The Curse Of Chalion Part 31

"No," Cazaril agreed. He picked up the list of clauses. "Now, sir, about this marriage contract..."

In the end, Cazaril gave away nothing on his list, and obtained agreement to it all. The Fox, rueful and reeling, offered some intelligent additions to the contingency clauses to which Cazaril happily agreed. The Fox whined a little, for form's sake, and made frequent reference to the submission due a husband from a wife-also not a prominent feature of recent Ibran history, Cazaril diplomatically did not point out-and to the unnatural strong-mindedness of women who rode too much.

"Take heart, sir," Cazaril consoled him. "It is not your destiny today to win a royacy for your son. It is to win an empire empire for your grandson." for your grandson."

The Fox brightened. Even his secretary smiled.

Finally, the Fox offered him the castles and riders set, for a personal memento.

"For myself, I think I shall decline," said Cazaril, eyeing the elegant pieces regretfully. A better thought struck him. "But if you care to have them packaged up, I should be pleased to carry them back to Chalion as your personal betrothal gift to your future daughter-in-law."

The Fox laughed and shook his head. "Would that I had a courtier who offered me so much loyalty for so little reward. Do you truly want nothing for yourself, Cazaril?"

"I want time."

The Fox snorted regretfully. "Don't we all. For that, you must apply to the G.o.ds, not the roya of Ibra."

Cazaril let this one pa.s.s, though his lips twitched. "I'd at least like to live to see Iselle safely wed. This is a gift you can indeed give me, sir, by hastening these matters along." He added, "And it is truly urgent that Bergon become royse-consort of Chalion before Martou dy Jironal can become regent of Chalion."

Even the Fox was forced to nod judiciously at this.

THAT NIGHT AFTER THE ROYA'S CUSTOMARY BANQUET, and after he'd shaken off Bergon who, if he could not stuff him with the honors Cazaril steadfastly declined, seemed to want to stuff him at least with food, Cazaril stopped in at the temple. Its high round halls were quiet and somber at this hour, nearly empty of worshippers, though the wall lights as well as the central fire burned steadily, and a couple of acolytes kept night watch. He returned their cordial good evenings, and walked through the tile-decorated archway into the Daughter's court.

Beautiful prayer rugs were woven by the maidens and ladies of Ibra, who donated them to the temples as a pious act, saving the knees and bodies of pet.i.tioners from the marble chill of the floors. Cazaril thought that if the custom were imported to Chalion along with Bergon, it could well improve the rate of winter worship there. Mats of all sizes, colors, and designs were ranged around the Lady's altar. Cazaril chose a broad thick one, dense with wool and slightly blurry representations of spring flowers, and laid himself down upon it. Prayer, not drunken sleep, he reminded himself, was his purpose here...

On the way to Ibra, he'd seized the chance at every rural rudimentary Daughter's house, while Ferda saw to the horses, to pray: for Orico's preservation, for Iselle's and Betriz's safety, for Ista's solace. Above all, intimidated by the Fox's reputation, he'd begged for the success of his mission. That prayer, it seemed, had been answered in advance. How far in advance? His outflung hands traced over the threads of his rug, pa.s.sed loop by loop through some patient woman's hands. Or maybe she hadn't been patient. Maybe she'd been tired, or irritated, or distracted, or hungry, or angry. Maybe she had been dying. But her hands had kept moving, all the same.

How long have I been walking down this road?

Once, he would have traced his allegiance to the Lady's affairs to a coin dropped in the Baocian winter mud by a clumsy soldier. Now he was by no means so sure, and by no means sure he liked the new answer.

The nightmare of the galleys came before the coin in the mud. Had all his pain and fear and agony there been manipulated by the G.o.ds to their ends? Was he nothing but a puppet on a string? Or was that, a mule on a rope, balky and stubborn, to be whipped along? He scarcely knew whether he felt wonder or rage. He considered Umegat's insistence that G.o.ds could not seize a man's will, but only wait for it to be offered. When had he signed up for that that?

Oh.

Then.

One starving, cold, desperate night at Gotorget, he'd walked his commander's rounds upon the battlements. On the highest tower, he'd dismissed the famished, fainting boy on guard to go below for a time and get what refreshment he could, and stood the watch himself. He'd stared out at the enemy's campfires, glowing mockingly in the ruined village, in the valley, on the ridges all around, speaking of abundant warmth, and cooking food, and confidence, and all the things his company lacked within the walls. And thought of how he'd schemed, and temporized, and exhorted his men to faithfulness, plugged holes fought sorties sc.r.a.ped for unclean food bloodied his sword at the scaling ladders and above all, prayed. Till he'd come to the end of prayers.

In his youth at Cazaril, he'd followed the common path of most highborn young men, and become a lay dedicat of the Brother's Order, with its military promises and aspirations. He'd sent up his prayers, when he'd bothered to pray at all, by rote to the G.o.d a.s.signed to him by his s.e.x, his age, and his rank. On the tower in the dark, it seemed to him that following that unquestioned path had brought him, step by step, into this impossible snare, abandoned by his own side and his G.o.d both.

He'd worn his Brother's medal inside his shirt since the ceremony of his dedication at age thirteen, just before he'd left Cazaril to be apprenticed as a page in the old provincar's household. That night on the tower, tears of fatigue and despair-and yes, rage-running down his face, he'd torn it off and flung it over the battlement, denying the G.o.d who'd denied him. The spinning slip of gold had disappeared into the darkness without a sound. And he'd flung himself p.r.o.ne on the stones, as he lay now, and sworn that any other G.o.d could pick him up who willed, or none, so long as the men who had trusted him were let out of this trap. As for himself, he was done. Done.

Nothing, of course, happened.

Well, eventually it started to rain.

In time, he'd picked himself back up off the pavement, ashamed of his tantrum, grateful that none of his men had witnessed the performance. The next watch came on, and he'd gone down in silence. Where nothing more happened for some weeks, till the arrival of that well-fed courier with the news that it had all been in vain, and all their blood and sacrifice was to be sold for gold to go into dy Jironal's coffers.

And his men were marched to safety.

And his feet alone went down another road...

What was it that Ista had said? The G.o.ds' most savage curses come to us as answers to our own prayers. Prayer is a dangerous business. The G.o.ds' most savage curses come to us as answers to our own prayers. Prayer is a dangerous business.

So, in choosing to share one's will with the G.o.ds, was it enough to choose once, like signing up to a military company with an oath? Or did one have to choose and choose and choose again, every day? Or was it both? Could he step off this road anytime, get on a horse, and ride to, say, Darthaca, to a new name, a new life? Just like Umegat's postulated hundred other Cazarils, who'd not even shown up for duty. Abandoning, of course, all who'd trusted him, Iselle and Ista and the Provincara, Palli and Betriz...

But not, alas, Dondo.

He squirmed a little on the mat, uncomfortably aware of the pressure in his belly, trying to convince himself it was just the Fox's banquet, and not his tumor creeping to hideous new growth. Racing to some grotesque completion, waiting only for the Lady's hand to falter. Maybe the G.o.ds had learned from Ista's mistake, from dy Lutez's failure of nerve, as well? Maybe they were making sure their mule couldn't desert in the middle like dy Lutez this time...?

Except into death. That door was always ajar. What waited him on the other side? The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's h.e.l.l? Ghostly dissolution? Peace?

Bah.

On the other side of the Temple plaza, in the Daughter's house, what waited him was a nice soft bed. That his brain had reached this feverish spin was a good sign he ought to go get in it. This wasn't prayer anyway, it was just argument with the G.o.ds.

Prayer, he suspected as he hoisted himself up and turned for the door, was putting one foot in front of the other. Moving all the same.

23.

At the last moment, with principles agreed upon, treaties written out in multiple copies in a fair court hand, signed by all parties and their witnesses, and sealed, practicalities nearly brought all to a halt. The Fox, not without reason in Cazaril's view, balked at sending his son into Chalion with so little guarantee of his personal safety. But the roya had neither the men nor the money in his war-weary royacy to raise a large force to guard Bergon, and Cazaril was fearful of the effect upon Chalion of taking arms across the border, even in so fair a cause. Their debate grew heated; the Fox, shamed by the reminder that he owed Bergon's very life to Cazaril, took to avoiding Cazaril's pet.i.tions in a way that reminded Cazaril forcibly of Orico. agreed upon, treaties written out in multiple copies in a fair court hand, signed by all parties and their witnesses, and sealed, practicalities nearly brought all to a halt. The Fox, not without reason in Cazaril's view, balked at sending his son into Chalion with so little guarantee of his personal safety. But the roya had neither the men nor the money in his war-weary royacy to raise a large force to guard Bergon, and Cazaril was fearful of the effect upon Chalion of taking arms across the border, even in so fair a cause. Their debate grew heated; the Fox, shamed by the reminder that he owed Bergon's very life to Cazaril, took to avoiding Cazaril's pet.i.tions in a way that reminded Cazaril forcibly of Orico.

Cazaril received Iselle's first ciphered letter, via the relay of couriers from the Daughter's Order that he had set up on their outbound route. It had been penned just four days after he had left Cardegoss, and was brief, simply confirming that Teidez's funeral rites had taken place without incident, and that Iselle would leave the capital that afternoon with his cortege for Valenda and the interment. She noted, with obvious relief, Our prayers were answered-the sacred animals showed the Son of Autumn has taken him up after all. I pray he will find ease in the G.o.d's good company. Our prayers were answered-the sacred animals showed the Son of Autumn has taken him up after all. I pray he will find ease in the G.o.d's good company. She added, She added, My eldest brother lives, and has back sight in one eye. But he remains very swollen. He stays at home, abed. My eldest brother lives, and has back sight in one eye. But he remains very swollen. He stays at home, abed. More chillingly, she reported: More chillingly, she reported: Our enemy has set two of his nieces as ladies-in-waiting in my household. I will not be able to write often. The Lady speed your emba.s.sy. Our enemy has set two of his nieces as ladies-in-waiting in my household. I will not be able to write often. The Lady speed your emba.s.sy.

He looked in vain for a postscript from Betriz, nearly missing it till he turned the paper over. Minute numbers in her distinctive hand lay half-hidden beneath the cracked wax of the seal itself. He sc.r.a.ped at the residue with his thumbnail. The brief notation thus revealed led him to a page toward the back of the book, one of Ordol's most lyrical prayers: a pa.s.sionate plea for the safety of a beloved one who traveled far from home. How many years-decades-had it been since someone far away had prayed just for him? Cazaril wasn't even sure if this had been meant for his eyes, or only for those of the G.o.ds, but he touched the tiny cipher secretly to the five sacred points, lingering a little on his lips, before leaving his chamber to seek Bergon.

He shared the other side of the letter with the royse, who studied it, and the code system, with fascination. Cazaril composed a brief note telling of the success of his mission, and Bergon, his tongue clamped between his teeth, laboriously ciphered out a letter in his own hand to go to his new betrothed along with it.

Cazaril counted days in his head. It was impossible that dy Jironal not have spies in the court of Ibra. Sooner or later, Cazaril's appearance there must be reported back to Cardegoss. How soon? Would dy Jironal guess that Cazaril's negotiations on Iselle's behalf had prospered so stunningly? Would he seize the royesse's person, would he calculate Cazaril's next move, would he try to intercept Bergon in Chalion?

After several days of the deadlock over the royse's safety, Cazaril, in a burst of genius, sent Bergon in to argue his own case. This was an envoy the Fox could not evade, not even in his private chambers. Bergon was young and energetic, his imagination pa.s.sionately engaged, and the Fox was old and tired. Worse, or perhaps, from Cazaril's point of view, better, a town in South Ibra of the late Heir's party rose in arms about some failure of treaty, and the Fox was forced to muster men to ride out to pacify it again. Frenzied with the dilemma, torn between his great hopes and his icy fears for his sole surviving son, the Fox threw the resolution back upon Bergon and his coterie.

Resolution, Cazaril was discovering, was one thing Bergon did not lack. The royse quickly endorsed Cazaril's scheme to travel lightly and in disguise across the hostile country between the Ibran border and Valenda. For escort Bergon chose, besides Cazaril and the dy Guras, only three close companions: two young Ibran lords, dy Tagille and dy Cembuer, and the only slightly older March dy Sould.

The enthusiastic dy Tagille proposed that they travel as a party of Ibran merchants bound for Cardegoss. Cazaril did insist that all the men, n.o.ble or humble, who rode with the royse be experienced in arms. The group a.s.sembled within a day of Bergon's decision, in what Cazaril prayed was secrecy, at one of dy Tagille's manors outside Zagosur. It was not, Cazaril discovered, so small a company as all that; with servants, it came to over a dozen mounted men and a baggage train of half a dozen mules. In addition the servants led four fine matched white Ibran mountain ponies meant as a gift for Bergon's betrothed, in the meantime doubling as spare mounts.

They started off in high spirits; the companions obviously thought it a high and n.o.ble adventure. Bergon was more sober and thoughtful, which pleased Cazaril, who felt as though he were leading a party of children into caverns of madness. But at least in Bergon's case, not blindly. Which was better than the G.o.ds had done for him, him, Cazaril reflected darkly. He wondered if the curse could be tricking him, leading them all into war and not out of it. Dy Jironal hadn't started out so corrupt, either. Cazaril reflected darkly. He wondered if the curse could be tricking him, leading them all into war and not out of it. Dy Jironal hadn't started out so corrupt, either.

Being limited to the speed of the slowest pack mule, the pace was not so painful as the race to Zagosur had been. The climb up from the coast to the base of the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's Teeth took four full days. Another letter from Iselle caught up with Cazaril there, this one written some fourteen days after he'd departed Cardegoss. She reported Teidez buried with due ceremony in Valenda, and her success in her ploy of remaining there, extending her visit to her bereaved mother and grandmother. Dy Jironal had been forced to return to Cardegoss by reports of Orico's worsening ill health. Unfortunately, he had left behind not only his female spies, but also several companies of soldiers to guard Chalion's new Heiress. I'm taking thought what to do about them, I'm taking thought what to do about them, Iselle reported, a turn of phrase that brought up the hairs on the back of Cazaril's neck. She also included a private letter to Bergon, which Cazaril pa.s.sed along unopened. Bergon didn't share its contents, but he smiled frequently over Ordol's pages as he deciphered it, head bent close to the candles in their stuffy inn chamber. Iselle reported, a turn of phrase that brought up the hairs on the back of Cazaril's neck. She also included a private letter to Bergon, which Cazaril pa.s.sed along unopened. Bergon didn't share its contents, but he smiled frequently over Ordol's pages as he deciphered it, head bent close to the candles in their stuffy inn chamber.

More encouragingly, the Provincara had included a letter of her own, declaring that Iselle had received private promises of support for the Ibran marriage not only from her uncle the provincar of Baocia, but three other provincars as well. Bergon would have defenders, when he arrived.

When Cazaril showed this note to Bergon, the royse nodded decisively. "Good. We go on."

They suffered a check nonetheless here, when discouraged travelers coming back down the road to their inn that night reported the pa.s.s blocked with new snow. Consulting the map and his memory, Cazaril led the company instead a day's ride to the north, to a higher and less frequented pa.s.s still reported clear. The reports proved correct, but two horses strained their hocks on the climb. As they neared the divide, the March dy Sould, who claimed himself more comfortable on the deck of a ship than the back of a horse, and who had been growing quieter and quieter all morning, suddenly leaned over the side of his saddle and vomited.

The company bunched to a wheezing halt on the trail, while Cazaril, Bergon, and Ferda consulted, and the usually witty dy Sould mumbled embarra.s.sed and disturbingly muddled apologies and protests.

"Should we stop and build a fire, and try to warm him?" the royse asked in worry, staring around the desolate slopes.

Cazaril, himself standing half-bent-over, replied, "He's dazed as a man in a high fever, but he's not hot. He's seacoast-bred. I think this is not an infection, but rather a sickness that sometimes overcomes lowlanders in the heights. In either case, it will be better to care for him down out of this miserable rocky wilderness."

Ferda, eyeing him sideways, asked, "How are you you doing, my lord?" doing, my lord?"

Bergon, too, frowned at him in concern.

"Nothing that stopping and sitting down here will improve. Let's push on."

They mounted again, Bergon riding near to dy Sould when the trail permitted. The sick man clung to his saddle with grim determination. Within half an hour, Foix gave a thin and breathless whoop, and pointed to the cairn of rocks that marked the Ibra-Chalion border. The company cheered, and paused briefly to add their stones. They began the descent, steeper even than the climb. Dy Sould grew no worse, rea.s.suring Cazaril of his diagnosis. Cazaril grew no better, but then, he didn't expect to.

In the afternoon, they came over the lower lip of a barren vale and dropped into a thick pine wood. The air seemed richer here, even if only with the sharp delicious scent of the pines, and the bed of needles underfoot cushioned the horses' sore feet. The sighing trees sheltered them all from the wind's prying fingers. As they rounded a curve, Cazaril's ears picked up the m.u.f.fled thump of trotting hooves from the path ahead, the first fellow traveler they had encountered all day; just one rider, though, so no danger to their number.

The rider was a grizzled man with fierce bushy eyebrows and beard, dressed in stained leathers. He hailed them and, a little to Cazaril's surprise, pulled up his s.h.a.ggy horse across their path.

"I am castle warder to the Castillar dy Zavar. We saw your company coming down the vale, when the clouds broke. My lord sends me to warn you, there is a storm blowing up the valley. He invites you to shelter with him till the worst is past."

Dy Tagille greeted this offer of hospitality with delight. Bergon dropped back and lowered his voice to Cazaril. "Do you think we ought, Caz?"

"I'm not sure..." He tried to think if he'd ever heard of a Castillar dy Zavar.

Bergon glanced at his friend dy Sould, drooping over his pommel. "I'd give much to get him indoors. We are many, and armed."

Cazaril allowed, "We'd not make good speed in a blizzard, besides the risk of losing the trail."

The grizzled castle warder called out, "Suit yourselves, gentlemen, but since it's my job to collect the bodies from the ditches in this district come spring, I'd take it as a personal favor if you'd accept. The storm will blow through before morning, I'd guess."

"Well, I'm glad we at least got over the pa.s.s before this broke. Yes," decided Bergon. He raised his voice. "We thank you, sir, and do accept your lord's kind offer!"

The grizzled man saluted, and nudged his horse back down the road. A mile farther on, he wheeled to the left and led them up a fainter trail through the tall, dark pines. The path dropped, then rose steeply for a time, zigzagging. The horses' haunches bunched and surged, pushing them uphill. Away through the trees, Cazaril could hear the distant squabbling and cawing of a flock of crows, and was comforted in memory.

They broke out into the gray light upon a rocky spur. Perched on the outcrop rose a small and rather dilapidated fortress built of undressed native stone. An encouraging curl of smoke rose from its chimney.

They pa.s.sed under a fieldstone arch into a courtyard paved with slates; a stable opened directly onto it, as well as a broad wooden portico over the doors leading into the main hall. Its margins were cluttered with tools, barrels, and odd trash. Curing deer hides were nailed up to the stable wall. Some tough-looking men, servants or grooms or guards or all three in this rough rural household, moved from the portico to help with the party's horses and mules. But it was the nearly half dozen new ghosts, whirling frantically about the courtyard, that opened Cazaril's eyes wide and stopped the breath in his throat.

That they were fresh, he could tell by their crisp gray outlines, still holding the forms they'd had in life: three men, a woman, and a weeping boy. The woman-shape pointed to the grizzled man. White fire streamed from her mouth, silent screams.

Cazaril jerked his horse back beside Bergon's, leaned over, and muttered, "This is a trap. Look to your weapons. Pa.s.s the word." Bergon fell back beside dy Tagille, who in turn bent to speak quietly to a pair of the party's grooms. Cazaril smiled in dissimulation, and sidled his horse over to Foix's, where he held up his hand before his mouth as if sharing a jest, and repeated the warning. Foix smiled blandly and nodded. His eyes darted around the courtyard, counting up the odds, as he leaned toward his brother.

The odds did not seem ill, but for that rangy lout up on the wooden perch beside the gate, leaning against the inner wall, a crossbow dangling, as if casually, from his hand. Except that it was c.o.c.ked. Cazaril maneuvered back by Bergon, putting himself and his horse between the royse and the gate. " 'Ware bowman," he breathed. "Duck under a mule."

The ghosts were darting from place to place about the yard, pointing out concealed men behind the barrels and tools, shadowed in the stalls, and, apparently, waiting just inside the main door. Cazaril revised his opinion of the odds. The grizzled man motioned to one of his men, and the gate swung shut behind the party. Cazaril twisted in his saddle and dug his hand into his saddlebag. His fingers touched silk, then the smooth coolness of round beads; he had not p.a.w.ned Dondo's pearls in Zagosur because the price was disadvantageous there, so close to the source. He swept his hand up, drawing out the glistening rope of them in a grand gesture. As he swung the string around his head, he popped the cord with his thumb. Pearls spewed off the end of the line and bounced about the slate-paved court. The startled toughs laughed, and began to dive for them.

Cazaril dropped his arm, and shouted, "Now!"

The grizzled commander, who had apparently been just about to shout a similar order, was taken aback. Cazaril's men drew steel first, falling upon the distracted enemy. Cazaril half fell out of his saddle just before a crossbow bolt thunked into it. His horse reared and bolted, and he scrambled to pull his own sword out of its scabbard.

Foix, bless the boy, had managed to get his own crossbow quietly unshipped before the chaos of shouting men and plunging horses struck. One of the male ghosts streaked past Cazaril's inner eye, and pointed at an obscured shape dodging along the top of the portico. Cazaril tapped Foix's arm, and shouted, "Up there!" Foix c.o.c.ked and whirled just as a second bowman popped up; Cazaril could swear the frantic ghost tried to guide the quarrel. It entered the bowman's right eye and dropped him instantly. Foix ducked and began rec.o.c.king; the ratcheting mechanism whirred.

Cazaril, turning to seek an enemy, found one seeking him. From the main door, steel drawn, barged a startlingly familiar form: Ser dy Joal, dy Jironal's stirrup-man, whom Cazaril had last seen in Cardegoss. Cazaril raised his sword just in time to deflect dy Joal's first furious blow. His belly twinged, cramped, then knotted agonizingly as they circled briefly for advantage, and then dy Joal bore in.

The excruciating belly pain drained the strength from Cazaril's arm, almost doubling him over; he barely beat off the next attack, and counterattack was suddenly out of the question. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the female ghost curl tightly in upon herself. She-or was that a pearl?-or both united, somehow slid under dy Joal's boot. Dy Joal skidded violently and unexpectedly forward, flailing for balance. Cazaril's point rammed through his throat and lodged briefly in the bones of his neck.

A hideous shock ran up Cazaril's arm. Not just his belly but his whole body seemed to cramp, and his vision blurred and darkened. Within him, Dondo screamed in triumph. The death demon surged up like a whirling fire behind his eyes, eager and implacable. Cazaril convulsed, vomiting. In Cazaril's uncontrolled recoil, his sword ripped out sideways; vessels spurted, and dy Joal collapsed at his feet in a welter of blood.

Cazaril found himself on his hands and knees on the icy slates, his sword, dropped from his nerveless hand, still ringing faintly. He was trembling all over so badly he could not stand up again. He spat bile from his watering mouth. On his sword's point, as it lay on the stone, dy Joal's wet blood steamed and smoked, blackening. Surges of nausea swept through his swollen and pulsing abdomen.

Inside him, Dondo wailed and howled in frustrated rage, slowly smothered again to silence. The demon settled back like a stalking cat on its belly, watchful and tense. Cazaril clenched and unclenched his hand, just to be sure he was still in possession of his own body.

So. The death demon wasn't fussy whose souls filled its buckets, so long as there were two of them. Cazaril's and Dondo's, Cazaril's and some other killer's-or victim's-he wasn't just sure which, or if it even mattered, under the circ.u.mstances. Dondo clearly had hoped to cling to his body, and let Cazaril's soul be ripped away. Leaving Dondo in, so to speak, possession. Dondo's goals and those of the demon were, it seemed, slightly divergent. The demon would be happy if Cazaril died in any way at all. Dondo wanted a murder, or a murdering.

Sunk strengthless to the stones, tears leaking between his eyelids, Cazaril became aware that the noise had died down. A hand touched his elbow, and he flinched. Foix's distressed voice came to his ear, "My lord? My lord, are you wounded?"

"Not...not stabbed," Cazaril got out. He blinked, wheezing. He reached out for his blade, then jerked his hand back, fingertips stinging. The steel was hot to the touch. Ferda appeared on his other side, and the two brothers drew him to his feet. He stood shivering with reaction.

"Are you sure you're all right?" said Ferda. "That dark-haired lady in Cardegoss promised us the royesse would have our ears if we did not bring you back to her alive."

"Yes," put in Foix, "and that she she would have the rest of our skins for a drum head, thereafter." would have the rest of our skins for a drum head, thereafter."

"Your skins are safe, for now." Cazaril rubbed his watering eyes and straightened a little, staring around. A sergeantly-looking groom, sword out, had half a dozen of the toughs lying facedown on the slates in surrender. Three more bandits sat leaning against the stable wall, moaning and bleeding. Another servant was dragging up the body of the dead crossbowman.

Cazaril scowled down at dy Joal, lying sprawled before him. They hadn't exchanged a single word in their brief encounter. He was deeply sorry he'd torn out the bravo's lying throat. His presence here implied much, but confirmed nothing. Was he dy Jironal's agent or acting on his own?

"The leader-where is he? I want to put him to the question."

"Over there, my lord"-Foix pointed-"but I'm afraid he won't be answering."

Bergon was just rising from the examination of an unmoving body; the grizzled man, alas.

Ferda said uneasily, in a tone of apology, "He fought fiercely and wouldn't surrender. He had wounded two of our grooms, so Foix finally downed him with a crossbow bolt."

"Do you think he really was the castle warder here, my lord?" Foix added.

"No."

Bergon picked his way over to him, sword in hand, and looked him up and down in worry. "What do we do now, Caz?"

The female ghost, grown somewhat less agitated, was beckoning him toward the gate. One of the male ghosts, equally urgent, was beckoning him toward the main door. "I...I follow, momentarily."

"What?" said Bergon.

Cazaril tore his gaze away from what only his inner eye saw. "Lock them"-he nodded toward their surrendered foes-"up in a stall, and set a guard. Whole and wounded together for now. We'll tend to them after our own. Then send a body of able men to search the premises, see if there are any more hiding. Or...or anybody else. Hiding. Or...whatever." His eye returned to the gate, where the streaming woman beckoned again. "Foix, bring your bow and sword and come with me."