looking for you." Slivers of chicken skin were caught between his teeth. He twisted Jack's collar. "Have you got that?"

Jack nodded.

"Good, now get yourself out of my sight."

Jack scrambled up, tilted the barrel a fraction, and heaved it toward his chest. It seemed twice as heavy as he remembered. His blood ran onto the wood. The guards let him through the gate and into the garrison. Wesik waited until he had cleared the steps and then said, "Fifteen minutes, boy, then I come looking."

Jack rounded the first corner he came to. He dropped the barrel on the floor, not caring how it landed.

His head was reeling, his hands were shaking, and blood was spilling from his mouth. Fifteen minutes. He had no time to waste; he had to break open the barrel.

Footsteps followed by whispering voices. It was the three women at the gate. They walked past Jack as if he didn't exist. Looking around, he saw he was in a badly lit corner of the courtyard. In the distance, two men were playing dice against a wall. They were guards: spears rested in the dirt along with two flat ale skins. To the right was a large, well-lit building; the shutters were open and it was full of people drinking and toasting. Probably the mess hall. A second, smaller structure leaned against it for support: the kitchens.

What to do next? Jack had read stories about heroes, and without exception they always knew what they were going to do and how they were going to do it. He didn't have a clue. Rovas had said it would be easy to find a bar or a pick to pry the barrel open, but Jack had no idea how he'd get his hands on anything like that. One of the guards' spears would do the job, but to try and take it from them would be madness. Maybe there would be something in the kitchens. He'd try there.

With the decision taken, Jack wasted no time. He rolled the ale barrel into the deep shadows of the corner and then slunk along the west wall until he came to the kitchen. The dicing guards never noticed his passing. Quickly he flitted around the side of the kitchen wall and through the narrow alleyway to the rear. Smells of roasting meat wafted from the doorway. The sound of laughing and singing came from the mess hall, and the sound of squabbling and shouting came from the kitchens.

Staying close to the wall and its concealing shadows, Jack inspected the kitchen courtyard. In the corner was a butchering block. His eyes searched for the gleam of an ax.

A man in an apron stepped out from the doorway. Jack held his breath as he walked toward the very wall he was standing against. Sweat trickled down his back. The man came to halt about two horses'

length from him. The moon picked that moment to disappear behind a cloud. Jack gave silent thanks to Borc. Lifting up his apron, the man fished around with the lower ties of his tunic and pulled out his manhood. He proceeded to piss against the wall. He hummed a tune whilst doing his business. Jack's right leg was beginning to cramp; he fought the desire to shift his weight onto his left side. He couldn't afford to move an inch.

The man finished relieving himself, looked at his manhood with pride, and then stuffed it back into his tunic. He paused a moment, as if he were listening for something, and then turned and walked back to the kitchens. Heaving a huge sigh of relief, Jack bent down to stretch his cramping muscle. The smell of urine met his nostrils.

He was running out of time. Dropping down on all fours, he began to crawl across the yard to the butcher's block. He couldn't see an ax from where he was, but there could still be something useful around the other side of the huge chunk of timber.

Jack crawled with a limp, his muscle still cramping. He knew he probably looked stupid, but that didn't matter: getting the barrel open as soon as possible was all that counted.

The ground was muddy, yet it hadn't rained for several days. It was too dark to tell, but Jack guessed it was blood that soaked the ground around the block.

Luck was with him. At the back of the block was a meat hook. It wasn't as good as an ax, but it would do. Hooking it onto his belt, Jack crawled back to the kitchen wall.

Now came the dangerous part: he couldn't risk anyone seeing him, not now with mud and blood smeared across his tunic. The two guards had finished dicing. One was drinking from a third skin, the other was inspecting the point of his spear. Jack emerged from the alley and made for the wall. The moon appeared from behind the clouds. How long had he been? Five minutes? Ten? It was impossible to say.

One thing was sure: he couldn't afford to wait for the moon to disappear again. Back brushing against the wall, Jack stepped sideways along its length. Everything was going well, till he stumbled against a tree root that had somehow forced its way under the wall. Both guards looked up. Jack froze. The guard with the spear began to walk toward the wall. Jack prayed he was hidden by the shadow. A voice called out.

"Leave it, Bornis. It's only rats. Come and have a sup of ale before I finish the whole skin on my own."

The guard hesitated a second and then returned to his companion.

Jack forced himself to count to a hundred before moving again. Time was getting crucial.

He reached the ale barrel with no further incidents. The corner was nice and dark, but just to make safe, Jack rolled the barrel into the recess behind the gate. No one could see him now-though the gate guards might hear him if he wasn't careful. Grasping the hook, he worked the tip between two of the planks.

Why wouldn't his hands stop shaking? Slowly he began to crack the timber. Gently, gently, moving the hook back and forth, working it deeper into the join. There was a splintering sound and the hook became jammed in place. Jack grasped the handle firmly and swung it down against the barrel. Crack! The barrel opened. Ale gushed out at his feet. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever smelled in his life.

Once the two timbers were cracked, it was easy to knock the rest of the wood inward. The metal hoops were no longer a problem. Jack pried the lid off the barrel, and as expected, there was a knife bundled in oilskin attached to its underside. Rovas had not lied. Unraveling the package, he dried the blade on his tunic and then tested it against his finger. It was so sharp he never felt it slice his skin.

Jack cupped his hands below the splintered timbers and caught a good measure of the foamy brew. He brought it to his face and didn't so much drink the ale as bathe in it. What little did find its way to his mouth tasted good. An idea occurred to him, and he lifted what was left of the barrel up above his shoulders and emptied it all down his chest. If anyone saw him now, he'd be just another beer-soaked fool.

Less than five minutes left. It was time to get down to business. What had Rovas said: the officers'

quarters lay to the left of the service gate? Just as he was about to leave the shadows, Jack turned back and picked up the hook. It might come in handy.

The two gate guards were busy interrogating another visitor and they didn't see him dash by. Jack followed the wall until it turned east, all the time trying to remember Rovas' flour map. Ahead lay the covered arcade-just as the smuggler said. Sliding along the inside wall, Jack came to a supporting timber.

Hunkering down, so his head would be lower than man height, he looked down the length of the arcade.

Double doors. Two guards. Waiting for the watch to change was not an option: he was running out of time. What to do? What would heroes do? Silently slash both guards to ribbons?

Jack's legs were protesting at crouching down, so he decided to stand. As he did so, the butcher's hook that was looped over his belt caught on the material of his britches, causing them to tear all the way up to his waist. "Damn!" muttered Jack under his breath. He grabbed the meat hook and was just about to leave it on the ground beside him when he was distracted by voices. Looking out across the courtyard, through the wooden supports of the arcade, Jack spied a group of women and officers-seven or eight in all-and they were heading his way.

The hook was in his hand. There was only one thing to do. Keeping close to the beam and its shadow, Jack swung out. All his momentum was transferred to his right arm, and with one mighty heave, he sent the hook flying into the air; aiming straight for the officers and their ladies.

It was a silver streak across the sky. There was a dull thud, followed by a cry of pain. Then all hell broke loose. Women screamed in panic, men shouted for help. Guards came running from every direction. The hook had hit one of the officers in the back of the neck.

The guards at the double doors ran from their post toward the officers. Jack slipped out from the timber and ran through the shadows of the arcade. His heart was beating so hard he thought it would burst. The double doors were unlocked and he was through them in an instant. What had Rovas said? Stairs on the right. First door you come to.

Up the steps he dashed, the door was only a few feet away. Jack paused on the threshold to catch his breath. He pulled the knife from his tunic, brushed the hair from his eyes, lifted the door latch and burst into the room.

She was floating on clouds so high that she'd reached the place where the sky joined the heavens. A thin blue line and then nothing but white. Pain had long since gone. She could feel herself being pulled from her body. Not from the eyes, or the nose or the mouth, but from the side. She was escaping through a gap between her ribs.

Shadows hovered below, words and deeds merging into one. Earlier they were frantic, irons and needles flying like dog fur. Now they were quiet, the dog long dead.

Oil on her forehead, thyme leaf on her tongue, blood drip-dripping to a bowl.

"She's leaving us, Your Grace. Too much blood's been lost."

A hand hard with calluses gripped hers. "Melli. You must prepare your soul for God. Now is the time to lay your lies aside. Heaven only waits for those who are willing to speak the truth."

The thin blue line grew thinner. The white was so close it brushed against her cheek. Hot and cold, hard and soft, safe yet dangerous in one.

"Speak, child. Tell us who your family is. Lest your body rot waiting upon a father to bury it."

The clouds bore her upward to her mother. Words were difficult to form. The thyme on her tongue was as heavy as lead. "Tell Father I'm sorry."

"We can only tell him if we know who he is."

What was left of the blue line began to shimmer and fade. She knew she must speak before it went.

"Maybor, Lord of the Eastlands, he is my father." The white was all about her; it stole into her body through the wound at her side. It began to force out what little substance was left. "She must be saved at all cost. I don't care what you do: sorcery, devilry. Just save her!"

On the bed lay a man on top of a woman. Tears streaked down the woman's face. An imprint of a hand could clearly be seen on her cheek. Blood dripped from her mouth. "Help me," she sobbed.

Vanly sprang from the bed, pulling up his britches with one hand and reaching for his sword with the other. Jack lunged forward. His blade raked across Vanly's left hand.

The man let his britches fall to the floor. Jack had time enough to thank Borc that the captain's undershirt was long enough to cover his vitals. He didn't fancy fighting a man whose tackle- was on show. Vanly moved backward. He kicked off his britches, sending them flying toward Jack. Jack was forced to dodge them. This gave Vanly enough time to get a proper grip on his sword.

The captain leapt forward, blade in both hands, wielding it in the Halcus fashion. Jack jumped onto the bed. The woman screamed. Vanly's sword cut through the sheets.

Scrambling over the woman, Jack sprang from the opposite side. Vanly was forced to turn to defend himself. His legs were crossed and his weight was distributed badly. Jack used this to his advantage, forcing Vanly further round by a series of quick thrusts to his left arm. Angry at being taunted, unable to wield his mighty sword because his feet weren't placed far enough apart, Vanly lashed out wildly. Using his sword as a knife was a terrible mistake. It was too heavy to be used thus. Jack dodged the blade and found enough space to slice his knife down the captain's side.

Shocked, Vanly stepped back. Beneath his oiled mustache, the captain's mouth was a thin line.

Jack knew his best tactic would be to crowd the man close, not giving him enough space to use his weapon. He leapt after him. Vanly tilted his sword up and Jack was forced to halt his attack; he wasn't quite ready to be impaled on the end of a Halcus blade.

Jack felt something against his foot: the end of Vanly's britches. Parrying his opponent, he noticed that both of the captain's feet were planted firmly on the other end. Jack bent down and tugged with all his might on the cloth. Vanly lost his footing and began to stumble backward. In came Jack, knife ready. The captain lost his two-handed grip on his sword, as he needed an arm to steady himself. It was all over. A sword of that size took two hands to wield. Jack lunged forward and stabbed the man in the heart.

Vanly's blade clattered to the floor. Vanly himself followed after.

Jack had no time to relish his victory. Shouts could be heard coming from the direction of the stairs. He closed the door and turned to the woman. "Help me move the bed."

She was too shocked to do anything but obey him. Wiping the tears from her eyes and the blood from her mouth, she came and stood beside him. Together they pushed against the oaken frame. It shifted with ease.

Underneath lay a raised square of floorboard: the trapdoor. Jack was so relieved he grabbed the woman and kissed her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that," he said, quickly realizing she was probably scared sick of all men.

She leaned forward and brushed the hair from his eyes. "It's all right. It doesn't matter," she said, trying to smile. There was a loud knock at the door and a voice cried, "Captain! There's an intruder in the garrison. He's already brought one man down with a meat hook."

The woman took a deep breath and shouted: "Captain says he'll be with you in a minute. He's just finishing off his business."

The man grunted. "Best tell him to get a move on. This ain't no time to be wenching."

Jack and the woman listened as the man's footsteps moved away from the door. "Come on, then," she said. "Let's get this hatch open."

Jack nodded and they went to work on the trapdoor. It was heavy, but together they managed to lift it up. Peering down, Jack could see nothing but darkness. "Right," he said to the woman, "I'll lower myself first so I can gauge the drop. Then I'll stand below and catch you."

The woman shook her head. "I can't come with you."

"If you stay here, there's no telling what the guard might do."

"No," she said. "I've got to stay here. I can't go on the run like a criminal. I'll lose my livelihood. I'll tell the guards you overpowered me-if that's all right with you." The woman gave him a pleading look.

"You're taking a big risk. Come with me instead. I'll make sure you come to no harm."

She was firm. "No. You're wasting precious time. The guard will be back in a moment."

Jack had no choice but to leave her. Briefly, he toyed with the idea of knocking her out and slinging her body over his shoulder. No, he couldn't do that. She was too beautiful to hit over the head. He held his hand out and she took it, squeezing his palm.

"Luck be with you," she said. "And with you also," he replied.

Taking a firm grip on the timber surrounding the entrance, Jack swung his feet into the blackness.

Hanging by his arms, he couldn't feel the ground below him. The woman, whose name he would never know, gave him one last smile. He smiled back, silently counted one, two three, and then let go of the wood.

Thud! He landed less than two seconds later. A sharp pain shot up both his legs and he fell onto his backside. Looking up, he saw the woman already beginning to draw the board over the top of the hole.

The sight sobered him a little: they were both on their own now. Jack stood up and tested his legs; one ankle had been slightly twisted and both sets of muscles were sore. Above him a series of scrapes and bangs sounded and then he found himself in complete darkness. Time to get out of here.

The floor of the tunnel was boarded with rotting wood that cracked and splintered at every step. Its height matched his shoulders and he was forced to walk with his head bowed. His back, which had been through a lot earlier with the beer barrel, protested at every step. Hands held out in front of him, Jack scuttled along the length of the tunnel as quickly as he could manage. There was only one thing on his mind: Tarissa. She would be waiting for him at the other end.

The tunnel led downward for a while and then gradually leveled off. Never had Jack been in such complete darkness; his nose smelled earth and his feet felt wood, but there was nothing for his eyes to see. Splinters from the side braces stabbed at his hands. Stopping for a moment to catch his breath, Jack heard voices behind him. He looked back. A pale light appeared in the distance. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of dogs baying. It filled him with fear. He began to run as fast as he could. Faster and faster. They were gaining on him. His breath was like fire in his throat. The pain of a stitch ran across his belly. On and on he ran, not bothering to keep his hands out in front of him anymore.

Then all of a sudden he slammed into something solid. His entire body was jolted to the core. One of his wrists snapped back. He heard the sound of all his knuckles cracking at once. His knee smashed into the mass, while his chin took the last of the impact. Reeling with pain and dizziness, Jack scrambled on the floor of the passageway, groping for a way around the obstacle. The dogs were getting closer. He could now see individual torches, swaying with the movement of men.

The obstruction was solid, packed earth. Someone had blocked the tunnel. There was no way round.

Jack clawed at the soil with his fingernails. He was trapped.

Trapped!

Then the dogs reached him. Panicking, Jack raised his arm for protection. One of the dogs tore at his arm, another went for his leg. The noise was deafening. Blood hungry, the dogs snarled and howled. Jack felt a pressure building in his head. He knew what it was and he welcomed it. A dog leapt at his face and he punched it down. The tension grew and grew, demanding release. He felt the sharp tang of sorcery on his tongue. The instant before he let go, something hard rammed against his chest. There was pain so terrible he couldn't bear it. Looking down, he saw the shaft of an arrow jutting from his tunic. It didn't look real. The dogs crowded about him and then he knew no more.

Twenty-two

"No, Bodger, the quickest way to bed a woman isn't to tell her she's got a fine pair of melons."

"But Longtoad swears it works for him, Grift."

"Then Longtoad's women must all be stone deaf, for that sort of remark don't work on any wenches I know."

"What does, then, Grift?"

"Sophistication, Bodger. Sophistication. You go up to a wench, smile right nice and then say: how's about me and you doing a spot o' rollickin'? I've had many women before and not one of them's complained. "

"Hmm. I can see that might work, Grift."

"Never fails, Bodger. A woman likes a man to put his cards upon the table. It does you no harm to hint that your manhood's a fair size, too."

"Won't she be able to tell that already, Grift?"

"I should hope not, Bodger. Generally speaking, it's best not to pull it out until she's said yea or nay."

"No, Grift, I was talking about the whites of a man's eyes. Didn't you say that's how you can tell a man's size?"

"Oh, aye, I did indeed. It's gratifying that you remembered my wisdom, Bodger."

"I never forget a word you say. You've taught me everything I know." Bodger frowned and scratched his head. "Come to think of it, Grift, since I met you, I've had no success with women at all. They won't even look my way."

"Aah, Bodger, you've got much to learn. When they won't look your way, it's a sure sign that they're interested." Bodger attempted a scathing look, failed miserably, and settled for a loud burp instead.

"There's been a lot of coming and going in the palace these past two days, Grift. The duke's been dashing backward and forward from his hunting lodge, taking all kinds of doctors, priests, and supplies. I wonder what he's up to."

"Aye, it's mighty strange, Bodger. He took Bailor and his personal physicians with him yesterday, and now he's back again. The head groom says he was ordered to ready fresh mounts, so the duke's obviously intending to return to the lodge later."

"It must be something serious, Grift. I heard that it's a six-hour ride to the lodge."

"Aye, Bodger, a man like the duke doesn't ride twelve hours in one day unless it's a matter of life or death."

The sun slanted sharply across the room, fading the rich colors of the tapestries and sending a million motes of dust dancing into the air. Baralis was sitting up in his bed sipping on mulled holk. His hands ached as usual-even to stretch them around the cup was a strain but apart from that one, solitary complaint he'd never felt better in his life.

The burns to his chest had completely disappeared. The only sign that anything had ever been wrong was a pale, raised line, which ringed his chest like the seam of a dress.

He could feel where the sorcery had worked. Indeed, he could feel it still; its vestiges prompting old flesh to bond with new. The sensation was not unpleasant; a fertile burgeoning that tautened the skin and played upon the nerves like a fiddler, sending countless tiny impulses directly to his brain.

Three days he'd slept. Three perfect dreamless days where the only thing that he was aware of was the gentle hands of Crope. His servant was here now, stoking the fire as quietly as he could. He owed more than he could ever repay to the great hulking giant.

They met the year after he left the Great Plains. He had a purpose then and even knew his ultimate destination, the Four Kingdoms, but he wasn't ready to visit them yet. He needed to prepare, to learn, to plan. So first he went to Silbur.

Silbur, the shining jewel that sparkled at the center of the Known Lands. And that was exactly what it was: a jewel. A beautiful multihued city that had no purpose except for show. Religious councils met there, thousands made pilgrimage to visit the holy relics, He Who Is Most Holy sat upon his gilded throne, and every scholar who'd ever brought quill to parchment boasted about spending long hours on hard benches in its famous libraries. Silbur was a dead city, as much a relic as the bones and hair and teeth of long-dead saints and saviors that it depended upon for its income. There was no blood or flesh to the bone, no muscle to make it move. Great once, it had been unmatched in its arrogance and power.

Towers were built taIl to pierce the sky, walls were built low to scorn invaders. Silbur had no equal except for God.

The vision of its leaders had shaped the Known Lands. No one, they argued, should have more power than the Lord. Systematically, their armies tore apart the kingdoms and empires that made up the map of the civilized world. Emperors were evil, kings had commerce with the devil; the might of country took away from the might of God. They had to be broken. Bloody, terrible wars, the likes of which have never been seen before or since, ripped the continent asunder. Wars of Faith. A hundred years later only city-states remained. Silbur was mother to them all.

Gradually, as the century turned and religious power declined, great lords began to challenge the power of the Church. Harvell in the northwest had been the first to forge himself a new kingdom, Borso of Helch soon followed his neighbor's example, spending a lifetime claiming the land that became known as Halcus. Silbur, now weak, rotting from the inside, its leaders a series of weaklings and fanatics, could do nothing to stop them. Not that they'd ever been that interested in the north.

Now, two hundred years on, Bren sought the same recognition. The duke would have a kingdom where a city had been before. Baralis smiled into his cup of holk. There would be no sovereign in Bren, no king upon a throne. For the first time in four centuries the Known Lands would have an empire.

Another sip of the holk brought him back to the pale sunny mornings of Silbur. His first meal of the day was always a cup of holk and a pastry baked around a peach. He'd taken lodgings in the scholars'

quarter and paid his way by scribing and healing. In many ways it was the best time of his life. Up every morning at dawn, a long walk down to the library, and then a whole day spent in study. He went unnoticed, one of thousands of black-robed scholars who came to read the ancient texts. Just another young man engaged in that most noble of pursuits: scholarship.

At nights he would go healing. Silbur did not tolerate sorcery under any guise. Practitioners were burnt at the stake. He had to be careful: discreet in his employment of potions, restrained in his use of magic. One night, returning home from a house where a young girl lay dying, Baralis came across a group of youths beating up a man. The victim was on the ground, whimpering as he was kicked continually by the youths.

A thin man with a stick was directing the beating.

This was none of his business. Baralis lowered his eyes and stepped into the road to avoid coming any closer to the scene. The person on the ground cried out: "Please stop. Me sorry, me sorry." The thin man stepped forward and brought the stick cracking down upon his face.

"Shut up, you half-witted bastard," he said. "It's too late for mercy now."

Looking back, Baralis couldn't say what made him tum and face the men. The arrogant voice of the one with the stick? The pathetic plea from the victim? Or was it something else: the gentle push of fate?

Anyway, turn he did. Straightaway the beating stopped.

"What are you looking at?" said the stick-man. "Bugger off, this isn't your concern."

Baralis knew better than to look afraid. "Leave him be," he said, looking at each man in tum, using his flint gray eyes as weapons. Two of the youths backed away-even then his voice had that effect on people.

"What will you do if we don't?"

Slowly, Baralis put down the sack containing his potions and scrolls, careful to pick a spot that was free of dirt. "I'll bum the hearts from your bodies and leave the skin untouched." It was said simply, with no boast-and that was what made the men afraid.

The two that had already backed away ran off. That left two others: the stick-man and his friend. One last kick to the victim's groin, and the friend was off. Baralis raised an eyebrow. "I think you'd better follow your little playmates. It wouldn't be wise to face me alone."

The stick-man's gaze met his. Slowly he sneered, then walked away.

From the ground came a small, soft voice. "Thank you, master. Thank you." The man stood up and Baralis couldn't believe his eyes: He was a giant, broad as a wagon, tall as a building.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Crope, master." The man had been badly beaten, and not just once: his face was a mass of bruises and scars. He held his head low in a pathetic attempt to disguise his height.

"Come, follow me home, Crope," said Baralis. "Those wounds of yours need tending." And so the man had come to his chambers, and they'd been together ever since.

There was nothing Crope wouldn't do for him. An outcast from birth, he was ridiculed and hounded, blamed for everything from kidnapping to rape, from murder to thievery. Crope's only defense to accusations was simply to say he was sorry. Most of the time he didn't even know what he was saying sorry for. No one had ever shown him kindness. He lived in a world of fear, where his greatest concern was staying away from people who might pick on him: young boys, drunken men, fight-hungry soldiers.

He only went out at night. Baralis had changed his life. He was his protector, his savior, his only friend.

Baralis stirred himself from his memories. He never liked to spend too long reminiscing. The future was what counted, not the past. "Crope," he called. "Has the young lady been asking about me?"

"The beautiful one with golden hair?"

"Yes, you fool. Catherine, the duke's daughter."

"She was here yesterday, master. She wants to come and see you as soon as you are well."

"Good. Good. I will see her next time she calls." Baralis put down his cup and rubbed his chin. He and Catherine had a lot to talk about: sorcery, sex, and treason. She owed him her life, and he wasn't a man to let such a precious debt go uncollected.

Maybor was busy teaching his dog to kill. He had taken a pillow, stuffed it with the shredded remains of Baralis' undershirt, tied it to a piece of rope, and hung it from the rafters at man height. He was now in the process of getting Shark to jump up to the place where Baralis' throat would be. The dog was learning fast. Maybor called the dog over, patted it rather warily, and gave it a huge chunk of bloody meat.

"Good boy. Good boy." After a minute he stood up, went over to the pillow, set it swinging, and then backed away to a safe distance. "Kill, Shark! Kill!" he cried.

The dog leapt like a warrior, teeth drawn like knives. This time it went straight for the throat, and it didn't let go. Its grip was so great that it hung, suspended in the air from the pillow. Shark swayed back and forth, neck thrashing from side to side, feet kicking air, until the rope gave way. Dog and pillow came crashing to the ground. Even then Shark didn't let go. The dog worried away at the pillow until there was nothing left.

Maybor was distracted from this gratifying spectacle by a loud rap on his door. Who dared knock in such an arrogant manner? His question was answered immediately as the duke let himself in the room.

"Ah, Maybor, I'm glad I found you here." Looking around at the sight of feathers flying and linen shredded to ribbons, he said: "Training Shakindra, I see."

Maybor shrugged. "Personal protection, nothing more."

"Have you reason to need protection, Lord Maybor?"

"Probably less reason than you, Your Grace."

The duke laughed. "Well said, my friend. A man's power can be measured by the number of his enemies." He slapped his thigh and Shakindra came toward him. He bent down and stroked her ears.

"Good girl. Good girl."

Maybor was glad of the chance to gather his thoughts. There was only one reason why the Hawk would come to his chambers: to discuss Kylock's invasion of Halcus. It wouldn't be right for him to broach the subject first: he had been told the news in confidence by Cravin. In reality, pigeons were only a day or two ahead of people, and he wouldn't be at all surprised if half of Bren knew about it by now. Still, playing ignorant suited him best at the moment. "To what do I owe this honor, Your Grace?"

The duke walked over to the table and poured two cups of wine. He handed the first one to Maybor, the second he left sitting untouched. "I was wondering if you would like to invite your family to Bren for the marriage ceremony."

Maybor nearly choked on his wine. It went down his throat, heading straight for his lungs. He coughed, he spluttered, he turned as red as a beet. Marriage! What was this?

The duke was speaking as if the marriage between Kylock and Catherine was still going ahead. It made no sense. There was only one conclusion: no one had told him about the invasion.

The duke waited for Maybor to compose himself, his lips drawn together in a faint look of distaste.

"Are you aware, Your Grace," said Maybor, wiping wine from his chin, "that Kylock has invaded Halcus?" The duke nodded. "Of course." He spoke in a manner that invited no questions.

Maybor was confused. Surely the duke would be furious over the news? The people of Bren would not like the idea of their precious heir being married to a king with a taste for blood. When the duke died, Catherine would rule Bren, and now, by invading Halcus, Kylock had shown that he was not the sort to sit passively by and let his wife rule alone. Indeed, the way things were progressing at the moment, it looked as if Bren might be destined to form one small part of Kylock's northern empire. Yet here was the duke, calmly making wedding plans. It made no sense.

"You never answered my question, Maybor," said the duke. "Will you bring your family to Bren?"

"My eldest son, Kedrac, is a great friend of the king. I'm sure Kylock would insist upon him attending the wedding." Maybor couldn't resist the exaggeration. Besides, if the marriage was going ahead, he needed to be seen to support it. Kylock would confiscate the lands of -a traitor in an instant. Cravin was right, the best thing to do now would be to assassinate Baralis. The man wielded too much power and had too much influence over events. Once he was out of the way, the marriage would become less of a threat.

"And your daughter?"

Maybor was thrown off guard for the second time. "My daughter, Your Grace?"

"Yes, you do have a daughter, don't you?" said the duke. "What's her name, now?"

"Melliandra."

The duke spun around. "Aah, so she was probably called Melli as a child?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I heard that she is a beautiful girl. Do you happen to have a portrait?"

Stunned, Maybor nodded.

"Let me see it, then. If Melliandra attends the wedding, perhaps she can have the honor of waiting upon Catherine."

Maybor breathed a sigh of relief: so that was the duke's interest-seeing if his daughter was comely enough to be a lady-in-waiting to Catherine. Maybor dashed over to his desk. It would do him no harm to have Melli close to Catherine. In fact, the whole thing was perfect; when Melli was found she could take residence at the court of Bren. Not only could she befriend the woman who was destined to rule the most powerful city in the north, but also she would be a safe distance from any rumors that might cause her disgrace at Castle Harvell.

Unlocking his cedar-wood box, Maybor reached inside and pulled out his daughter's likeness. Carefully he cleaned it against his robe. The miniature was covered in fingerprints from constant handling: it was all he had to remember her by. He held it out. "Here is my daughter, Your Grace."

The duke took the portrait and held it so it caught the light from the window. He seemed pleased with what he saw. When he spoke it was quietly, more to himself than Maybor. "Oh, yes, yes," he said. "She is the one."

"So should I invite her to attend upon Catherine?"

The duke gave Maybor a shrewd look. "As you wish." He returned the portrait and then made his way to the door, his sword glinting with every step. "I hope that you and I can become friends, Lord Maybor," he said, pausing on the threshold. "I've known for some time that you have been opposed to the match of Catherine and Kylock, but let me assure you there will be nothing to worry about when it happens." With that he bowed curtly and left.

Maybor could only stare at the space that the man had occupied. He didn't have the slightest idea what the duke meant. In fact the whole visit was nothing short of bizarre: talk of friendship and families. A total disregard for Kylock's flagrant aggression. What did it all mean? Maybor poured himself a second cup of wine and sat down on his bed. Shark came and lay at his feet. Cravin's words from the other day came back to him. Perhaps the Hawk had come up with a way to neutralize the marriage.

When it came to being pests, spiders were second only to horses. Both creatures had an annoying tendency to leave things about that a man was likely to walk in. Now, spiderwebs might be less disgusting than horse dung, but they were definitely more creepy. Especially in the dark, when the only thing you could feel was their clammy threads brushing against your face, quickly followed by the scurry of tiny feet as a spider ran down your neck. Even now, Nabber could feel a handful of the eight-legged creatures busy spidering beneath his tunic. Unfortunately, nothing short of getting undressed would rid him of the pests, and he wasn't about to do that. No, sir. No one was going to catch him in his underwear down a secret passageway. He wasn't one of those.

The duke's palace was turning out to be most interesting. It was amazing where a little bit of reconnaissance could lead. No less amazing was the way people turned a blind eye to a boy wandering around on his own. Nabber supposed he didn't look like the dangerous cutthroat sort, which, while being a little disappointing, certainly came in handy. He simply didn't exist to the world of cooks, ash maids, and butchers. Guards occasionally gave him the once over, but generally after a little verbal dilly-dally, they left him well alone.

So here he was, down in the secret depths of the palace, keeping company with the foundations. Quite interesting, really, if you didn't count the spiders.

It had all happened by accident. Two days ago he'd been walking along a harmless-looking corridor on his way to the nobles' quarters when he was approached by two guards.

These men had obviously been drinking and were looking for a little amusement. They questioned and taunted him, and then began prodding his chest with their spears. Just before they left, the smaller of the two had punched him hard in the chin. Nabber went slamming into the wall. As the guards walked away, happy with the success of their bullying, Nabber became aware that something had happened to the wall behind him. His shoulder blade had fallen against a tiny protrusion in the stone. He didn't dare move until the guards were out of sight. Only when their footsteps had faded into the distance did Nabber feel safe to lift his weight off the wall. As soon as his shoulder came away from the wall, a series of near silent clicks sounded within the stone. Nabber was torn between dual instincts: fear and curiosity. Curiosity won and he stayed and watched the wall swing open.

Borc, did that passage smell when the wall moved back! The stench of decaying rodents combined nicely with the strong reek of mold. It was like being in Swift's hideout all over again-made him feel quite nostalgic for a moment. Of course, there was nothing to do but step into the dark. The instant his feet landed on the inside stones, the wall fell back into place. Nabber had to admit that it was a little scary to find himself in total darkness. Rorn's alleyways by midnight were pleasantly shady compared to this. Still, Swift's words gave him comfort. "There's nowhere as profitable as the dark," he would say as he watched the sun set over the city of Rorn. And so, with that maxim in mind, Nabber began to make his way along the tunnel and into the depths of the duke's palace.

The past two days had proven very illuminating indeed. The possibilities for nefarious looting were almost unlimited. Swift would have wept with joy. You could never tell where you'd come out: meat larders, nobles' chambers, armories. There was even a tunnel that led outside to an open sewer in the city. The whole palace was practically asking to be robbed!

Nabber quickly decided on his best course of action. He would stagger along the passages, arms stretched out, spiders adangling, until he came to places where the light seeped in through tiny hairline cracks in the stone. Then he would step on all the surrounding flagstones until one gave way and the wall opened up. He had to be careful, of course, for there was a chance there would be people on the other side.

The first time he'd emerged from the tunnels he'd surprised a rather noble-looking lady kneeling down to help a guard untie his britches. Nabber had tipped his cap respectfully and said, "If you're having trouble with those ties, my lady, I always find that a little pig grease does the trick." Well, the lady had run away screaming and the guard had just stood there as if he were nailed to the floor. Nabber was back in the tunnel in no time, lesson well learned: listen carefully before making an unexpected entrance.

Some of the tunnels were too narrow for full-grown adults, and even he'd had a little difficulty squeezing through them. Many of the lower ones were waterlogged and more than a few were impassable, with water levels reaching high above a man's head. Nabber supposed it was because the palace was built on the shore of the great lake, and anything that lay below water level had long since been flooded.

Sometimes Nabber would come across places that were well lit. Portcullises on the lake side let both light and water in-probably built so that invaders couldn't swim under the lake and into the castle. Rather clever, really. One of the portcullises had nasty spikes which jutted out into the lake: one decent wave and a diver would find himself impaled. Nabber was full of admiration for the man who'd thought of that particular modification.

He'd been just about everywhere by now and was wondering whether to share his newfound knowledge with Tawl. The tunnels would be perfect for slipping in and out of the palace unnoticed. Of course, the only way he'd found so far was through the sewers, so a man wouldn't smell too good at the end of it, but the benefits of a quick escape far outweighed the hazards of a wall of sewage.

Nabber was worried about Tawl. The knight needed watching in case he did anything irrational. Just as he seemed to be sobering up and coming to terms with his newly spoken oath, in stepped the Old Man's cronies. They'd stirred up all the old memories, and with them the guilt. Trying to get the knight to take a mysterious letter from the very man whose death had caused all the madness in the first place: Bevlin.

Tawl hadn't mentioned the incident and neither had Nabber. The letter, which was currently safe from water and sewage in the little room they shared just off the kitchens, was on his mind constantly. There was no point in opening it; he could only read a few words, so the message would have no meaning. But it was more than that which stopped Nabber from breaking the seal.

Somehow it had become his solemn duty to bear the letter for Tawl until he needed it. Nabber didn't doubt for an instant that a time would come when Tawl would bitterly regret discarding the letter. His job was to be there when he did.

Nabber made his way upward through the tunnels with remarkable ease. He was quite sure by now that he could see in the dark-and not a single carrot in his life! He was hoping to get Tawl to agree to move out of the castle. The guest-host relationship was wearing a bit thin, and Nabber was anxious to do some prospecting. Never since learning about the importance of contingency had his been so low. Not one gold piece, not half a weight of silver, not even a brass ring. A man could get nervous just thinking about it. He needed to be out there, or rather, back here, with no guest-host obligation to hold back his hand.

Figuratively speaking, it wouldn't be pocketing, it would be thievery, but he judged himself ready for the promotion. Swift would be proud of him!

Now all he had to do was get Tawl to go along with his plan. There was no way he would leave the knight on his own; where the knight went so did he. Therefore, his only hope was to come up with a good reason why Tawl should move out of the castle. Nabber hadn't thought of one yet, but he was a great believer in thinking on his toes and he was quite sure one would come to him as soon as he saw the knight.

The quality of the darkness gradually changed and Nabber knew he was close to the entrance. Quite by accident he'd stumbled on one not far from the kitchens at all in the chapel. This wasn't the same as the rest of the entrances, as it was hidden behind a wooden panel. It spiraled upward, ending in a single door. Whoever built the tunnels must have intended that it be cut off from the other passages, as it was self-contained with no other entrances. Nabber had gained access by spotting a likely looking ventilation tunnel and managing to squeeze himself through it. Tempted by the look of the upper doorway, he followed his newly learned lesson and crouched down for a while to listen to what was on the other side.

Guards, by the sound of it. Footsteps could be heard pacing back and forth at regular intervals, which meant that someone or something important must be on the other side. It didn't take a Silbur scholar to guess that there was trouble waiting behind the door, so Nabber backed quietly away.

Forcing his reluctant body through the ventilation tunnel, Nabber found himself right by the chapel entrance. He placed his ear against the wood. All quiet on the other side.

One firm push and the wooden panel swung backward. As predicted, the chapel was empty. Nabber stepped out, replaced the panel, and took off his cap. If anyone came across him now he'd be just another boy praying for Borc's guidance.

He slipped out of the main chapel door and was just about to make a run for freedom when a voice piped up. "Hey, you, boy! What you doing in the chapel?"

It was a guard, but not a regular one, judging from his dress and his accent. Nabber smiled a little sadly and looked down at the floor. "Praying for the souls of my dearly departed family."