“When exactly were you in Verlia, Trader of Tales?”

“The last time? Ye gods, Captain! It must be twenty years ago.”

There is a certain way men look at you when they think you are lying. I had met it before, once or twice, and I saw it now in the warrior's narrowed eyes. I did not like the way his fingers drummed on the hilt of his sword, either.

“I was younger then, of course,” I said. “Not older, as you suggested earlier. I do not show my years, perhaps. The benefits of virtue and clean living.”

His lip curled. Nobody else except young Gwill looked any more convinced than he did. Fritz's thick fingers edged closer to my collar.

“I did meet Lord Ancient-merit of Bargar briefly. He had a slight cast in his left eye.”

 

 

Captain Tiger's lip straightened again. “You could have seen a portrait,” he muttered uncertainly. “What leg did he limp on?”

“Artists are usually more tactful. The noble lord had no limp when I saw him.”

The soldier sighed. He turned to the dowager. “Perhaps he is telling the truth this time, my lady. I did not mention that name earlier, did I?”

She was unimpressed. “Not that I recall. But we have some serious matters to discuss.” She peered across at the minstrel. “Master Gwill?”

Gwill's head jerked up. He tried to cough and sneeze at the same time, and then spluttered, “My lady?”

“You really ought to be in bed with that cold. Landlord, give him a tankard of that mulled ale. Strong! And Mistress Frieda, I would like some more herb tea. Captain Tiger, don't you think we have tolerated the horse thief long enough? It may be time to let justice take its course.”

The tension in the room rose alarmingly. At least, I thought it did. Fritz shot me a gleam of triumph as he went by with the copper jug. All eyes went to the soldier. He was the one with the sword.

He frowned uneasily. Men such as he have strange rules about killing. Steel is permissible, but freezing to death is not.

On the other hand, he was beholden to the old crone somehow.

“Just what business do you have in mind, my lady?”

Burgomaster Johein was enjoying the play. He had not noticed the worried look in his wife's eyes.

 

 

“The Sweet-rose affair, of course.”

He leaned back in his chair and folded his plump hands on his corporation. “I cannot see how it concerns you, my lady, but I shall be interested to hear what you have to say.”

She pursed her thin lips until they went white. “I cannot see how it concerns you! Just why did you retain Master Tickenpepper to review the laws of a faraway land like Verlia?”

Gwill blinked from one to the other, in complete bewilderment. Fritz and Frieda bustled around in the background. The captain was considering me and biting his lip. The lady's maid had her head down as always, gazing at her hands in her lap—how her neck stood it, I could not imagine. Master Tickenpepper was picking his nose.

I directed a meaningful stare at the actress. It was intended to warn her that I would not leave without a few final words on her behalf. The message seemed to be heard.

“Darling,” she said reluctantly, “perhaps we should hear what Master Omar has to say before he is ... I mean, why don't we hear what he knows about Sweet-rose?”

The merchant frowned. Possibly he felt the first twinges of suspicion then? Who can say?

“Begging your pardons,” Gwill muttered, “but what is sweet rose?”

For a moment there was silence, as if no one wanted to be first to speak. I was about to, for silence always makes me uneasy, but the captain beat me to it.

“The land of Verlia is in a state of anarchy. Civil war may have broken out by now. The dynasty founded by Cold-vengeance two centuries ago came to an end last year with the death of Just-blade. He left no obvious heir.”

The minstrel said, “Oh!” but his face retained its baffled expression.

“There have been claimants, of course,” the merchant offered.

“Too many claimants!” the dowager snapped, returning the ball.

He let it go by.

Gwill's hand closed on the tankard Fritz held out to him, but he did not seem to see it. “I thought that the god Hool had decreed that Hannail's line would rule forever?”

“Exactly!” the soldier said. “And delegations went to the sacred cave to consult the god.”

Again nobody wanted to reveal any more.

“I'll have some of that brew, also,” the captain told Fritz.

“Holy Hool was very uncooperative. He would not acknowledge any of the pretenders. When the third delegation arrived, though, he finally told them that they must find the child of Sweet-rose.”

Gwill drank, keeping his eyes on Captain Tiger, waiting for more.

“King Just-blade,” the notary said, “had a son, Prince Star-seeker. Twenty years ago, he eloped with a lady named Sweet-rose. Nothing has been heard of either of them since.”

“The god specified their child,” the dowager added, “so we know that Star-seeker himself must be dead. So is Sweet-rose.”

 

 

"Ha! ” The merchant sat up straight. “How do you know that, my lady?

“I know! Now tell me why you are troubling yourself with the matter?”

Fritz was hovering dangerously at my back. Frieda had brought the dowager's tea.

Silence. Place your bets, milords. On my left, Tickenpepper the Terrible, Burgomaster Johein in the elephant class, and his well-known wife. On my right, Captain Tiger of Bargar, a nameless servant serving no obvious purpose, and ... a certain elderly lady. Nuts! Sweetmeats! Buy your souvenir doublets here...

“Perhaps I can cast some light on the matter,” I remarked helpfully. “It is my turn to respond to our learned friend's interminable discourse.”

“If you are quick.” The soldier took a drink.

With an angry growl, Fritz made three long strides to the fireplace. He reached up to the high shelf of bric-a-brac on the chimney and took down a small hourglass. Inverting it, he set it on the hob and went back to his previous place on the bench.

“Fair is fair,” I said, rising stiffly. I had walked far during the day and now had been sitting too long. I headed over to the hearth. “The wind blows, the night is not yet done. The matter I shall relate is extremely relevant to your problem. I shall be as terse as I know how, but you must allow me to do it justice.”

 

 

I laid the hourglass on its side and strolled back again, my heart soaring in triumph. I wasn't going to mention that yet, though.

“I trust that this time I shall not be interrupted! The tale I would tell you is called Virtue Rewarded.”

 

 

17: Omar's Response to the Notary's Tale The trade winds brought me from the Misty Isles to Verlia.

I disembarked at Myto, a city I had never visited before.

Within hours, it had won my heart—a bustling little port of white walls and red-tile roofs. Its crowds were busy and yet good-humored. Men went unarmed, women did not hide their beauty behind veils. The children laughed and even the beggars smiled. It had music and flowers and excellent wine.

I soon found lodging at a dockside tavern and proceeded to earn my board with my tongue, as is my wont. I was minded to spend some time in this restored, prosperous land of Verlia. I would visit all of its seven cities, I decided, and as many of its hamlets as my feet would lead me to.

War and oppression were ancient history. The monarchy was popular, the land at peace. Men and women of obvious Horsefolk extraction walked the streets unheeded, clad in motley like everyone else.

While I rejoiced to see the people flourishing, I felt a tinge of regret that the glory and heroism of the Winter War had been so soon forgot. On my second day in Myto I found a statue of Ven in an overgrown corner of a shady plaza, half buried in ivy. It could never have been a good likeness anyway, and I told the pigeons to continue what they were doing to it.

The next morning, I had a visitor. The tavern was almost empty at that time of day. I sat alone, munching my way through a late breakfast of biscuits, cheese, and ripe figs, listening in part to the busy clamor of the docks outside—gulls and pulleys, men shouting, horse tackle jingling. Mainly, though, my thoughts were on some inconsequential yarns I had heard the previous evening. Then two thick and hairy arms laid themselves on the boards in front of me. Their owner sat down opposite.

“You are Homer, the trader of tales?” He had a deep, censorious voice. It implied that if I were not who he said I was, then the fault must be mine.

I confess I blinked a couple of times at him. He was big and meaty, yet the cloth draped over his left shoulder displayed yellow kittens on a purple-and-emerald background. On the other he bore violets and daisies in even gaudier hues. Between them was a forest of black hair, with a black spade beard above. I found the combination unsettling, although bright color was not thought effeminate in that country. As it is part of my craft to be visibly a stranger, I was garbed in drab sailor clothes, which were screamingly conspicuous in Myto.

I nodded to his question. My nose was telling me horse, my eyes were saying road dust, and both added sweat, yet his clothes were fresh. He had taken time to change but not bathe. Urgency? Why?

He announced himself. “True-valor of Galmish. I have work for you.”

His manner nettled me; it implied that the outcome of our discussion was a foregone conclusion. Granted, he was capable of carrying me out under one arm, either kicking and screaming or sleeping peacefully, whichever he preferred. A warrior? Perhaps. A henchman for somebody, certainly. He was not acting on his own behalf.

“I shall be honored to hear how I may serve you, True-valor.”

He glanced around impatiently, as if hoping his horse would walk in, ready to leave. “A certain noble wishes to hear some of your stories. He will pay you well.” He laid his big hands flat on the table, as if about to rise.

I tore a mouthful of bread from the loaf. “Speak on,” I said, pushing it in my mouth.

He reacted with surprise and then displeasure. “The house in which you will perform is three hard days’ ride from here.

You are capable of sitting a horse?”

I nodded and continue to chew.

Muscles flexed under his beard. “Well, then? I said you would be well rewarded.”

I held out an empty palm.

Glaring, he reached under the violets and daisies and produced a wash-leather bag. After a prudent glance around the room, he tipped a shower of gold coins into his other hand for me to see. Then he replaced them and returned the bag to his motley. “My master is both rich and generous.” He folded those arms as if daring me to try to take his expense allowance from him by force.

Apparently that was all the explanation he intended to provide. But no one in Verlia had been expecting me, or even knew of my existence. I had not been ashore long enough for my reputation to travel three days’ journey and bring this musclebound flunky rushing to my presence. When the gods have work for me, they usually send word in dreams.

I had thought I was on vacation.

I swallowed half my cud and mumbled around the rest.

“Tell me who summons me.”

A faint flush crept out of the top of True-valor's beard. “I told you—a noble lord.”

“And who told him to?”

Bullyboy laid his arms on the table again and leaned forward threateningly. Obviously he had felt insulted even to be sent on this errand, and to have the object of it talk back to him was close to intolerable. He addressed me as if my wits had worn thin. “My lord takes orders from no one but the king himself. Nor does he answer questions from the likes of you.”

“Did he himself instruct you?”

“I will not be interrogated, either! Do you spurn my offer?”

I was tempted to, just to see what would happen. I decided it would hurt.

“Meaning you don't know the answer,” I said cheerfully. “I will get it before I sing.” I rose and bellowed across to the innkeeper to tell him I was leaving. “What are we waiting for?”

Erect on his hind paws, True-valor of Galmish stood a good head taller than I. The sash binding his outfit together was sea-blue, with an intricate pattern of white gulls and gold dolphins. The jeweled dagger tucked in it must be some sort of insignia. He regarded me with disgust.

“No baggage?”

 

 

“Nothing worth going upstairs for,” I said. “Pray lead the way, Your Honor.”

I could not wait to see him from the rear.

So began a hectic journey across country, through lush green valleys, over rocky upland pastures. Verlia prospered under the rule of its kings, but I hardly had time to notice. I was rushed past vineyards, orchards, olive groves, sunlit hamlets of white and red, all in a blur, mostly at full gallop.

True-valor traveled in style, with four subordinates and two pack horses. His men were all just as dandily dressed as he was, but they set a bone-breaking pace. We thundered over the land like a summer storm, raising dust, scattering peasants and livestock, raining money. At every post my guides demanded the best mounts, regardless of cost, scorning to bargain. By night we dwelt in the best inns, dining like kings, wenching, sleeping on silk sheets. Peacocks my companions might be, but they were a hard-riding, hard-mouthed band. I was pushed to my limits to keep up with them.

Although I had little time or breath for conversation, I soon established what manner of men they were. Despite all the royal edicts forbidding private armies, any landowner of stature kept a few score of tough youngsters on hand and a cache of weapons in the cellar, just in case. Officially I was in the company of a secretary, a flutist, a veneerer, an archivist, and a painter of watercolors. In reality—a captain, a corporal, and three lancers. After the second evening, I would have backed them against a team of Jurgolbian bear wrestlers. The flutist took offense in a bar. The group of them then proceeded to demolish both it and a dozen of its inhabitants. I have rarely witnessed such a detailed annihilation.

Men who ride together can rarely resist the camaraderie of the road for long. I began by regarding my guards as thugs or popinjays, demon-ridden butterflies. They took me for a beggar and resented being required to escort me. A grudging friendship began to arise out of mutual respect. They appreciated my horsemanship and I was impressed by their skills at mayhem. We shared a common interest in wenching.

I learned that their employer was a high lord indeed, Fire-hawk of Kraw, a direct descendant of my old ... I mean the legendary Sure-justice of Kraw. Juss. Moreover, Fire-hawk claimed descent from his eldest son and was thus titular head of the clan and lord of Still Waters.

Ven's family still held the throne, as Hool had decreed it would, but it had not been especially fruitful. Possibly Verl had restricted the number of progeny to avoid disputes over the succession. The present monarch was King High-honor of Verl—even now, the kings did not name their lineage after Hool except when visiting the northern provinces. High-honor had a reputation as a philanderer, but he acknowledged only two children, both in their teens and both legitimate.

Juss's line, on the other hand, had been prolific beyond reason, scattering sons everywhere. Verlia was widely blessed with his descendants—Lord This of Kraw and Lord That of Kraw, all over the place. I wondered whether they all still worshipped the same dragon's tooth, or if the god had somehow divided himself. How many teeth could a dragon spare? But I was confident then that I knew who had summoned me, and therefore the urgency. Dragons are not known for their patience.

I was wrong. It does happen.

My first inkling that I had jumped to an unwarranted conclusion came on the final day. It was late afternoon, we had been riding hard since dawn, and the sunlight felt like a whip. I was hardly in a mood to appreciate the scenery anymore, although I had registered that we skirted the edge of a large lake, and the shores ahead were heavily wooded.

Suddenly True-valor bellowed a question back to Stern-purpose of Foon, the young artist. I turned in time to see him shield his eyes against the sun. He called out an affirmative.

To my surprise, True-valor at once slackened the pace, announcing that we need not tire the horses. We dropped to a trot. I detected relief all around me.

I edged my mount close to our leader's. “Why this sudden consideration for livestock, Captain?”

“Still Waters.” He pointed.

A few spires showed above the trees at the end of the lake. “So it's Still there? Is that surprising?”

True-valor sneered with a trooper's traditional arrogance.

“All will be made plain in good time, Master Homer.”

So much for our budding friendship! But none of us knew the real reason behind his mission to fetch me, and that was vexing him again, now our destination was in sight.

I turned back to studying the view ahead, to see if I could discover what had prompted the sudden relaxation. I failed. I was no wiser when we trotted across the bridge into Fire-hawk's palace. Being a foreigner, I did not recognize the royal standard flying from the highest tower.

I have seen my share of palaces, have even owned one or two. I have known some richer than Still Waters—larger, older, more intimidating or impressive—but none more beautiful. It sprawls over a cluster of wooded islands, connected by many bridges. Little of it can ever be seen at one time, but whatever is in sight is invariably eye-catching: trellises of marble against greenery, white arches reflected in jade pools, towers against the sky, balconies floating among branches. For a life amid flowers, birdsong, and fair vistas, Still Waters is unmatched anywhere.

Only a small part of it dates back to the founding of the kingdom, of course, but Juss himself chose the site and began the building. The former errand boy for Gozspin, Purveyor of Fresh and Nutritious Vegetable Materials, had ended his days in splendor. That would have pleased him greatly.

With the sun already sidling down to the hills, I was escorted to somewhat unimpressive quarters and assigned an equally unimpressive flunky as my escort and valet. His name was Towering-oak of Letus. He had as many airs as pimples, a large nose, and an even larger sense of his own importance.

He was all arms and legs, bundled in enough spectacular fabric to make birds of paradise look like crows. He did not seem overwhelmed by the honor of serving me.

I washed away the dust of my journey. Towering-oak threw open a chest filled with motley for me to choose from.

He offered to assist me in wrapping, if I felt unable to handle the contortions required. I made myself presentable without his help.

Meanwhile, though, I was learning from him that the royal family was visiting Still Waters: King High-honor, Queen Sea-jewel, Prince Just-blade, and Princess Nightingale. Lord Fire-hawk and Lady Rose-dawn were understandably honored, my valet confided with a sigh.

And which of these exalted personages had sent for me? I inquired.

He really did not know, he said. He really did not care, he implied. Her ladyship, most likely, he supposed. The king had unexpectedly decided to extend his visit for a second week.

Her ladyship had been hard-pressed to find suitable entertainment for the additional evenings, having run out of jugglers, mummers, musicians, and masques. The royal visitors would be departing on the morrow, and then everything could return to normal.

And the trader of tales might be thrown out with the slops, perhaps?

Now I understood the sudden change of heart on the road.

All along, True-valor and his band had been worried that they might not deliver me before the king departed.

Even for a man who has seen monarchs without number, there is something special about performing before a court, and I was eager to meet descendants of the legendary sons of White-thorn. My harrowing journey from Myto seemed likely to prove worthwhile.

Yet by now I had realized that the situation was not as simple as it had seemed. Someone must have mentioned my name to Lady Rose-dawn, either her god or a mortal prompted by a god, for no mortal could have known of my presence in the time available. But which mortal, which god?

It might not be Kraw, after all.

I was ready. Towering-oak of Letus inquired if I wished to eat, which I did. He led me off across bridges and lawns, from island to island. Dusk was falling, lanterns glowed on the trails. To explore all of Still Waters would take weeks. Even by daylight it is a maze. I was physically battered from my journey and strung fight as a lute at the thought of performing for a god. I did not realize where we were headed until we walked into the heat and din.

“Help yourself,” my companion said with a languid wave of overpowering generosity. “Wait here and I'll fetch you if you're wanted.”

He turned away as if his work were done. I grabbed his motley and spun him around with a yank that almost unraveled him before the entire kitchen staff of the palace.

“Not so fast, sonny!” I said. “I do not eat in kitchens when I am to speak with kings. Tonight I dine with royalty!”

He squealed. “That is totally impossible!”

“Then I tell no tales.”

Seeing that I meant what I said, Towering-oak of Letus did exactly what I expected him to do—flew into a panic. He yelled for the guard. With the palace already in turmoil because of the king's visit, the guards had no interest in one obstinate entertainer, and everyone in authority was engaged elsewhere. They disposed of the problem by throwing me in a cell.

 

 

Well, I have seen almost as many jails as palaces, and that one was better than most—four walls of stout timber with a bed, but no chains or bloodstains. Although the window was barred, a nightingale sang outside it. I sat down and prepared to wait on developments, regretting only that I had not filched more than two honey tarts from the kitchen while I had the chance. I had barely finished the second when the lock rattled and the door creaked open.

The man who entered was instantly identifiable, although I had never seen him before. He was of middle years and middle size. He smiled with irresistible politeness. His motley was neither especially gaudy nor especially drab; jade and cobalt, without a fold misplaced, hanging to his ankles and draping his arms to the elbows. He was unremarkable, to a remarkable degree—one of those faceless officials who breed in the crevices of governments everywhere, oiling wheels, greasing palms, making things happen.

“Master Homer? I deeply regret this misunderstanding.”

The intense sincerity he projected made my skin crawl.

I sat up. “The situation can be corrected, Master ... ?”

“My name is of no consequence. I am merely a messenger.” He glanced out into the corridor and then closed the door and leaned against it. He smiled smoothly, rubbing his hands. “Whatever arrangements you require to aid you in your presentation this evening will be made available. It is our intention to provide the finest entertainment possible for the royal party, and your reputation is our assurance that this final night will be the consummate climax of their stay here.”

 

 

I felt as if I were being smothered in hot wool. “You serve Lord Fire-hawk?”

“I am of no importance. I am here only to further your art.

Your reputation has preceded you, Master Homer. We have all heard wonders of the trader of tales. Just make your wishes known to me, master. Indoors, or outside on the lawns? A large audience, or a small one?”

“Whatever suits.” His eagerness to oblige was infectious. “I can perform under almost any conditions.”

“And almost any performance by you, Master Homer, would be a triumph for any other storyteller. But we do not seek an average performance, or even an outstanding one.

We want Homer's ultimate masterpiece, a telling that will itself be the subject of tellings for generations.”

He paused for a moment, appraising me, and I had a sense of something about to pounce.

“Subject to your approval,” he continued smoothly, “I have arranged for your narration to take place in the West Portico.

It is a sort of veranda, half indoors and half outdoors. We shall hang a single light over you, and leave the rest of the place dark. That will be dramatic, yes? We shall seat the audience among the potted plants and statues and so on, to make the atmosphere as intimate as possible.”

Shivers of alarm ran down my backbone.

“I should prefer a small, well-lighted room with the seats close together and as hard as possible, to keep my audience awake!”

His eyes seemed to hood themselves. “Ah? I have been told that the trader of tales can weave a net of words to ensnare the very souls of his listeners. It is said that he will oftentimes entrance his audience, spellbind them so that they become unaware of the passage of time or the worries of the world. Is this indeed possible, master? Can mere words do this?”

If anyone should know the answer, it was he. I felt half mesmerized already, the rabbit before the snake. My wits raced around madly, seeking escape.

“Trancelike states in some listeners have been reported from time to time. Some people are more susceptible than others.”

“For how long? An hour? Two?”

I shrugged, my mouth almost too dry to answer. “Not likely two. Not after a heavy meal.”

“One, though? You could guarantee one hour?”

He endured my stare with bland confidence. His accent was not True-valor's or Towering-oak's. He came from Uthom. He was one of the court party, a glove over royal fingers. Whose game was he playing? Was the queen trying to cuckold the king, or the prince hastening his own succession? The game was boundless and the opportunity for foul play unquestioned. I suspected, though, that my visitor would not dirty his hands over a mere theft, nor a dalliance.

That left assassination.

“Who sent you?”

A smile of deep regret. “That information I cannot give you.”

“At least name the one I am supposed to distract! A man?

A woman? This will influence my choice of material.”

 

 

He sighed. “You misunderstand. I seek only to further your art.” He slid a hand inside the folds of his motley. “But if you achieve the effect I described ... one hour ... Of course at the completion of your tale we expect our host to toss you a purse of gold. That goes without saying. He will be generous.

But if you can contrive the sort of spellbinding that I mentioned, then...”

He held out a hand. On his palm shone one of the largest jewels I have ever been allowed close to, about the size of a strawberry. Even in the dim little cell, it glowed with a thousand summer rainbows. He moved his hand and myriads of fireflies danced over the walls.

“You are joking!” I gasped. “It is a king's ransom.”

He shrugged faintly, as if he agreed with me. “I was instructed to promise you this reward. I admit it seems extravagant, but you have my word on it, by the god of my fathers.”

“Riches have little attraction for me,” I protested, although I could not tear my eyes from the diamond. “I usually give them away to beggars or pretty wenches.”

“One hour,” he whispered, tucking the jewel away. He knew he had me hooked.

Conscience told me I should have no truck with this suave scoundrel. Experience told me that he would never deliver the bribe, and it was not the sort of fee that could be obtained by legal action.

Alas! I confess! I found the challenge itself irresistible.

And I was flattered. I am only human, after all.

 

 

The best way to deal with temptation, the Blessed Osmosis taught, is to rationalize it into a duty, for there can be no evil in performing a duty. Fire-hawk was head of the senior branch of Sure-justice's clan. This was his home and therefore Kraw's. The dragon was around here somewhere, and nothing was going to happen in Still Waters that he did not want to happen. Anything he did want to happen would.

Eventually. No matter what I did or said. Right? Right. So I should perform as requested and do the best I was capable of. That was my obligation to those who had hired me. My duty!

I sighed. “I shall try to earn your bauble, my lord.” I hoped that I would not learn of my success from a dying man's scream. I was a lunatic if I thought I would ever see that gem again...

The courtier was happy, smiling his sincere smile. “And the staging I mentioned will be satisfactory?”

“It sounds effective.” I stood up shakily. “I landed myself in here by demanding that I dine with the king. It helps if I can assess my audience beforehand.”

“Alas, the royal party is already at table, Master Omar, and protocol forbids anyone else to be seated now. I can let you view them from a distance, if you wish. I can have you proclaimed by a fanfare of trumpets when you make your entrance later, if it will help.”

“Not very much. Show me the victim ... I mean audience.”

I peered out through a marble screen at the royal banquet, the snowy cloths, gold plate, glittering chandeliers. There must have been a hundred people dining in that hall, but only 200

 

 

 

 

the high table interested me. My mysterious courtier had vanished, doubtless into whatever invisible political crypt he normally inhabited. At my side, a subdued Towering-oak whispered names and titles for me.

The king was obvious. High-honor was then in his early fifties and the sixteenth year of his reign. He was a large man, tending to obesity but still striking. He wore his honey-colored hair long and his slightly reddish beard forked. He was not unlike his ancestor Ven, but the resemblance stemmed mostly from fair Horsefolk coloring. High-honor's mother had been a northerner; his appearance must owe a lot more to her than to his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. Perhaps to accentuate his fairness, the king favored motley of dark hues, and that alone made him stand out amid all the butterflies. He had a loud voice, a boisterous laugh, a jovial manner. I admired the way he kept conversation flitting around the table, never monopolizing attention as monarchs can so easily, keeping everyone involved. I watched him tease to provoke merriment, and flirt to flatter the ladies, but the victims did not seem to suffer hurt. Once or twice someone would aim a barb at the king himself, and his laugh would boom out as loud as any. Seeing him in the flesh, I understood his popularity. Whatever his policies might be, High-honor had a great personality, and I did not doubt that it was genuine. Likable is a word rarely applied to kings, but it suited him.

About Queen Sea-jewel, I was less certain. She, too, was inclined to plumpness, but her maids had dressed her well.

Her hair was silver, a striking contrast to eyes and skin darker than most. She was conversing readily enough, yet I felt that her vivacity was less genuine than her husband's. She was acting a part, I thought, doing what queens do in public. In private she might behave otherwise, but I could not guess how that might be.

Princess Nightingale was of the age at which princesses are married off. She had her mother's dark coloring. I prefer to describe young ladies as beauties whenever I can, but I confess that she was too slender for my taste, too fragile. To my critical eye, her smiles appeared forced and her movements uncertain. This public display was a strain for her, although some of that shyness could be attributed to her youth. She seemed strangely uninterested in the young men vying for her attention, which suggested an absent lover, of course.

Prince Just-blade was a boy barely into his growth spurt.

Although princes are notoriously precocious in matters of the heart, he was too young to be pursuing girls. He was having considerable trouble just staying awake, fighting back yawns.

He did not look like a juvenile monster who would plot his father's demise, but that did not mean that someone else might not make such arrangements on his behalf.

So there was the royal family of Verlia.

I turned my attention to the host, Lord Fire-hawk. Again I convinced myself that I could see a resemblance to the legendary ancestor of Liberation days, but I was generalizing.

Juss had been a very typical native of the Land Between the Seas, and so was Fire-hawk. He was tall, dark, and sinister.

His eyes were never still, the rest of his features immobile. I could read nothing from his face at all. There was too much background noise for me to make out what was being said, so I had to judge the speakers’ words by the effects they produced. Fire-hawk rarely seemed to jest, and when he did, I detected false notes in the resulting laughter. I assumed that his wit could bite.

That one, I decided, was dangerous.

His wife, Lady Rose-dawn? Tall, dark, stunning. A year or two past the prime of her beauty, perhaps, but still the most striking woman in a hall that contained more than its share of beauties. The strain of entertaining the royal family for almost two weeks was showing on her, though. She looked jumpy, worried ... or was that only my overheated imagination at work? To be fair, I doubt if I would have reached that conclusion had I not been searching for suspicious behavior.

No one else would have noticed anything amiss.

The two stripling pages serving the royal couple were her sons, so Towering-oak informed me.

I went on to inspect the senior nobles and officials and courtiers present, the young blades and the old foxes. I learned nothing of importance, for I did not know who mattered. I wished I had a better guide. Had I asked my young companion to name the persons in that hall most likely to be conspiring against the king's life, he would just have stared at me in bewilderment.

Who had arranged for me to be rushed to this place? Who had prompted the nameless bureaucrat to offer me that priceless bribe? By definition, kings have more influence at court than anyone else.

 

 

If High-honor was not the intended victim, then he was the most likely conspirator. What could he be up to?

Do you believe in ghosts? I do. I have met them too often to deny their existence, although I grant that they are rare, and usually very shy. I sensed one in Still Waters that night.

The veranda was open on three sides to the gardens, stone arches leading out to lawns and shrubberies and shiny pools, with fountains tinkling and night-blooming flowers scenting the air. It was hard to tell where gardens ended and indoors began. At the far end, this strange chamber flowed back into the palace and became a proper room, furnished with upholstered sofas and rich rugs, but even there it was dark. My audience sat in small groups, spread out amid potted palms and statues and great onyx tubs of roses. I was the only person clearly visible. It was an ideal setting for a murder. Any assassin worth his silken cord could have crept up on anyone there.

No need to consider the tale I should tell. This was Still Waters. I felt a need to pay tribute to its founder.

Silent, I waited for silence, for the last giggling whispers to die away. Then, “Your Majesties,” I said softly, “my lords, my ladies ... I would tell you of an errand boy whom the gods called to greatness.” So I began.

Many of the faces were barely visible. I had located the king himself and planned to keep an eye open in his direction, but being under the light myself, with everyone else obscured in the summer night, I had trouble knowing which of the other shadows were audience and which were statuary, or chairs, or plants. Some of my listeners had drunk more than was good for them and at first they tended to murmur comments to their neighbors. They fell silent as my tale progressed, until soon the only sounds were my voice and the fountains, and faint traces of a lute in the far distance.

I thought I started with fourteen listeners, although I might have missed a couple. After a short while, there were only thirteen. Then I felt better. And then twelve. Good! Now I knew the game, I could forget thoughts of assassins without wondering what I should do if I suddenly counted fifteen. One of the departed was the king himself, as I had surmised might be the case. I was too engrossed in my storytelling to work out who else was missing. It was none of my business anyway.

I had promised to give them an hour, and I did. No one noticed their absence. No one so much as coughed.

But as I carried my audience from the slums of Algazan to the rigors of the Winter War, I sensed that another had joined our company. Call it imagination if you like. Put it down to nervous strain on top of three very long days and two very hard nights. I do not claim to have seen a clear vision. Mostly I just felt his presence. Once or twice I thought someone stood in the shadows at the corner of my eye, but when I looked that way, he had moved somewhere else. Can one feel laughter? That night I did. I wondered if the dragon god had fetched him—dragons have an odd sense of humor, so they say. I think that Juss heard my tale that night, and I believe that he enjoyed it. I made “General Brains” just a little bigger and braver than he had been. That was only fitting in the house of his line. I was careful not to diminish “General Brawn,” of course.

As I described Vandok fleeing into the cave to seek refuge with Hool, I felt somehow that the ghost had left. I drew my tale to a close.

I often see tears in my listeners’ eyes at such times. I rarely feel them in my own, also.

There were fourteen people present again, so I had fulfilled my task.

Now my current tale, this tale of a tale, is almost finished, also. Nobility applauded and cheered. Servants rushed in with lights and refreshments and musicians.

At close quarters, the king was as personable as I had expected. He shook my hand, congratulated me, presented me with a ring, made jocular inquiries about hiring me as royal speechwriter.

The queen was perfectly charming, just as she would have been had I bored everyone senseless.

Lord Fire-hawk, coolly grateful, dropped the requisite pouch of gold into my hand for all to see. He made some acidic remarks about my sources of information being more complete than his own records and having one of his archivists interview me in the morning. I did not mention that I knew one of his archivists already and that the lad behaved most royally in the evenings—one learns tact around kings.

Then I was dismissed, like any common lute jockey.

It happens.

Usually I frustrate the attempt by extending the conversation until the gentry forget that I am not one of them, but that night I was content to be led off to my room.

Feeling I had earned my bed, I threw myself into it with a sigh of relief and a yell of agony. The sharp lump under the sheet was a diamond the size of a strawberry.

Then I knew who had instigated my appearance before the crowned heads of Verlia. Not Kraw, milords! The king must have beseeched his own god, Verl, to aid him in his suit; she had taken the opportunity to reward a certain service I had performed for her many years before. My skills have oftentimes been well rewarded, but never have I received an honorarium to match that jewel. It was a royal reward, and a divine one, also.

I did not meet the nameless courtier again. I did not speak again to any of the royal family. By the time I awoke in the morning, their train was already winding its way up the road, heading back to Uthom.

Nor was there any further talk of archives or archivists.

True-valor escorted me to the palace gates. He did offer me a horse, but I declined. I'd had enough of horses for a while.

Who was the lucky lady? Who came slipping back at the same time as the king returned? Aha! A teller of tales is not a tattletale. It was long ago and far away. To reveal her name here and now would do no one harm, but even if I would, I cannot. She was a lady-in-waiting to the princess, and I had paid her no special heed when I inspected the royal party at dinner. I was not presented to her later. I could hardly ask her name in the king's presence. She had the charm of youth, if no wondrous beauty; I confess I felt a little sad that High-honor would pursue one of his own daughter's companions, but he had a reputation as a lady's man, and his people were inclined to turn a blind eye. Good kings are hard to find.

I wish I had known High-honor better. It was only a couple of weeks after the events I have described that the assassins struck him down. Queen Sea-jewel acted as regent until Prince Just-blade came of age.

 

 

18: The Fourth Judgment

 

“Have you quite finished?” the merchant roared.

“I have finished that tale, Your Honor. I have others if—”

“Tarrydiddle! Arrant claptrap! You have wasted our time.”

“I thought that was the whole idea? A long winter night to kill—”

“Be silent!” the soldier snapped. He looked just as angry as the burgomaster, and considerably more dangerous. “You said you had relevant information to provide, and you have been spinning moonbeams. First, it is fifty years since the death of High-honor.”

“Not quite!” I protested. “Forty-five or forty-six.”

“Quiet!” He fingered the hilt of his sword. “And forty-six years ago, you were not conceived.”

“First-person narrative—”

“Silence! You are a liar and a common gossip, repeating ancient slanders about your betters.”

I glanced around and did not see a friendly face. Even Gwill looked glum, struggling to stay awake after his ale. Fritz bared his teeth hungrily.

“Produce your evidence, Master Omar,” the actress said.

“Show us the fabulous jewel!”

“Alas, ma'am, it's long gone. I carried it around for months, wondering what to do with it. Then I mislaid it, or perchance a wench went through my pockets while I slept.”

“Even if what you said were true,” the merchant growled,

“it would alt be irrelevant anyway. High-honor is of no interest to us. It's his great-grandson or great-granddaughter we want—child of Star-seeker, the son of Just-blade.”

Fritz stood up and flexed his arms. “I must fetch more wood. Have I your leave to take out the garbage at the same time?”

Again all eyes went to Captain Tiger, who shrugged. “Why not? As her ladyship said a few minutes ago, it may be time to let justice take its course. We have tolerated this vagabond long enough.”

Fritz began to move ... I opened my mouth...

“Let him be,” said a quiet, raspy voice.

We all turned to the dowager. She was staring into the fire, apparently lost in a daydream.

“My lady?” the soldier said. He was not the only one surprised by this sudden change of heart.

“Let him be,” she repeated softly, not looking around.

“There may well be some truth in what he said.”

“Quite impossible, ma'am! I might just accept that he could have been in Verlia as an adolescent twenty years ago, but never forty-five.” He was reminding her that his eyesight was much better than hers.

For a moment the room seemed to hold its breath.

She sighed, still studying the embers. “I remember High-honor, and he was much as Master Omar described him. The tale was embellished, no doubt, but these storytellers pass on their yarns to one another, and I daresay that some such event occurred. Let him be.”

Tiger shrugged and released his sword.

 

 

Gwill looked relieved. “If we are about to judge between Master Tickenpepper's story and Master Omar's, then I do feel that Master Omar's had a more professional polish...” He paused to sneeze and did not continue.

No one else was interested.

Fritz snarled like a hungry lion pouncing on a thorn bush by mistake. He went stalking over to the door and donned a fur cloak that must have been stitched together from the pelts of several bears. Wind howled joyously around the room for a moment, swirling the ferns on the floor, and then the great door boomed shut behind him.

“Rosalind, child,” the old woman told the fireplace, “I think the time has come to tell these people who you are.”

The maid shrank, cowering low on the bench. “Yes, m-m-m-my l-l-lady.” She glanced to and fro in sudden panic, seeking escape, a hare cornered by a dog pack.

“Why not go fetch the casket?” Still the old woman had not looked around.

“Yes, m-m-my l-l-lady!” The girl rose and scurried to the stairs.

Frieda jumped to her feet and grabbed my padded shoulder. “Quick! Come with me!”

She darted around the counter, grabbing the lantern on the way, and disappeared into the kitchen. Surprised, I rose to follow her, shuffling in the cuffs of Fritz's pants.

The kitchen was much smaller than I had expected, dominated by a work table, a butcher's block, and a black iron range, presently cold. Faint odors of fresh bread still lingered from the day. When Fritz went in there, he must be constantly banging his head against the hams and copper pots and nets of onions hanging from the beams. Three skinned chickens dangled among them. Two walls were hidden by shelves bearing rows of jars, crocks, cheeses, but the one opposite the range held a window. Frieda was wrestling with the bars on the shutter.

I caught hold of her arm—my hand muffled inside a sleeve—and I eased her away from it.

“Darling,” I said softly, “we do not need to look at the scenery now. It's never that great in pitch darkness, anyway.”

“Idiot!” she said, pulling free. “He is going to kill you!”

“Many have felt that way. No one has succeeded yet.” She was almost as tall as I, but not quite. I could smile down at the anger and fear in her gorgeous blue eyes. I could have stayed there for hours.

“He is not joking, Omar! He loved that monster. You made a fool of him. He really will be revenged on you! I have seen him beat men to dough for much less. After, he will throw you in a snowbank and leave you to die, I know he will!”

“Then give me one precious kiss, my beloved, so that I may go to the gods smiling. Just one kiss, and nothing else that happens in my life will be of any importance whatsoever.”

“Oh, be serious, you lummox!” Frieda turned back to the shutter.

I swung her around and wrapped my sleeves around her.

“Do you not realize, my Goddess of Love, that it was your rich lips that brought me back here? The joyful sparkle in your eyes, the bloom on your cheek? Of course I knew that beauty such as yours is always guarded by dragons, but I lost my heart when I saw you in springtime. No threat or danger would keep me from return—”

She began to struggle. I would not have engaged in such tactics had the match not been a fair one. Frieda was a powerful woman, and I only barely maintained my hold as we shimmied and staggered together under the vegetables. I tried in vain to bring my lips to hers.

“I would kiss your toes if we had time for dalliance,” I panted.

“Numbskull!” she stormed. “At least he cannot inflict brain damage on you.”

“I could spend an hour worshipping your kneecaps and composing sonnets to your elbows.”

I might have gone on to become quite lyrical then, had she not contrived to stamp on my left foot. I clasped it in both sleeves as I hopped up and down on the other, choking back execrations in Drazalian, Jorkobian, and even Wuzzian. When I finally managed to speak civilly, she was again fussing with the shutter—a single-minded woman.

“What,” I gasped through my tears, “do you think you are doing?”

“The key to the stable is above the door. Fritz can't see this window from the woodshed. As soon as he comes back in, you must run across and get a horse. You probably won't have time to saddle—”

“Me? Steal a horse? On a night like this? Milady, you cast—

”

 

 

“That was what you were going to do the last time, wasn't it?” She turned to me with a heart-rending flush on her cheeks.

“I was in a hurry. But you're giving me one now, and that would take all the fun out of it. No, I can never leave without you, my precious mountain blossom.”

“Omar!” The catch in her voice was thrilling. “Fritz will kill you!”

“No he won't! By dawn I shall have him kissing my boots.”

“Never! They are fine boots, but much too small for him.”

“With me in them!”

She snorted in disbelief. “If you think that, then you are too big for them yourself.”

I held out my arms to her. “Tell me you return my love.

Just so I may die happy?”

“Imbecile! But now you arouse my curiosity.”

“I shan't tell you what you are arousing.”

She laughed and took my face in both hands. The result was even more inspiring than I had expected. Her kissing was superb, with a fanatical attention to detail. I must have been grinning like a maniac as I limped back into the taproom.

It had been a kind thought, but it wouldn't have worked. If Fritz found me missing when he returned, he would be out to the stable in a flash, long before I could open it and lead out a horse. I didn't have any intention of leaving, anyway.

The maid was creeping downstairs, clutching a small casket. The next tale was about to begin.

The light from the lantern caught her. I saw the thickening under her chin and suddenly some things became obvious.

 

 

 

19: The Maid's Tale

 

M-m-my name is Rosalind, may it please you, although I am also known as Heidi. I am ... I mean, I was until a few days ago ... a maidservant for the margrave of Kraff. Not in his castle, but in his town house in Gilderburg.

My mom was called Rosalind and named me after her. She always called me Rosie. The cook who came after her had a daughter named Rosalind, too, and I think that was why I came to be called Heidi instead of Rosie, so we wouldn't get mixed up.

My father was a prince and I am rightful queen of Verlia.

I don't remember my father at all. I remember my mom telling me that he was a soldier, a mercenary, and he died of an arrow wound at the siege of Hagenvarch. That was before my mother came to Gilderburg, so nobody else remembers him, either, nobody I know of. I don't know what name he went by when he was a soldier. My mom never said much about him, or I don't remember if she did. I was very little, of course. Not what he looked like or anything. She did tell me he was of noble birth, but not how they met, or anything like that. She used to cry when she spoke of him.

Even here, my memories are patchy. She seemed very pretty to me, but they tell me all little children think their mothers are pretty. She had dark hair and dark eyes. I think she was tall ... I'm not sure. She died of the coughing sickness. I must have still been little, because all I remember is that one day she wasn't there anymore.

 

 

The other servants kept me, although I suppose they must have told the margravine about me, and she must have given leave for me to stay. It was kind of her. Not many people would have kept a useless orphan around. I've never seen the castle, not that I recall, but the town house is very big, and the castle is much bigger, so I'm told. I have ... had ... a bed up in the attics, but in the winter they let us sleep in the kitchens, for warmth.

As soon as I was old enough, I began to work for my keep.

Cleaning pots and scrubbing floors, mostly. I am a good girl. I work hard and try to please. Cook often thanks me for doing a good job, not like some. She trusts me with money to go out and buy things in the market. And I don't let the gardeners and footmen take liberties.

One day in summer, a very strange thing happened. I know you will find it hard to believe, but Captain Tiger and her ladyship have asked me about it, over and over, and they believe me. I'm a good girl. I don't tell lies.

The margrave and margravine had left town and gone to the castle, and we were doing the spring cleaning, which we always do, every year. We do it later than most of the big houses do, but that's because we wait until the margrave isn't in residence anymore. Other houses’ staff laugh at us for being always late, but we do as good a job as they do.

So this morning I'm helping Karl and Mistress Muller clean the young master's rooms and she sends me up to the attics with a box of winter quilts to store. This isn't the attics where the servants sleep. That's in the west wing, and this is the south wing, which is just used for storage, and it's all dark and stuffy and I'm frightened of getting cobwebs on my cap.

Mistress Muller would scold me. It's full of all sorts of boxes and trunks and things that must have been there for years and years. I finds a place for the box I'd brought, leaving it with the labeled side showing outward as Mistress Muller likes, and I don't waste time and dawdle. I go back to the stairs, and when I'm about halfway down, then a voice speaks to me.

“Heidi!” it says. Plain as sunbeams in a cellar.

I stops with my heart all flittery-fluttery and says, “Who's there?”

“A friend of yours, Heidi,” it says, ever so quiet and yet ever so clear. “I have important things to tell you.”

I says, “Is that you playing devilment, Rab?” Thinking it was the turnspit, you see. That lad's got more tricks'n a sack of kittens, Cook always says.

The voice says, “No.” It says, “Come back tonight when you have time to listen, because I have a lot of important things to tell you.”

Well, then I thinks it must be Dirk, the footman, who's got nastier sorts of tricks in mind than Rab, so I says, “You think I'm simple? You come out right now or I'll lock you in!”

But no one came out, so I run down and lock the door, thinking it must be Dirk and that'll serve him right. Then I hears Dirk and Anna sniggering in the laundry corner, so I knows it isn't him, and I sort of forgot all about it all until I goes to bed that night. Then I remembers locking the door and begins to wonder if I've locked young Rab in there.

There's no one sleeping in that wing with the family away. I gets to worrying that Rab may be shut in there and shouting his head off and no one'll hear him until next winter. I can't recall if I've seen him around since, or even at supper, and it's not like him to miss his victuals. I learns the next day that Cook caught him into the preserves in the larder and shut him up in the wood cellar with no supper as punishment, but I don't know that then, lying in bed worrying. So eventually I gets so worried that I gets up, ever so softly, without waking Anna who I shares my room with, and I wrap my cloak about me and I go creeping over to the other wing.

It's ever so spooky doing this and I got to be ever so quiet, because if Mistress Muller catches me, she'll think I'm a loose woman carrying on with Dirk or one of the other young men, and I'll be put out in the street like some I could name. But I gets to the attic door and I unlocks it, and then I opens it very quietly, and says, “Rab? You can come out now.”

And that strange little voice says, “Heidi, I'm not Rab, and I'm not Dirk, and not any of the footmen or gardeners or stableboys. I have important things to say to you.”

I says, “Say them, then, because I'm not coming up those stairs.”

“Your real name is Rosalind,” the voice says, “and your mother was a princess and your father a prince, and you should be a queen on a throne in a far land.”

“Rab,” I says, “if you don't come right out here and stop this nonsense right now, I'll lock the door again, so help me.”

“You have a birthmark,” the voice says, and it says just what the mark is like and where it is, and then I know this isn't Dirk or Rab or any of the others, because I'm a good girl.

 

 

I finds it hard to breathe, I'm so taken aback. “How you know all that?” I says.

It says, “Because I am the god of your fathers. I knew your father and his father and all their fathers back for hundreds of years, and they were all kings, and you should be a queen.”

Eventually I gets cold standing there, so I do go up to the attic, and wraps myself in one of the quilts I put up there only that same day, and I sit and talk with the voice until I start to go to sleep despite myself and how excited I am. Then the voice sends me back to bed. The next night I goes back again, and the next night, and the voice tells me all sorts of things about me, and about the land I should be queen of.

It says its name is Verl, and on the third night it leads me to it, and it's just a china dove on a high shelf, ever so small and covered with dust. And it tells me to take it back to my own room, and then I can put it under my pillow and it can talk to me while I'm in bed while Anna's asleep, and then I won't have to spend so much time in the box room. And Verl said it wasn't stealing for me to take it—I mean him, or maybe her, because Verl says it doesn't matter which I call him. Anyway, he had belonged to my mother. Or my mother had belonged to him, since he's a god, but even if people thought she, he, was just an ornament, the ornament had belonged to my mother and my father before her, and was rightfully mine, not the margrave's.

But Verl can't talk with anyone but me to explain this, so she told me how to keep her well hidden by day, in a place I hadn't known about and would never have thought of.

 

 

But at night I slips Verl under my pillow and lies still in the moonlight as she tells me about my family.

My father was the son of the king, whose name was Just-blade. My father's name was Star-seeker, and he fell very much in love with my mother, who was a lady and pretty as I'd always thought she was, and whose name was Sweet-rose.

Prince Star-seeker told Sweet-rose he loved her and would marry her. Sweet-rose took awhile to convince, but he wooed her and told her he would love her always and be true until she fell in love, too, and they agreed to be married as soon as possible. The prince went to the king and asked his blessing.

But King Just-blade would not approve. He said that Star-seeker must marry a princess from another land to seal a treaty. He said that the princess was already on her way to Uthom to be betrothed, although she was too young to be married for several years yet, but that did not matter because Star-seeker also was too young to marry. Star-seeker's heart was a stone.

“How can I break this news to Sweet-rose?” he asked himself, and did not know the answer. So he went to the shrine where his family god was kept, a silver shrine all sparkling with rubies. The god was Verl, of course. The prince knelt down and prayed, telling Verl all his troubles.

“You are right and your father is wrong,” Verl said.

“Sweet-rose is a fine match for you, and this foreign child-princess is of tainted blood. Bring me the king.”

Star-seeker went and told his father that the god wanted him. King Just-blade went and listened to the god, after making her wait a few days. But he refused to change his mind. The betrothal had been agreed to in a treaty, he said, and to break it now would mean war. He also said that family gods should not meddle in politics, which was very disrespectful of him. He ordered Lady Sweet-rose banished from the court, to a lonely castle on the coast, called Zardon.

Prince Star-seeker went back to pray to Verl again. This time Verl was very angry with the king! The god told Star-seeker to take her away from the palace. He mounted his horse and rode out alone, except he took the god with him,

‘cos she told him to. She led him to where Lady Sweet-rose was imprisoned. They escaped together. They were married by the god herself. The king ordered a great hunt for them, searching all the ships and posting guards on the mountain passes, but because they had the god with them to help, the lovers fled away without being caught.

They traveled north for a long time, until they arrived in the Volkslander. Star-seeker became a mercenary soldier, and Sweet-rose became a mother, when I was born. After that, when Star-seeker went to fight, he left his god Verl behind to guard his wife and baby, and because he did not have his god with him to protect him at the siege of Hagenvarch, he was struck in the shoulder by an arrow.

Wound fever took him.

Then my mother changed her name to Rosalind, because Sweet-rose is not a usual sort of name in our country. She took service with the margravine, as cook. Foolishly, one summer when I was very small, she left the god Verl back at the town house when we went to the castle. Being away from the god's protection, she caught the coughing sickness and died.

All my life the god had waited on a shelf in the store room, waiting until I was grown up and she could speak to me when I was there alone. And now she told me all this and much more.

She told me, also, that the bad King Just-blade had died and there was no king in Verlia, but I'm rightful queen. She said, too, that an oracle had said that Star-seeker's daughter would be found beyond the Grimm Ranges. She told me that there was a man in Gilderburg looking for me and I must go and tell him that I was the one he wanted.

Well, I was very scared then, and I says I can't do a thing like that, speak to a strange gentleman. Verl say then I must tell Cook or Mistress Muller, so they can speak for me, and I says they won't believe me, and I won't. And every night the god is telling me, and I keeps refusing.

But then the god says that the man will be leaving the next day, and this is my last chance, and it is my duty to go.

So I puts on my clothes, all quiet, and my coat, and I puts Verl in my pocket. I creeps down the stairs, feeling like a very bad woman. I never done anything like that before. I unbars the kitchen door, though my hands shake so much I can't hardly manage it. I goes out and creeps through the streets to where Verl tells me, and then she says to wait. There were lights on in the windows still, although it was ever so late.

So I waits in the shadows until a carriage pulls up at the door, and then a gentleman comes out. I never seen him before.

 

 

“Now, Rosalind!” Verl says, and I runs forward as he comes down the steps. He looks at me in surprise.

“Captain Tiger!” I says. “I am the queen you are seeking.”

And then I faints dead away.

223

 

 

 

 

 

20: Interlude

 

It was all very horrible. I have left out the awful stuttering, the long pauses, the quiet prompts from the dowager when the speaker mumbled into confused silence. Even had I not glimpsed her goiter earlier, I would have known that the girl was a cretin, or at least a simpleton, just from the way she spoke. We all squirmed with pity as the tale unfolded. The lantern guttered and failed altogether; the fire burned low. A heavy darkness crept in on us.

Rosie seemed to believe her own story. Indeed, she had to believe it, for she lacked the wits to have made it up. I am not without skill or experience in detecting falsehood. I could believe in her. I could not believe the truth of what she said, though. Why did her companions? It was impossible!

The dowager leaned across Captain Tiger and patted Rosie's hand. That was the largest movement she had made all night. It brought tears to my eyes.

For a few moments nobody spoke. Perhaps everyone was trying, as I was, to imagine this pathetic dredge ascending the throne of Verlia. That was impossible, too, unless she was just to be used as a figurehead married off quickly to some competent young noble who would wield the power and who had no scruples about taking a moron to bed.

Was this the game that Captain Tiger and her ladyship were planning? Had they coached the wretch in that improbable rigmarole in the hope of passing her off as rightful successor so that they could role through her? I had thought better of both of them. Moreover, this was no ordinary missing-heir problem. How could they ever expect Hool to accredit an imposter?

The notary still sat between me and the girl. He turned to look at me, and I saw my own thoughts mirrored in his eyes.

He went up marginally in my esteem. I glanced at the merchant, the actress, the minstrel, and saw the same pity—and the same disgust.

Rosie herself had slumped back into her previous lassitude, the slouch in which she had sat all night. Only the casket at her feet was new, and the tiny porcelain bird on her lap, and its silken wrapping.

The burgomaster spoke first, of course. But he did not spring to attack the girl, who would have been helpless before his bluster. He went straight for the dowager, who must be the prime mover in the conspiracy.

“Perhaps you would explain your part in this, my lady?”

The old woman shrugged and went back to staring at the fire. She would not see eighty again. She must be taxed to her limits by this long night.

“I am from Verlia, as you have guessed,” she croaked. “I am pained to see it slithering into civil war ... the assembly breaking down in riot, cities rebuilding old walls ... When the news of Hool's oracle arrived, I wondered what I might do to help. I heard of Captain Tiger and hired him to assist me.”

“Why you? A woman of your years embarking on such a journey? You carry patriotism to extremes, ma'am.”

“My sons were occupied in drilling troops.”

 

 

He waited, but she added nothing more. His bushy black brows drooped even lower. “If you claim this scullion as your rightful queen, ma'am, then why not dress her as befits her rank?” He oozed disbelief.

The answer came in the same weary whisper. “For her own safety, it seems wiser to pretend that she is my servant, until we reach Verlia and I can assign her greater protection. She agreed to this.”

Of course Rosie would agree. She would do anything a

“lady” told her to. Even now, she seemed unaware that she was the topic of conversation. But the real reason must be that Rosie was incapable of being anything more than a servant, and to start granting her royal honors would shatter the few wits she had. She would go catatonic.

Burgomaster Johein turned his glower on the soldier. “You accept her tale, Captain?”

“I do.”

“A serving girl rushes up to you in the street claiming to be a queen and you believe her? Just like that?” Considering that he was addressing the only armed man in the room, the merchant was drawing close to rashness.

“Not quite like that,” Tiger said in a thin voice. “We had her carded back into the armiger's house and revived. She was half frozen and terrified out of ... alarmed at what she had done. We got her story out of her—not as much as you have heard tonight, but enough to prick our curiosity. We asked her a few questions. The answers surprised us. Next day we asked more. We inquired into her background.”

Johein snorted. “But the main witness is that figurine?”

 

 

We all looked again at the china bird the girl had produced from the casket. It was a dove, yes—made of porcelain and freely glazed. It did not resemble in the slightest the image of the god Verl that I had ... that I had described when telling the tale of White-thorn. My word on the matter would carry no weight with this company, of course. And even I could not deny that the god might have changed her icon since those far-off days. The image is not the god, merely a representation, a dwelling, a symbol. An ornament is an ornament.

Tiger spoke again, still softly, but with a hint of danger in his stillness, like a drawn bow. “There have long been rumors that Prince Star-seeker took the royal god with him when he disappeared. That is the commonly accepted explanation of why the king's second marriage proved barren and his sister died childless. Verlians expect their household gods to protect them from harm, but only within reasonable limits. They know that they are mortal. The god's primary responsibility is continuance of the family. Lack of heirs is the fault of the god,”

“Of course,” the merchant said venomously, “the bird does not talk to anyone but Rosie herself?”

There was a pause. The damp wood that Fritz had brought in earlier fizzed and hissed on the hearth. The hourglass was back on the shelf, forgotten.

The two men stared across at each other in a deepening gloom.

“You are calling me a fool, sir?”

“Not at all.”

 

 

“A liar, then?”

“I am asking you for an explanation, Captain. I credit you with enough intelligence to want more evidence than we have heard so far.”

Tiger nodded, accepting the implied apology but leaving the warning hanging in the smoky air. “Of course I have more. Her ladyship and I had tarried two weeks in Gilderburg.

We were intending to move on to your own city of Schlosbelsh the very next day. I had spoken with most of the leading citizens. I had asked a great many questions. Two young men had already come forward claiming to be the missing heir. Another, older man had claimed to be the missing Prince Star-seeker himself. Her ladyship and I discredited all three imposters with no trouble. I had not called upon the margrave of Kraff, as he was not in the city.

So if you think that the girl eavesdropped on my conversation, you may discard that theory. It was the first thing that occurred to us.”

The merchant opened his mouth, closed it, then said,

“Master Tickenpepper?”

The notary coughed. “This is not a conventional legal matter, Burgomaster. Human knowledge has limits. The ultimate judge in the affair will be the god. The precedents...”

Roasted by a glare from his client, he cleared his throat hastily and continued. “But a few points might be clarified.

For example ... Captain, you were certainly not the only person running around the Volkslander this summer asking questions. We had several in Schlosbelsh, and the matter was the talk of the town for weeks.”

 

 

“I expect it was.”

That was partly my doing. I had been the first in the field that spring. I had begun telling the tale in Gilderburg the very day I had my argument with Fritz's dog, and I had continued all summer. My labors had borne no fruit at all. I felt irked that Tiger and the old woman had met with more success than I had, especially as they had been working the homes of the nobility. I had concentrated on alehouses and brothels, whose inhabitants are usually much more knowledgeable and entertaining.

Tickenpepper coughed. “In most cities the servants of the noble families behave like a craft guild. They eavesdrop at table and then chatter among themselves—a footman from one house courting a chambermaid in another, for example.

Your claimant mentioned that she ran errands for the cook.

She could have picked up the story from kitchen gossip, or in the markets.”

Staring directly over Rosie's head, Tiger regarded the little man with cold dislike—which I fully shared, as you know by now. Rosie paid no heed.

“You should not be surprised to learn, counsellor, that such a thought had occurred to us. When the girl displayed knowledge of matters I had not mentioned, such as the likelihood that the prince had abducted his father's god, I did consider the possibility that other inquirers might have revealed more than I had. One should never underestimate gossip and rumor, as I am sure you will agree. Soldiers know that as well as lawyers.”

 

 

Sarcasm was wasted on the little pen pusher. “You questioned the margrave's seneschal?”

“His housekeeper. She confirmed the girl's good character.

She also confirmed that the Verlian matter had been discussed in the servants’ hall.”

Tickenpepper let that answer lie in full view for moment, as if trying to impress a judge. It was admittedly an important point.

“So the god will not speak to anyone but her?” he went on.

“You prepared lists of questions and sent Rosie off alone to put those questions to the god?”

“Of course.”

“The replies were convincing?”

The soldier glanced around at the dowager. She had returned to her morose contemplation of the fire, perhaps the only the thing in the room she could see properly. It was puffing eye-watering smoke, which it had not done before.

“In most cases,” Tiger said. “There were a few matters the god refused to discuss. There were a couple of odd discrepancies, I admit; but you must realize that the girl's knowledge of the world is limited. She cannot read or write.

In some cases she may have misunderstood the question or the god's answer. With those few reservations, she passed our tests with flying colors. She convinced us!”

Almost convinced, I thought. Both he and his employer had doubts they were not admitting.

“May we have an instance?” Tickenpepper inquired mildly.

“We asked her to describe the shrine in which the royal god had lived in the palace at Uthom. She told us: silver and rubies. That is not general information. Only persons very close to the royal family could have known that, but it is correct. That Prince Star-seeker was last reported at Castle Zardon. That, too, is correct, but has never been publicly stated. Did your Schlosbelsh gossip tell of that?”

Tickenpepper glanced across at his client. In the gloom, the merchant was a vague, bloated mass of suspicion. At his side, the actress displayed an expression of polite boredom, but her knuckles showed white in her lap. Gwill was staring stupidly at nothing, almost asleep again. No one spoke.

“We asked her to describe her parents,” the soldier continued. “She does not remember them herself. Our inquiries in the household confirmed that she is the daughter of a former cook, a woman who died many years ago, when Rosalind was about four. Few recall her mother and no one admits to knowing anything at all about her father. Rosie asked Verl, and returned with descriptions of Star-seeker and Sweet-rose that we accept as being genuine.”

Tickenpepper uttered another little cough, a mannerism that was starting to irritate me. “On what basis? You told us earlier that you were not a native-born Verlian, Captain. May I ask the source of your knowledge of the missing lovers?”

The wind must have shifted. The fire crackled and hissed, and puffed smoke again. Tiger coughed harshly, waving his hand at it.

“Innkeeper! Why cannot we have some light in here?

Candles, if you please! I do believe I could use some more mulled ale, too. Perhaps a snack?”

 

 

Fritz jumped up like a well-trained dog and headed for the kitchen, bleating apologies.

Frieda rose with more grace. “Bread and cheese, sir?”

Several of us agreed that we were feeling peckish. She followed her brother out.

“Now, Burgomaster,” the soldier continued. “I believe it is your turn to answer some questions. What is your interest in the affairs of Verlia?”

“But you did not answer me, Captain. How do you know the truth of the girl's statements?”

“That information is not—”

“Me,” the dowager quietly said. “I am Sweet-rose's mother.”

The old woman made an effort to rouse herself, peering her filmed eyes across at the merchant with something of her earlier ferocity. “Now do you understand my involvement in this affair? The oracle mentioned a daughter I had given up for dead twenty years ago! Sweet-rose bore a birthmark over her heart, shaped like a rose. That was why she was named Sweet-rose. The god described the mark to Rosalind and she told us. This child is my granddaughter.”

That was the most dramatic speech made in that room that night. The merchant went pale in a way I should never have believed possible for one of his florid complexion. So did his wife. I felt as if I had been slugged with a flagstone.

I even wondered, for the first time, if the kitchen maid's story might have some truth in it. But she did not look like Sweet-rose!

 

 

No, it was impossible, and the surprising thing was that I thought I could prove it. The audience had come onstage to mingle with the actors. Like an ax turning against its owner, or the bow of Onedar, whose arrows killed the archer, the tale of Verlia had infected its listeners. The old tragedy filled tonight like the acrid woodsmoke from the fire.

Fritz came hurrying in with two lighted lanterns. The room brightened, revealing bluish haze and watering eyes.

“I think it's time had come to clear the air,” I said. “Sweet-rose was a very beautiful and admirable young lady. I find it difficult to imagine her as a cook, although I fancy she would have been capable of doing almost anything to protect a child she loved. What I cannot envision under any circumstances is Star-seeker as a mercenary soldier.”

The old woman peered around, trying to make me out.

“Master Omar? A while back you claimed to have been in Verlia twenty years ago.”

“So I was.”

“And were you involved in my daughter's elopement?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Ha! I might have guessed! Very well. Tell us about it.”

“My version of events will not agree with what we have heard already, my lady.”

“I don't expect it to. Carry on.”

 

 

 

21: Omar's Response to the Maid's Tale I had not planned to return to Verlia so soon. My intent when I signed on with Golden Hamster was to visit the ruins of Algazan, now far fallen from its former glory. But the gods rule the winds, and they sent a truly monstrous storm to fetch me. Tattered and wounded, the bark eventually limped into the harbor of Kylam.

That night, as she lay in safe haven and I in my hammock, I dreamed of Still Waters. In my dream I stood by a ford, where a river ran into Long Lake. I did not know that place, for the road I had traveled with True-valor of Galmish followed the opposite shore. I had not seen the island palace from that side, but I recognized the towers above the trees, outshining the glory of their fall foliage. I knew then that a god was calling me.

A sailor's life palls quickly, anyway. In the morning, when the water tender came alongside, I slipped aboard unseen and skedaddled.

The season was not yet as advanced as it had been in the dream and subsequent nights brought no recurrence of the message, so I concluded that there was no great urgency. I lingered in Kylam for a few weeks, then set off across country in my usual leisurely fashion. It was harvest time, and there was work to be had when all other sources of sustenance failed.

Times were hard in Verlia. I saw too many shuttered windows, weed-infested vineyards, crops pining for reapers, fruit trees in need of pruning. Offers to drink the king's health met with little enthusiasm, and one mention of taxes was enough to ruin an entire evening.

The trouble was Bunia, a kingdom abutting the steppes of the northern provinces. Attempting to extend his realm, Just-blade had bitten off more than enough to chew him up and swallow him. The resulting war had dragged on for years, draining gold and manhood from all Verlia. The people of the Land Between the Seas had never been much interested in the remote grasslands, and this endless struggle was immensely unpopular. As the Blessed Osmosis told the Soothian princes, wars are like love affairs—easy to start, hard to end, and outrageously expensive.

I shunned places I had visited on my previous visit, and no one peered at me as if my face were familiar.

In time the leaves changed, and I drew close to my objective. The dream began to recur, too. Never was I told what was expected of me. I just saw the lake, the river, a glimpse of the palace in the distance. There were stepping-stones there, signs of hearths. Evidently that grassy spot with its fresh running water was a favorite camp for travelers, but I was not informed who would be there to meet me. I was not told whether to expect comedy or tragedy, epic or romance, for the gods stage all of those and more.

For the last few days, I traveled in the company of a group of merchants and their pack train. I extended cheerful conversation in return for a place at their stew-pot and was tolerated with poor grace. The leader of the caravan was a stingy little man named Divine-providence of Nurb—of no consequence now and very little even then. He seemed to believe that the gods had created him for the sole purpose of worrying about the state of his bowels.

It was a sad commentary on King Just-blade's Verlia that so insignificant a party felt the need for a hired guard. He was a foreigner like myself, a professional adventurer, and the only one in the company with any appeal. I could not place his accent, although he called me Omar, not Homer as the natives did. He would admit to no name but Zig, without explaining why his mother would have blighted him so. That he was of high birth was revealed by his skill with horse and sword, his education and manners. He had traveled widely, despite his apparent youth—and who am I to comment on that? He told tales well, laughed readily, and said nothing of his own past, except to drop mocking hints of being banished when he refused the advances of a noble lady.

We reached Long Lake around noon one cool fall day. The hills were glorious in their golden mourning, the water shone as blue as lapis lazuli. I knew by then that Lord Fire-hawk of Kraw had fallen in the war. His sons, whom I had seen playing page for King High-honor, were grown men who had won renown in battle.

We followed the shore and by evening came in sight of Still Waters, at the place I had been shown in my dreams: ford, stepping-stones, old hearths. It was deserted. I suggested that we pitch camp. Zig glanced around approvingly and agreed. Snarly old Divine-providence insisted that we push on for another hour. He was a great one for overtaxing the horses, and we should be very lucky indeed to find a site as good as this.

He was leader. Zig shrugged. I sighed. The gods summon me when they wish an event recorded for mortals’ benefit. I am a reliable and truthful witness and do not fail them. This was the place. Here I must wait until my services were required.

I could not easily explain all that, though, so I bade Zig farewell, thanking him for his company. Somewhat less sincerely, I also thanked Divine-providence and his companions for their recent hospitality. Then I sat down on my bedroll and glumly watched my evening meal disappear across the meadow and into the trees.

I had barely unsnarled my line and baited my first hook before I heard hooves returning along the trail, very fast. I silently congratulated my divine employers on their excellent timing.

Out of the trees came a runaway horse, complete with maiden in distress. This is a circumstance that arises often in romances and sometimes even in the true tales I tell. The cure is well known—the hero leaps for the bridle and hauls the brute to a halt. Maiden falls swooning into hero's arms ...

hand in marriage and half the kingdom follow in due course.

That's in the romances. In real life, of course, that prescription is more likely to cause disaster than stop the horse. The cheekstrap-grabbing maneuver is a great deal easier to describe than execute. I have seen men maimed trying it, and riders killed. The prudent course is to yell at the stupid girl to hang on and let the beast run itself to a standstill, which it will in a few minutes. If she can keep her head out of the branches, she will come to no great harm.

Horses are good at running, damn it! Left to itself, a horse will almost never put a foot wrong.

Having said that, I confess that I jumped to my feet and began to run like hell to intercept. Call it a reflex.

Out of the trees behind her came Zig, spurring his mount like a maniac. I remembered that the gods rarely call me to interfere in events, only to witness, and I stopped where I was. Unfortunately, as the woman's horse sensed Zig drawing level with it, it veered in my direction.

Zig grabbed the distressed maiden from her saddle and was overbalanced by the weight—even the most experienced horseman rarely has occasion to practice such a move. I leaped the wrong way and was struck by rescuer and rescuee making an unplanned and hasty descent together. The three of us went down in a heap. One of them, and perhaps both, slammed into my abdomen as the ground leaped up beneath me in a bone-smashing impact.

Zig still had a foot in a stirrup.

Some of the gods’ events are very hard to witness clearly.

By the time the world had stopped spinning, there were bodies all over the place, including mine.

The gift had risen to her knees. Despite my jangled wits and her bedraggled condition, I registered that I was going to need all my collection of superlatives when I got around to making a story out of this. At that moment I had no breath and suspected I had lost most of my brains, also.

Just call her gorgeous for now.

 

 

Zig was also sitting up. Did I mention that he was tall and fair and had muscles in abundance? Broad shoulders, square jaw, et cetera, et cetera?

Verlian national dress is colorful and comfortable, but it does not take well to its wearers being dragged over the grass. The glade was littered with motley.

The two of them stared at each other.

“Are you all right, sir?” she said.

“Aha!” I thought. “A romance!” Then I threw up.

Such was my first sight of Lady Sweet-rose of Kraw. I did not know then who she was, nor the role she was to play in the affairs of Verlia.

Divine-providence of Nurb and his friends arrived on the scene a few minutes later, together with several loudly cursing young men on steaming horses, led by my old friend True-valor of Galmish. He was older, thicker, and pretty much bald when viewed from some angles, but the same imperious True-valor I had known. He was in charge of the lady's escort and spitting fire at having let such a thing happen.

Fortunately I was down at the water, being helped to clean up by some of my merchant friends. I was able to keep myself turned away from True-valor's gaze, and when he sent a trooper to inquire after me, I assured the kid that I had sustained no serious injury and had not been involved in the rescue.

Zig and Lady Sweet-rose had made themselves respectable again, of course. Zig had a broken ankle. Sweet-rose had a most incredible blush. They could not take their eyes off each other.

 

 

True-valor soon saw them both mounted and borne off to the palace for proper attention. Divine-providence decided to pitch camp after all, and I curled up in my bedroll to nurse my bruises. Next day we were on the move again, but it was a week before I could stand straight.

I knew that would not be the end of the affair, but such things take time. While waiting on the next episode, I decided to visit Uthom in the Middle. During my previous visit, the capital had been in mourning for High-honor, so I had avoided it. This time I was resolved to drop in on the royal family.

My methods never fail: a few nights’ entertaining in one of the better hostelries to let my reputation spread, invitations to perform in private houses, notice from the nobility ...

eventually a royal command.

There was little risk that anyone would remember my performance at Still Waters. Few had seen me, and aristocrats in general are unwilling to make themselves seem like greater fools than they already are. “By all the gods, you look younger than ever, don't you?” No, it was not likely. If challenged I could have claimed to be my own son, I suppose, but I make a point of never speaking anything but the strict truth.

Two months after the runaway horse and three weeks after I arrived in the capital, I was summoned to court.

The palace was monumental. I have seen masonry watchtowers smaller than the pillars in the great ballrooms.

All the doorways were slits, all the staircases cramped spirals, easy to defend. The contrast between his fortress and the delicate beauty of Still Waters testified to the difference between the two brothers who had founded the houses. All his life, Ven had been a fighter.

When I had last seen Just-blade, he had been a sleepy adolescent, stifling yawns. Quarter of a century later, he was a hunted wolf—moody, saturnine, and suspicious. Oh, his manners were impeccable. He behaved exactly as a king should, a gentleman, but a dangerous one. He did not froth and rage and sentence his friends to torture, yet he somehow conveyed the impression that one day he might. In appearance he was tall, lean, and clean-shaven, having driven beards out of fashion by his example. He was reputed to be as fit and active as a man ten years his junior, but he could not hide the darkness in his soul. Too many kings become obsessed with their place in history, and he must have known his reign would not be well remembered. The war was bleeding his people white and would not go away.

Reaching for glory, he had grasped frustration.

His wife had died a couple of years before. He was expected to remarry soon, and the court was abuzz with speculation on his choice. His sister acted as his official hostess in the meantime. Princess Nightingale looked even more fragile than she had the first time I saw her—bitter and emaciated. Her marriage had been fruitless. Now her husband lived apart from her, reputedly wenching on his estates and siring progeny like a goat, as if to prove that her barrenness was not his fault. On her I sensed an even darker shadow, and she was to die within the year.

 

 

With these two at its head and war seething in the background, the court was a brittle, nerve-wracking carnival—gaiety on the surface and dark currents beneath.

You are aware by now that even the most humble peasants in Verlia favor bright colors in their dress. The courtiers blazed like a shower of diamonds in sunlight, gems on black velvet.

At my first appearance in the great hall, I told the tale of the Winter War again, with emphasis on Ven, of course. It went quite well. I received a standing ovation, a sizable bag of gold, and my own quarters in the palace for an extended stay. Noble ladies flocked to invite me to their salons and soirees whenever the king might not have need of me.

I soon tire of aristocrats, for their life lacks reality, but there are times when I tire of poverty, also, and I had resolved to restore my credit rating. The court was depressingly artificial by day, inspifingly promiscuous by night. This was winter, after all, when featherbeds are softer than ditches. For a few days I flourished. All I lacked to amuse me was a source of good stories. From dawn to dusk, I heard nothing but vapid gossip. Then the crown prince returned to court and suddenly the gossip became vicious.

The first time I saw Star-seeker was at a formal ball, where the festive throng glittered brighter than the candles.

Music rang back from the high rafters. Youths of all available sexes leaped and whirled in frenzied dance, displaying sprightly limbs through flutters of brilliant motley. I was leaning against one of the huge pillars, gasping for breath after a wild participation in these revelries, and at the same time grasping for metaphors that might do justice to the scene: swarm of dragonflies, school of tropical fish, madhouse of kingfishers? A pot of peacocks ... Bullfinches in a flower shop...

The music grew even faster, the pace frenetic. More couples reeled to the sidelines, exhausted. Astonishingly, the king was in the midst of the mob, dancing as wildly as any.

For a man nearing forty, he was doing most exceedingly well.

I chuckled and waited to see how long he could keep it up.

Then I recognized his partner and my holiday had ended.

I turned to my companion—whose name, I am ashamed to confess, completely escapes me, and shouldn't, because ...

well, never mind.

“His Majesty has found the second-loveliest lady in the hall, I see.”

“Sweet-rose of Kraw,” my companion murmured, sliding soft fingers into my motley to tickle my ribs. “Haven't you heard?”

“Heard what?” I retorted, responding in kind—we were reasonably well concealed behind a potted hydrangea.

“The king has made his choice. An announcement is expected momentarily.”

Indeed? What about my friend Zig? What about that romance I had detected? I lost interest in ribs while I mulled the possibilities. The gods stage tragedies as well as romances.

The king reached the end of the royal stamina. He stopped abruptly, gasping. Instantly the music stopped, also, of course, and the rest of the dancers. Cheering and laughter and applause ... The floor began to clear.

 

 

I watched as Just-blade offered Sweet-rose his arm and led her off—although I think he was leaning on her, more than she on him. I could not fault his judgment. To have ranked the beauties in that room exactly would have been an impossible task, but she would certainly have been in any man's top four or five. He was older than she, but not impossibly so. When the king of Verlia made his choice, how much choice did his choice have?

The orchestra struck up again. The floor began to fill.

"Ouch!" I said. My companion had just pinched me.

“Pay attention!” she said dangerously.

“I am! I am!” I hauled her away to dance before I got raped in the hydrangea.

But I danced her over toward the royal dais, where Just-blade and his fiancée presumptive were sipping wine. Near them sat Princess Nightingale, looking distinctly unwell. The normally somber monarch was actually smiling. Sweet-rose laughed at something he said. I could tell nothing at all from her manner. Poised. Gorgeous.

“She must be old Fire-hawk's daughter?” I murmured in my partner's ear—the dance being one of those clingy, swoopy affairs.

“Another word about her,” she whispered sweetly, “and I shall scratch your eyes out.”

Then...

Right across the center of the floor, pushing through the dancers like a badger in tall grass, came a troop of eight or nine young men, marching in unison, all dressed in black.

Gaiety collapsed behind them like a startled soufflé.

 

 

The sizable but overweight youngster at their head could only be Star-seeker, the crown prince. If his father was a hungry wolf, then he was a starving bear. He had the sort of knothole eyes I can never trust. I thought his face already showed signs of dissolution, but perhaps I had let myself be overly prejudiced by gossip. Even by court standards, his reputation for debauchery was extreme.

The others were his personal cronies. I had heard tell of them, also. Some had even worse reputations than he did—lechers, drunkards, duelists, and plain thugs. They invariably dressed in black. I have nothing against youthful rebellion if it has some moral purpose behind it. Star-seeker's did not, as far as I had been able to discover. He was not antiwar or pro-war, anti or pro anything. He was pro-self and nothing else.

The prince bowed perfunctorily to the king, lifted Sweet-rose's hand as if to kiss her fingers, and hauled her from her chair into his arms. Before anyone could speak a word, he whirled her away into the dance. Her crystal goblet shattered on the floor. Nightingale smothered a scream. The king leaped to his feet, his face inflamed with fury. He was too late. They were gone and in any case the prince's henchmen stood across his path—the whole thing had been carefully planned. I have seldom seen an act so outrageous executed with greater panache.

The black-garbed men bowed and then dispersed to steal dance partners of their own. I trod on my companion's feet and stammered an apology.

Needless to say, the court was agog from that moment on.

Personally, I would not have been surprised had Just-blade announced his engagement that very night without even obtaining the lady's consent. I have known kings who would have done so, but he did not. The scandal festered for several days. The king was fourteen years older than the lady, the prince five years younger. Which one would she choose?

When I asked why she should necessarily choose either, I received blank stares for answers.

Rumors bloomed in many hues. The nastier matrons whispered that the minx was deliberately setting father against son. From what I had heard of Star-seeker, he was quite capable of having started the whole affair on his own, with no encouragement from anyone. Others, though, suggested that he had been first in the field and the king was the intruder. The girl's mother was behind it. Or she had been summoned to court to talk sense into her daughter, if you preferred that version. The king had threatened to disinherit the prince. The prince had threatened a revolution, a theory not too farfetched, considering the state of the country.

Next to Sweet-rose herself, the favorite topic for speculation was the royal god. Any other Verlian family would certainly seek divine guidance on such a matter and accept the god's verdict. Royalty was a little different. Ven and all his descendants had been very careful to distinguish between the household god, Veil, and the state god, Hool. Hool was mighty and remote; he determined the succession but otherwise never interfered. He was an exception. Ever since the Hannail disaster, the people of Verlia had held to a strange belief that gods must not be allowed to meddle in politics.

 

 

Which god had jurisdiction here? Did Verl support son or father as future husband of Sweet-rose? Or did Verl have other plans altogether? No one could know the answers except the royal family, and they were certainly not discussing the matter in public.

I dearly wanted a chat with the lady. I was unable to arrange one, for she vanished from view. Her situation was intolerable, yet I was not seriously worried about her, having seen her dragged from a galloping horse to fall bodily on a trader of tales. Any woman who can survive that and then come up asking her rescuer if he is unharmed must be tough as saddle leather. I itched with impatience to find out what was going on behind the scenes, and I was mightily curious to know what had happened to Zig, but I remained confident that I would find out eventually.

I did, of course—even sooner than I expected.

A pall settled over the palace. The king canceled all scheduled balls and banquets and entertainments until further notice. My services as royal storyteller were therefore not in demand, so I was at once showered with invitations to regale the nobility in their own houses. This was winter, remember, and the nights were long. I obliged.

I returned to the palace not long before dawn, and I confess that I was not at my best. I had overindulged in rich food, strong wine, and the attentions of a maiden—well, young lady—by the name of Glorious-virtue of Gnash. She was of very good family, and the most incredible contortionist I have ever met outside a circus. My old friend Galda the Human Python could have learned things from her. Without using her hands she could ... But I digress. Note that I was very weary and leave it at that.

The palace was in an uproar. Guards were running in all directions. Normally I should have made it my business to inquire as to the cause of this turmoil, but the steady hammering in my head deterred me. I did notice that I was allowed in without trouble, and that seemed odd. A palace's first reaction to emergency is normally to bar the doors to intruders, yet the watch let me enter without a glance, I climbed wearily up the stairs and staggered along to my door.

I arrived just in time to stop a band of armed men from breaking it down. “What seems to be the trouble?” I inquired in a hoarse whisper.

“Open in the name of the king!” the officer in charge bellowed.

Perhaps he did not bellow, but it felt as if he did.

Being in no mood to argue with such lungs, I fumbled in my motley for my key. I unlocked the door and was thrust aside while the men rushed in. There was nothing there to alarm them. I knew that. I waited until they finished ransacking the place and came stamping out again. Without a word of apology or explanation, they trooped off to the next room.

Morning would be time enough to find out what was going on. Thinking fond thoughts of bed, I tottered inside and locked the door behind me. The lamps were burning bright.

Sweet-rose was sitting on my favorite chair.

 

 

I reeled back against the wall and closed my eyes until my insides came to a quivering halt. When I dared another look, she was still there.

“Master Homer?” She spoke softly. She was utterly composed, a vision of female perfection draped in lengths of, I suppose, silk. The colors were dark and rich, deep blues and greens. They clung endearingly to her curves, but it was what they did not cover that took my breath away. The cleavage, the glimpse of flank and thigh! And in my bedroom! The damage Glorious-virtue had done to me was cured instantly. I straightened up, ran a hand through my hair, straightened my motley...

Sweet-rose returned my smile uncertainly. It may not have been one of my more reassuring smiles. I registered that her hair was auburn and she had very dark blue eyes.

The eyes told me, had I not known already, that this was no simpleton maid to be diverted with a few silver words.

I managed a careful bow. “My lady, your presence does me honor.”

“It also puts you in much danger, I'm afraid. Won't you sit down?”

I wavered over to the other chair. She frowned slightly at the unsteadiness of my movements. I eased myself onto the seat and leered at her like an idiot.

Her frown deepened. “We have met before, I believe. I offer my belated thanks to you for your gallantry on that occasion.”

“My pleasure entirely, ma'am.”

A hint of a smile played over her lips. Oh, those lips!

 

 

“Was it? I am afraid I hardly noticed you. I was rather shaken. I should have taken more notice of you at the time and been properly grateful. I only learned of your part in the affair afterward.”

“How is Zig?”

Back came the frown. “His ankle should be about healed by now.”

I waited. She changed the subject.

“I have come to ask for your assistance again, I fear.”

She could walk over me with spiked boots if she wanted.

Alas! My cause was hopeless. There were at least three ahead of me in line. That did not matter.

“Name it, ma'am.”

“You may have heard—or guessed. I have disappeared.

The guard is searching the palace for me.”

Six of the guard had just looked for her in this room. It held no hiding places. Secret passages could be ruled out, for the walls and floor were solid granite. I made a desperate effort to gather my wits, although they felt as if they had been scattered by a hurricane.

“You made a noise like a dust bunny and they overlooked you?”

She shook her long hair back over a shoulder. What hair!

And what a shoulder..."I had protection.”

Ah! The fog was lifting. “And how may I serve you?”

“Find a horse for me and bring it to the water gate. I shall swim the river.” She studied me, trying to hide her doubts.

“You have already proved your courage and gallantry, Master Omar. You tried ... I mean you rescued me once before. I was told you were a man to take pity on a maiden in distress. Will you do this for me?”

I noticed that a carafe of water stood on the bedside table, I heaved myself upright and headed more or less in its direction.

“For you I will do anything within my powers, my lady. You catch me at a bad moment. Give me a little time to pull myself together. Anything you tell me will of course be in strict confidence. What of my friend Zig?”

I took a drink, not looking at her. A long pause suggested that she might have doubts about trusting an obvious drunk.

“Zig enrolled in our household guard.”

“I am sure he is an excellent recruit.”

She chuckled and I turned in surprise to see.

“Mother had him posted to Zardon the very same day.

Until his ankle completely heals, she says.” The dark blue eyes twinkled, but not entirely convincingly.

“Where is Zardon?”

“About as far from Still Waters as you can go in Verlia. Not quite, perhaps, but the farthest estate my family owns. On the western coast.”

“And where do you head tonight, ma'am?”

She bit her lip.

Having slaked my thirst and feeling a little better already, I wandered back to my chair. “I can guess, and the rack will not drag it out of me. But why do you need my help at all?

You have demonstrated powers of invisibility. Will they not serve you in the stables, also?”

 

 

“Probably, but my protection will weaken rapidly beyond the palace itself.”

Of course. Verl was only the household god.

“Then I shall be happy to aid you.”

Sweet-rose smiled—summer dawn, a chorus of bird-song.

“She said you would. I shall be very grateful. So will she, I am sure.”

“Your smile is all the reward I ever need—but I confess I am a very inquisitive man.”

“Verl warned me about that! But she said I could tell you, for you would be discreet.”

“Quiet as the grave!”

Might that be too apt a simile under the circumstances?

She adjusted the fall of her motley, partly blocking the view of her thigh that I was enjoying so much. “The king wants to marry me. The crown prince, also, wants to marry me. The prince would settle for less, although not much less, and certainly more than either his father or I will agree to. Do I make myself plain?”

“I have never met a woman less plain.”

She nodded pertly. “Thank you, kind sir!”

“And the man you love?”

“Zig, of course.” She pulled a puzzled frown. “I don't know how you knew that. No one else does. Mother believes she got us apart in time. Gods, we'd had two weeks! I never believed in love at first sight before.”

I chuckled. “Of course not!”

“Romantic nonsense!”

“Utter rubbish! How long did it take?”

 

 

“At least half a second. Just long enough to sit up. I didn't get a proper look at him before he pulled me off the horse.”

“I saw Zig's face. He didn't argue, did he? You know, I've never tried that strong-arm style of wooing. It seems to work faster than my usual technique. We must discuss it on the journey.”

“There is no need for you to come! There will be danger, for the king has already ordered a search of the city and—”

“All the king's horses will not stop me from coming, my lady. I will escort you to the man you love or die trying.” My tongue does run away with me sometimes.

She hid her eyes under the most perfect lashes I have ever seen. “Thank you. You will make dangerous enemies, you know.”

“Which is why Verl chose a foreigner. What does she say to the royal dispute over you?”

“She forbids either match. She is adamant! But think both of them are past listening to her.”

“They are fools, then.” Men can be driven mad by beauty.

I didn't say so.

I was not needed within the palace. Only beyond the water gate might I make a useful contribution. I knew that. Verl knew that. Sweet-rose had known that. They had left the choice up to me. Not that there could be any doubt about my decision. I knew that. Verl knew ... Oh, never mind.

Being effectively invisible is a very eerie experience. The guards had combed the palace from cellar to battlements without catching one glimpse of their quarry. They went back to the beginning to try again. The king was threatening to have every man jack of them flogged. I knew that because they said so. On the cramped spiral stairs, in the narrow passages, they passed so close to us that we could see the stubble on their chins and the sweat on their brows. They stepped aside to let Sweet-rose pass, as they would for any lady, and yet they never looked at her face or asked her name.

The stables were even stranger. Guards stood around debating where the woman could be hiding. Stablehands played dice. None of them showed any interest as we chose the strongest-seeming mounts we could find and saddled them. One trooper actually opened the door for us as we left, all the while arguing with a companion as to how the fugitive could have escaped.

Similarly, as no one went boating in winter, there was no need to guard the water gate, was there?

I had thought that the weak point in the plan would be persuading the horses that it was a fine night for a swim.

Perhaps Verl helped us there, too, but Sweet-rose was a superlatively good rider and may have managed it by herself.

My mount followed easily enough. Ugh! It was a very sobering experience.

Moments later we were thundering along the northern highway by the light of a setting moon. Zardon lay four long days’ ride away.

Now was when I began to be of some help. Not with any he-man tactics, though—I had not even bothered to find a sword. When you are up against an entire kingdom, one blade is small use. My wits were no faster than my companion's and she was at least my equal in horsemanship. What she lacked was experience on the road. Sweet-rose had no grasp of the value of money, of how to bargain for bed and board without arousing suspicion, of traveling at all without a sizable armed escort. I doubt that she could have made it without my help, and she would have certainly left a trail of puzzled witnesses behind her.

As it was, we arrived at Zardon unchallenged. Traveling in winter is a rough business, grinding down both mind and body. There was no frost, but we met wind and rain aplenty, and mud everlasting, mud that even seemed to settle in the cracks between my teeth. Constant riding, short days, and the unending bleakness of the countryside are a depressing diet. Sweet-rose withstood it every bit as well as I did, or better. She had her love for Zig to inspire her.

I was wondering what we were going to do when we found him, but I brooded on that in silence. I feared the gods were planning a tragedy.

The whole of the last day we were never far from a rampart of cliffs, at whose toes the sea frothed and surged.

That area south of Kylam is almost deserted. Some of the bays hold small fishing villages, but the cottages are far apart. We escaped detection, sliding by like ghosts in a soaking gray murk of fog that shrouded the coast.

As darkness began to fall, we stopped to rest our mounts and eat a scanty meal. The bread was so stale that I thought I was making more noise munching at it than the horses were in the coarse grass. I felt chilled, weary, and thoroughly depressed.

 

 

“We must find shelter soon, lady,” I said glumly. “We shall not see our hands on the reins tonight.”

“We are almost there.”

I wondered how she could possibly know that. All I could make out was grass, and little of that. Even the horses were barely visible, a few paces away.

She must have heard my doubt. “That last stream was Pil Brook. Many a trout I have caught in that. We are on my brother's land now.”

“Tell me about the castle, then.”

“It is not much of one. A blockhouse on a headland. It was built as a watchtower against pirates. My grandfather turned it into a hunting lodge.”

I felt a little better. “How large a garrison?”

“None, in these times. Fighting men are scarce. I think there will only be Zig and one or two jailers.”

Then perhaps there was hope. A man with a broken ankle is fairly easy to imprison. Put him on a horse, and Zig would be as mobile as either of us. Would there be horses there, though? I wished we had thought to acquire a spare, but there seemed small chance of that now.

“Trust in the gods,” I muttered, and choked down another mouthful.

Before we reached the castle, we were forced to dismount and follow the track on foot. It wound steadily upward through scanty clumps of trees, emerging eventually on a grassy, stony upland. We spoke only in whispers, but we were not likely to be heard in so much mud, or over the growing rumble of surf. I sensed it with my feet as much as my ears.

 

 

We were a long way above it. If there were guards posted outside on such a night, then the lodge must be so well garrisoned that our cause was hopeless.

Castle Zardon emerged before us as a square patch of slightly more solid darkness. It was a doll's castle, a box less than ten paces across, no more than two stories high. The track ran right up to an arched doorway, and the gate stood open. I stopped worrying about a garrison and began to wonder what we should do if the place was deserted.

I didn't even know what we were going to do if it wasn't. I had not asked, because I did not wish to hear. Who was I to impede the progress of true love?

I suspected, though, that my strong-willed associate had notions of rushing Zig into matrimony to present her family and her royal suitors with a fait accompli. Then what? Perhaps Sweet-rose was so inexperienced in the ways of royalty that she could not foresee the consequences. I could, only too well. Court gossip listed several persons who had met with violence after annoying the crown prince. The king was certainly capable of throwing Sweet-rose into jail for the rest of her life. What he would do to Zig and myself did not bear contemplation.

Meanwhile, we had tethered the horses to a rail, and Sweet-rose was heading for the doorway. I caught her arm.

“Let's walk all around and look for lights first.”

“Try that and you'll make the highest dive on record.”

“Oh. Well, explain the floor plan, please.”

“Stables, kitchen, guard room on this level. Hall and two bedchambers above. Come on.”

 

 

We crept through the arch, into total darkness. Sweet-rose took my cold hand with surprisingly warm fingers and found her own way by touch. If there were horses nearby, they were the quietest, most odor-free I had ever encountered. I could smell the sea, mostly, but also traces of woodsmoke.

We reached steps and began to climb. Fortunately the stairway was of stone and did not creak. We moved in total silence, broken only by the low growl of the surf and the mad thundering of my heart, which must have been audible in Uthom.

Then we turned a corner and there was light ahead, spilling out from under a door. We sank down on the steps and peered through the slit.

I saw furniture legs and four boots. A fire crackled. Dice clattered on a table. I heard a male voice ramble in disgust.

“Good!” Sweet-rose whispered. “It's True-valor!”

Before I could say a word, she jumped up and opened the door.

I slithered back down the stairs on my hands and knees until I was below the light. I heard cries of astonishment and the sound of two stools falling over. I recognized Zig's voice demanding to know what in the name of all the gods ... and much the same from another voice I remembered, its arrogance undiminished by the passage of time—True-valor, my long-ago escort, who had whisked me from Myto to Still Waters to entertain the court. Not a dozen people in Verlia could be counted on to remember me from then, but he was one of them.

“I have come to take Zig away,” Sweet-rose said.

 

 

 

“You bring your brother's warrant, my lady?”

So he was going to argue, which is what I should have expected of him. I did not trust Sweet-rose's ability to charm that one into disobeying orders, although perhaps she expected that she could. I decided to intervene before the surprise dissipated.

I strode up the stairs and stepped into view at her side. I tried to display my most sinister, cryptic smile, but the effect was probably ruined by the way I had to screw up my eyes against the light of the candles.

The hall did not deserve the name. It was a poky little room, but cozy enough under the circumstances, with a cheerful fire and too many chairs and stools. The walls were lined with bows and fishing rods laid on pegs. Two doors led off it. They remained closed; no reinforcements came bursting out to investigate the newcomers.

Zig was on his feet. He had not moved forward, because there was a chain around his ankle. True-valor was closer, barring Sweet-rose's approach.

“Omar!” Zig shouted.

True-valor made a choking noise, gaping at me.

I told you that Zig was a man after my own heart. The hallmark of an experienced adventurer is that he recognizes opportunity when it presents itself. He snatched the flagon from the table and slammed it down on True-valor's head.

The flagon shattered into a shower of wine and potsherds.

The big man's knees folded and he hit the floor with a crash that shook the castle.

 

 

Sweet-rose rushed into her lover's arms. He was a man after her heart, also.

Ignored, then, I made myself useful. I trussed True-valor's ankles and wrists with portions of his own motley. He was sleeping soundly, but it never hurts to make sure. In the process, I found the key to Zig's fetter, so I unlocked that. I removed True-valor's sword and laid it on the table where Zig could find it when he returned to the real world. I appropriated True-valor's dagger for myself, in the belief that one day it might be useful. It had a lovely hilt of carved amber. Then I selected the most comfortable chair and sat down to appreciate the romance.

Eventually my friends were able to free their mouths for talking.

“Beloved!”

“My true heart!”

And so on. It was ever so sweet.

Meanwhile the entire kingdom was hunting us and the passes were closed for the winter. Who would risk the royal wrath by offering shelter to three fugitives? Where did we go from here?

“Oh, my darling, darling Zig!”

“My sweet, sweet Sweet-rose!”

I can't guess how long they might have gone on like that.

They were interrupted by the crown prince and another man.

The two of them came stalking into the room together, looking angry and travel-weary. Their black cloaks were spattered gray with mud. Both were armed and dangerous.

Being neither, I stayed where I was to watch.

 

 

The newcomers glanced around, registering me with gratifying surprise. I raised a languid hand in greeting. I knew the other man, Great-merit of Orgaz. He was the most feared duelist in the court and Star-seeker's closest crony.

Zig and Sweet-rose had sprung apart to face this threat.

The prince wasted no time on pleasantries. “It's time for bed, darling. Who is the peasant?”

“He is my betrothed.”

“No, dear. The king is your betrothed. Tonight you sleep with me and tomorrow you go home to Daddy. Everybody's happy, then, if you keep your mouth shut. If you don't, it's your problem. Send the peon away now and no harm will come to him. Show him the door, Merit.”

Zig lifted the sword I had left on the table and checked that it moved easily in the scabbard.

The prince sighed. “All right, kill him.”

The two men drew simultaneously. Great-merit flashed a contemptuous stroke that he probably expected to cut Zig's throat from ear to ear. It was parried, and he leaped back from a lightning riposte. No peon, sir!

There was far too much furniture around—not to mention True-valor, who had begun to writhe underfoot—for any classic, or even classy, fencing. Whether more space would have made any difference to the outcome, I cannot say. Zig still had a bad limp, which would have been a handicap in courtly swordplay. In the sort of slash-and-bash barroom brawling that was needed, though, footwork was less important and the adventurer outclassed the aristocrat.

Swords rang and clattered. Great-merit screamed once and doubled over on the table, scattering dice, goblets, and half the candlesticks. Then he slid back off it like a cloth, crumpling into a heap on the floor. He made some disgusting gurgling noises and could be presumed dead or dying. I crossed my legs and stayed where I was, aware that we were now playing for even larger stakes than before.

Star-seeker was visibly shaken to see his champion so easily dispatched, but he quickly cloaked his alarm in arrogance. “Oh, that was very foolish! Whoever you are, yokel, you have just slain a distinguished member of the aristocracy. Do you know me? Tell him who I am, darling.”

“Believe it or not, this is our crown prince.”

“To me he's only a witness. Keep out of the way.” Zig seemed to have grown. He certainly dominated the room now, blood-streaked sword in hand, the woman he loved at his back, a dead foe at his feet. His pale hair blazed in the candlelight, his blue eyes held no doubts or fear, and he smiled as if he was enjoying himself hugely. I know a hero when I see one.

Star-seeker evidently did not. To my surprise, he held his ground, although there was an open door behind him and probably a gang of thugs waiting downstairs. He had no reputation around court as a fighter. The gossips said he was a pitiful coward when he did not have his bullyboys handy.

But now he reached for the hilt of his sword.

“Not only am I crown prince, I am also on a mission of divine retribution! Drop that sword or die, hayseed!”

“Run away while you can, Prince!” Zig lurched forward, stepping around Great-merit's corpse.

 

 

Star-seeker noted the limp and pulled out his sword with a chuckle. The move was so awkward that I was certain Zig could have cut him down before he even came to guard. I was surprised he did not. I shot a worried glance at Sweet-rose, hoping that our mutual friend was not going to display any romantic scruples over shedding royal blood. If he expected to give the prince a lesson in tavern swordmanship, let him off with a minor scar as a diploma, shake hands, and all gallant lads together, the next round's on me...

Clang!

Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang-clang-clang...

I relaxed. Obviously Zig had refrained from striking an unarmed man, that was all. From the first lunge, it was a match to the death on both sides. Even had Zig wanted it otherwise, he could not play-fight against a man trying to slay him. And why should he, anyway? He had not started the slaughter.

Besides, he was a human being, not a corn mill that will stop when you release the handle. He was fired up with fighting spirit from the first bout. Not one man in a thousand could have stopped there.

The prince had the better of the first exchange. Zig recovered a step. I think he had expected more fancy-dancy courtier fencing and was suspicious of Star-seeker's amateur wood chopping. Zig quickly summed him up, though, and then went for the kill.

He was badly hampered by his game ankle, but he drove Star-seeker away from the door, backed him against a stool in a flurry of steel, and, as he toppled over it, ran him through.

The prince collapsed, screaming horribly. Sweet-rose cried out, moved forward, and then backed away from the shower of gore.

I came at him from the other side—wondering what Verlians regarded as a fitting penalty for high treason. The young lout wasn't dead, but he was as good as. I knelt and pulled him over on his back. Brilliant red blood was pumping out of his belly in a fountain. His eyes were wide with astonishment—none of us ever really expect death.

He gasped one word: “Betrayed!”

I watched as he bled to death. It only took a few seconds.

He was as dead as any corpse I have ever seen. The bleeding stopped, his bowels loosed. I am not mistaken in this. Star-seeker died that night.

I looked up from my knees. The lovers were back in each other's arms again.

“Leave that for later!” I said sharply. “We've just killed the heir apparent. What do we do now?”

Sweet-rose looked up into Zig's eyes. “We leave,” she said.

“Exile? Beloved, I am a penniless wanderer!”

“I have no choice, darling! Take me. We shall wander together.”

“That's all very well!” I protested before they could start another tongue-wrestling contest. “How do we get out of the country?”