They have no right to—”

“You fool! Forget the sword. We must go before the king orders you killed on the spot, and me with you.”

Still protesting, Gavril was whisked from the moldering fortress and packed into the sleigh. Climbing in beside him, Mradvior shouted orders at the driver, and back they went through the city. Dusk was falling now.  Howling for alms, beggars ran beside them in the streets. Mradvior ignored them and the guards kept the beggars away from the sleigh. Gavril huddled under the furs and paid no attention. All he could think about was Tanengard and how Muncel’s minion had stolen it from him. He wanted it back most desperately.  In the distance, from down some dark alley came a howling cry that belonged to nothing of this world. Mradvior grimly clutched his dagger and bowl of salt.  “I should not have brought you here,” he said over and over.  “I should not. I was fool to bring you to the king. But you are bigger fool to insult him. Thod! The king’s temper is terrible thing. And now . . . now perhaps I am ruined.”

“Why do you snivel so?” Gavril asked indifferently. His hands stroked Tanengard’s empty scabbard. “Why are you not quiet?” Mradvior drew in a sharp breath. “Do you realize nothing? In morning I could face orders for execution. My house, my family all could be destroyed. Like that.” He snapped his fingers. “All because you insult the king.” “Your fate has nothing to do with me,” Gavril said with a shrug.  Visibly fuming, Mradvior sat rigidly on the seat beside Gavril, silent all the way back to the gates of his house.

The guards pushed away the rabble that crowded up next to the sleigh as it slipped through the gates. When pikesmen attacked the crowd, the guards galloped inside, urging the sleigh before them. The gates shut with a clang, while the people shouted pleas for food, for money, for mercy . . . unheeded completely by both Gavril and Mradvior.

Gavril found the heat inside the house a blessing. Until then, he had not realized how thoroughly chilled he was. Pulling off his cloak, he glanced around, but Mradvior was already hurrying away into another part of the house, leaving him behind with the servants.

Gavril shrugged. King Muncel was an ill-tempered lout, and Mradvior was a whining fool. It had been a wasted afternoon, and now he’d lost Tanengard.  As Gavril was ordering his supper, a loud series of knocks sounded on the front portal. A few minutes later, Mradvior hurried past to meet the messenger.  Shortly thereafter the count approached Gavril, with a small squadron of guards following at his heels. Pointing at the stairs, Mradvior issued orders in rapid-fire Netheran. The guards trotted off in that direction as the count turned to Gavril.

“Now it begins,” he said heavily. “Orders have come from his majesty. You leave my house tonight. You and the lady.”

“We are released?” Gavril asked in delight. “Aha! I knew if I could but see his majesty that—” “Do not mock this, your highness. Of course you are not released.” Gavril’s sense of relief crashed to his feet. In its place came alarm, which he tried to mask with a sneer. “I see. Holding us prisoner is unconscionable. We should be set free.”

“You are to be moved to old Palace of Runtha and kept there until you are ransomed.”

Gavril frowned, thinking of the fortress he’d visited today. “The king’s own—” “Nay, Palace of Runtha. The old place of kings. From before . . . before everything changed. It is a ruin, but not all of it has been torn down. You will live there, with your guards. The lady too.”

“She’s too ill to be moved,” Gavril protested.

“Your highness should have thought of her before you insulted the king.” “He insulted me first!” Gavril said defensively, then stopped himself, for clearly he wasn’t going to prevail.

From outside the room he heard the marching cadence of bootsteps. Someone rapped loudly on the panels, and the door swung open to reveal the contingent of guards, cloaked and heavily armed, returning from upstairs.  They shepherded Noncire and four of the guardians inside. One of the latter swooned as soon as he crossed the threshold. A burly knight bent and gave him a vigorous shake, only to straighten and look at Mradvior with a shrug.  “Vant othyaska,” he said.

“Another one dead?” Mradvior said with a lift of his heavy brows. “Throw him over wall. The poor will be glad of some meat.”

Unprepared for this sudden evidence of brutality in the count, Gavril blinked in shock.

While one of the guards bent to pick up the dead man, Noncire hurried across the room to Gavril’s side. The cardinal looked pale and strained.  “Gavril. Your highness,” he said in quiet urgency. “Please intervene on our behalf.”

Mradvior’s laugh rang out loudly. “Look at his eminence quiver!” he called.

“What’s amiss, lord cardinal? Does your faith not sustain you now?” “Your highness must intercede,” Noncire said. His small dark eyes were as round as possible within their folds of fat. Perspiration soaked the collar of his robes. “For the love of Thod, your highness, have mercy and do not let them take us to Gant.”

Gavril stared at him impatiently. “I think your wits have gone. No one is going to Gant. Who told you such a thing?”