"Yes, sir." The obedient Crandle rushed off. Maybor brought his hand to his throat-it felt hot and fevered. When the servant returned with the shard of glass, Maybor snatched at it eagerly. He was horrified by what he saw. The skin around his nose and mouth and on his neck was red and inflamed.

"What is this?" he cried, bewildered and distressed by the sight. His servant brought over water, but seemed reluctant to get too close to his master.

"Maybe it's just the drink, sir," he said with little conviction. Maybor drank the cold water and it was like a balm on his painful throat.

"If this is the pox, Crandle, I will have your balls whipped off if you mention it to another living soul." The pox was one thing that everybody at court feared catching; the mere rumor of it was enough to have the unfortunate person ostracized. So whenever anyone did catch it, they kept the fact well concealed.

"I will not breathe a word, sir."

Maybor was beginning to struggle for breath. He motioned his servant to prop up the pillows, thinking that he would feel better if he were sat up. The reluctant Crandle was forced to drag Maybor's heavy body up toward the pitlows. Once placed there, his breath came a little easier.

"I will have missed all of the goings-on in the banquet hall," he complained. "I only had chance to down a jug or two of ale."

"Maybe it was just as well you retired early, sir. You wouldn't have wanted anyone to see you looking as you do." Crandle had not seen the stained robe and was unaware of the true reason for his master's hasty departure.

"Don't be so damned impertinent!" Maybor spoke with little fury as he was finding it difficult to breathe once more. He started coughing, his whole body shaking as he did so.

With horror he saw that his undershirt was speckled with blood.

The sight of the tiny, scarlet drops filled Maybor with fear. What illness was this that stole upon one so fast? This very day he had been on his horse, riding over fields, feeling as healthy as ever. Now, only hours later, he was coughing up blood and short of breath. Frightened, Maybor settled down amongst his pillows and fell into a restless, wheezing sleep.

Crope heard a faint noise outside the door. He was in his master's chambers, as was his duty whenever Baralis was absent. He wondered whether to see what the noise was--no one could enter the chambers without Baralis' permission, so Crope was not worried about intruders. It could even be some castle children, the ones who liked to taunt him and follow him around. They might be outside the door, waiting for him to open it so they could throw sour milk at him, as they had done once before. Deciding that the faint noise had indeed been children, he ignored it and went back to looking at his books.

Crope could not read, but his favorite pastime was looking at pictures of flowers and animals. His master, noting the delight Crope took in this particular activity, had given him certain books to keep for his very own. These books, filled with beautifully rendered drawings of plants, insects, animals, and fish were Crope's most treasured possessions. He looked through them countless times, always careful to clean his hands before he touched the precious pages.

Tonight he was looking at his favorite, the one with all the beautiful flowers in it. He immersed himself in his book, and it was some time before he heard another faint noise. This time it occurred to him that it was too late for children to be up, and so he opened the heavy wooden door. On the floor by his feet lay Baralis.

Crope wasted no time in scooping Baralis up in his arms. He hurried to the bedchamber and, with a gentleness surprising in such a huge man, laid his master down on the bed.

Crope wondered what to do next. He noticed that Baralis was trembling, and so he rushed off for extra blankets. He returned moments later and carefully laid them over his master's body. Next, he fetched water and a length of cloth and proceeded to dab his master's fevered brow with cool water. Crope saw that his master looked as if he was burnt: the skin on his face and hands looked red and sore.

He tried to remember what to do for bums. Baralis, he recalled, had special ointments for such things.

Crope went off to look in the library where some such medicines were kept. He returned minutes later with what he hoped was the right ointment. He poured a little on his hand to check. It was some kind of oil and felt smooth and cool. With great care he applied the ointment to Baralis' burnt face and hands. It did appear to lessen the heat a little.

Finally, Crope poured a glass of rich, dark wine into a cup and, holding Baralis' head up a little, poured a small quantity of the liquid between his master's lips. Some of the wine dribbled down Baralis' chin, and Crope patiently dabbed the excess away with a soft cloth.

During all of this his master had not stirred. Crope was beginning to feel worried; he was convinced that there was more wrong with Baralis than burnt hands and face. There seemed little more that he could do.

He went over and stoked the fire, and then sat by his master's bedside, once again wetting his brow. He would watch over Baralis through the night and hope his master became no worse.

Eleven

Tawl made his way down to the harbor. It was chill in the burgeoning dawn and he drew his cloak close.

As he rounded a comer, salty air blasted his face, and he sighted the deep gray sea that Rorn considered its own.

Tawl, having reached the waterfront, now made his way north. His route took him past rows of ships and boats; there were many humble fishing craft, a few mighty warships, some elaborate pleasure barges, and a great number of cargo ships. Tawl had never seen such a variety: boats from the south painted exotic colors with pictures of fantastic sea creatures or naked women on their hulls, vessels from Rorn with yellow sails, ships from Toolay beautifully varnished but unadorned.

He soon found himself at the north harbor and hurried down the line of ships, aware that he was late--first light had been some time back. He found the boat he was looking for: two masts, The Fishy Few. Men were at work uncoiling the huge docking ropes. The Fishy Few was preparing to set sail.

Tawl walked up the gangplank and was immediately met with a harsh cry. "Hey, you, what d'you think you're doing?" The voice belonged to a small, red-faced man with a head of hair to match.

"I'm here to sail to Larn. Captain Quain has already agreed to it."

"Borc's balls! So you're the mad devil who wants to go there." Tawl could only nod. "Come aboard then, quick about it." Tawl boarded the ship. The red-haired sailor looked him up and down critically.

"You ain't gonna take to the sea. I can tell that just from looking at you."

"I've sailed before," said Tawl.

"When was that, eh? Dainty pleasure trip down the River Silbur." The man spat in disgust. "No, you're not a sailor. You're the type who'll be puking your guts up as soon as we've raised anchor." Tawl had in fact sailed several times before, and although not enjoying the experience, had never been seasick.

"What you called, then?" asked the man. "Tawl."

The man spat again. "Tawl! I'd be ashamed to go to sea with a name like that." The man eyed him with mild disdain. Tawl decided he would ask for the captain. He had no intention of standing here and being insulted any longer. "I'd like to speak to Captain Quain."

"Captain!" shouted the man in a voice so loud it set Tawl's ears ringing. Moments later another man appeared, also red haired.

"You're late." He looked Tawl up and down.

"I didn't realize the north harbor was as far as it was."

"Excuses! The sea doesn't care that for excuses." The captain spat to illustrate his point. "Tell the sea you're late." Quain's voice was scathing. "See if it'll make an exception and keep the tide in a little longer just for you." Tawl was wishing he'd never boarded The Fishy Few. The captain then shouted in a voice rivaling that of his crewman in loudness. "All hands on deck."

The ship became a flurry of activity-there were ten crewmen. The captain noticed Tawl counting them and said, "I'm a man short because of you." He was obviously waiting for Tawl to ask why, and so Tawl obliged.

"Why is that, Captain Quain?"

"I'll tell you why. Eleven crewsmen and me, plus you, would make thirteen. No man in his right mind would set sail with thirteen aboard. Sailing to Larn is lunacy itself. Sailing to Larn with thirteen would be suicide. And let me tell you now, boy, gold's not worth losing my ship over. First sign of danger and we'll be heading back to Rorn so fast the seagulls won't be able to shit on us." The good captain then turned on his heel, leaving Tawl to contemplate what had been said.

He decided the best thing he could do would be to go belowdeck. Seeing the man who had spoken to him when he boarded, he asked where he would find his cabin.

"Cabin! Listen to this, mates." The man was now shouting to the other sailors. "He wants to know where his cabin is. Not happy with makin' us sail to the godforsaken isle of Larn, now he wants a cabin. The next thing you know, he'll be asking us to bake him cake." Tawl decided he would take no more of this taunting, but before he could say a word another man chipped in:

"Let him be, Carver, anyone would think you're afraid to sail to Larn."

"1 ain't afraid," said Carver defensively. "I've sailed to worse places than Larn in my day, I can tell you."

"Well, if you don't get on securing those ropes, we won't be sailing anywhere." Carver flashed the man a resentful look and moved on about his business. The man then turned to Tawl. "Good day, to you, friend.

My name's Fyler. Don't worry none about Carver. He's got a harsh tongue, but nothing more."

"I wasn't worried in the least, Fyler. I was about to tell him I did fancy a bit of cake." Tawl grinned at the seaman, who promptly slapped him hard on the back.

"You're gonna do just fine aboard The Fishy Few, make no mistake about it. There are two things a sailor needs around here. First, he needs a sense of humor, and second, he needs to know how to swim."

Fyler winked merrily at Tawl. "How are you at cooking?"

"I'm not too bad." Tawl wondered about the question. "Good. We had to lose our cook to make way for you. You can do the honors. Course the good thing about being cook is that you get to sleep in the galley. Have it all to yourself, you can." Fyler smiled broadly, showing gaps among his large, yellow teeth.

Tawl got the distinct feeling he had been successfully snared. "Why don't I show you to the galley. The men haven't eaten all day, and there's nothing like setting sail for increasing a man's appetite."

Fyler led Tawl belowdeck, down a narrow corridor and into a tiny room. "This is it, friend," he said.

"You'll find the supplies under the table and in the larder. I'm off. Can't sail a ship without its navigator."

Fyler left Tawl to the tiny cramped room. It didn't look like any kitchen he had been in. There was just a long, wooden table banded around the edges to keep the various pots and pans in their place and a curious-looking brick stove.

Tawl had no idea how to light the stove and could find no wood to fuel it. The crewmen, he decided, would have to eat a cold breakfast. He looked under the table and found sacks of vegetables in various stages of sprouting: old turnips, carrots and parsnips. Tawl could think of no worse things to be eaten raw. He smiled mischievously. He'd show the sailors of The Fishy Few a good breakfast!

Tavalisk was soaking his plump, short-toed feet in a bowl of water. His hands were occupied with cracking open the shell of a huge, live lobster. With a dainty silver hammer he pounded viciously on the shell, eager to get at the tender, translucent meat. He was most annoyed when a knock came at his door.

"Enter," cried the archbishop, venting his anger on the lobster by bashing its small legs off. His aide entered. "Yes, Gamil, what is it?" he demanded testily. The lobster apparently still had some life in it, as it snapped at Tavalisk's fingers with its huge claws. Tavalisk countered this indignity by smashing the lobster's head with all the might in his chubby body, sending flesh and shell flying.

"I thought you might wish to know what has become of the knight, Your Eminence."

"Say your piece, Gamil." Tavalisk noted with pleasure that his last blow had taken the fight out of the lobster: all it could do now was flail its one remaining leg.

"Well, Your Eminence, it appears that our knight has had an early start this morning."

"Yes, yes. Get to the point, Gamil." Tavalisk was now looking around for the missing lobster legs; he wasn't about to have their succulent meat wasted.

"Well, Your Eminence, our knight has managed to commission a boat."

"A boat! What sort of boat?" Tavalisk decided that one last bash would split the shell open nicely and proceeded to hammer at the lobster once more.,

"A small sailboat, two masts. Name of The Fishy Few."

"The Fishy Few!"

Tavalisk now put down his hammer and with skilled hands prized open the lobster's shell, revealing the grayish, opalescent flesh.

"Yes, Your Eminence. I looked into it. Captain's name is Quain. Ship usually cargoes fish from Marls."

"Marls. How interesting, that's where my little friend here is from." Tavalisk motioned toward the ruined lobster, which was beginning to leak a greenish fluid onto the platter.

"Well, I'm not sure that the boat's heading to Marls this time, Your Eminence."

"You mean it's set sail? With the knight aboard?" Tavalisk was now cutting himself a sizable chunk of lobster flesh, careful to avoid its unpleasant discharges.

"Yes, Your Eminence. It set sail just after first light."

"Which way was it headed?" The lobster flesh was warm and salty. Tavalisk loved nothing better than freshly killed lobster. This one, however, was still alive: its leg continued to move slightly. The archbishop smiled and took up his hammer once more. It was most distracting to see one's meal hanging on grimly for its life.

"Well, Your Eminence, it's hard to tell which way it sailed, but I asked around, and the harbor workers said it was sailing to Larn."

"My, my, how interesting. Our knight has been most enterprising. How do you think he could afford to pay for such a charter?" Tavalisk saw with satisfaction that his last blow had finished the pathetic creature off. He could now settle down and enjoy its flesh.

"A captain would demand a high price to sail to Larn, Your Eminence."

"I'm sure you're right, Gamil." The archbishop now expertly gutted the lobster.

"I have a suspicion, Your Eminence, that the Old Man might have something to do with it."

"I think that would be a fair assumption, Gamil. But why would the Old Man want to help our knight?"

Tavalisk cut into the succulent tail, mouth watering in anticipation. "It's probably that damned nuisance Bevlin again. He has no taste when it comes to friends. Probably asked the Old Man to keep an eye on his young knight."

Tavalisk felt something sharp bite into his tongue, followed by the distinct-but not unpleasant-taste of blood. It was a piece of shell. The cunning crustacean had got revenge from the grave! "Gamil, do we have any spies on Larn?" Tavalisk was now stuffing his mouth with lobster tail. His blood acted as a fair seasoning.

"No one has spies on Larn, Your Eminence."

"Oh, how disappointing," commented Tavalisk between mouthfuls of tail meat.

The archbishop drained a cup of light wine. "Tell me, Gamil, did you feel anything unusual last night?"

"What do you mean, Your Eminence?"

"I felt something. It woke me." Tavalisk now pulled the remaining leg off the lobster and sucked the flesh from it. "What did you feel, Your Eminence?"

"I think it was the aftermath of a drawing. Must have been a damned powerful one. Only a few weeks back I felt something similar-may have come from the same man." Tavalisk was now using his teeth to pry out the remaining meat from the leg. "I'd like to find out who was responsible for it. The man capable of such forces would be a useful person to know. See to it, would you, Gamil?" Tavalisk surveyed the lobster for the presence of any meat he might have missed. Finding nothing left, he turned his attention to a bowl of cherries at his side.

"If you'll excuse me, Your Eminence, I will be off. I have much to attend to."

Tavalisk's eyes narrowed sharply. "Ah, before you go, Gamil, I wonder if I might trouble you to clear up this little mess I've made with the lobster. I know how you like to keep things clean and tidy."

Melli was shaken violently awake. Hands picked her off the ground and stood her up. The sound of Mistress Greal's voice rang through the air:

"Yes, Master Hulbit, that's the little thief." Mistress Greal then stepped forward and slapped Melli sharply on her cheek. Melli was prevented from retaliating by the firm hold of Master Hulbit, the tavern keeper. She realized that she was freezing: she had fallen asleep in the middle of a field wearing nothing but a flimsy dress. Master Hulbit twisted Melli's arm cruelly and guided her in the direction of the road.

She was brought level with Mistress Greal, who gave her a venomous look. Melli ignored her and asked Master Hulbit where her horse was.

Before Master Hulbit could answer, Mistress Greal jumped in. "You haven't got no horse now, young lady. That horse has been confiscated by Master Hulbit to pay for the debts you incurred by staying in his tavern."

"I incurred no debts!" said Melli angrily. "I stayed at the tavern as your guest, Mistress Greal." Mistress Greal slapped her again.

"You little trollop!" she cried, and then, appealing to Master Hulbit. "Have you ever met such a bare-faced liar? My guest, indeed! You're in real trouble now, my girl, I can tell you that. Running away without paying your bill, blatantly taking one of my dresses and stealing a leather saddle. And to top it all off, you assaulted one of Master Hulbit's good customers."

Melli couldn't believe what she was hearing, all the lies that Mistress Greal was making up. Melli appealed to Master Hulbit: "It is Mistress Greal who is lying. She took my dress away and tore it up. She forced me to wear this. And as for that man last night, he assaulted me! I was only trying to stop him putting his hands all over me. Please, Master Hulbit, you must believe me." The tavern keeper seemed impervious to Melli's plea.

"I've known Mistress Greal for many years, girl. She's a friend of mine, helps considerable with my business, she does. If she tells me you're a liar and a thief, I believe her."

Melli watched as Mistress Greal threw the tavern keeper an approving look.

Melli was led to the roadside, where to her relief she spotted her horse. Mistress Greal's sharp eyes did not miss Melli's expression.

"I've told you, young lady, that horse is now the property of Master Hulbit. And what's more, not only do you owe me for that dress you've ruined, but you're going to have to answer to Edrad; it was his saddle you stole." Mistress Greal walked off, heading toward the village and leaving Melli to Master Hulbit.

Melli was shivering violently, chilled through. She wondered what could have possessed her to fall asleep in a field in winter. She was also feeling rather sick, and this time she recognized the symptoms of too much to drink the night before. Seeing her shivering in a thin dress, Master Hulbit gave her his horse blanket with which to cover herself. The kind gesture had the effect of making Melli want to cry-it seemed she had met with nothing but cruelty since leaving Castle Harvell.

Master Hulbit noticed the tears well up in her eyes and patted her shoulder lightly. "There, there, young'un. It's not that bad. I've taken your horse in payment, and if I do say so myself, I've got a bad deal. That's one sorry looking animal." Melli didn't know whether to be indignant or to laugh. It was true: her horse was old and worn out. "See, there's always something to smile about. I'll make sure Mistress Greal doesn't eat you up for dinner. You only took her for one dress. I'll let you work in the tavern to help pay it off. Of course, the saddle's another matter. It's a serious crime to steal a man's saddle, but I'm sure Edrad will deal kindly with you."

Melli thought it was most unlikely that Edrad would deal kindly with her. She had hurt him badly last night, she remembered. So badly that he couldn't even stand up. Not to mention the obvious blow to his pride at his advances being rejected. Melli dreaded having to face him again. She did not appear to have any choice in the matter; kind though Master Hulbit was, he obviously had no intention of letting her go.

Master Hulbit still had a tight hold of Melli's arm. He took the reins of her horse and they walked the short distance back to the town of Duvitt. Melli was surprised at how near they were; she was sure she had ridden longer last night. She supposed the drink had clouded her senses. She counted the days since she'd left the castle, then wished she hadn't: thirteen wasn't a good sign.

Once they arrived at the town, Mistress Greal appeared and took over once more, guiding Melli into the tavern, where, to Melli's horror, she came face-to-face with Edrad.

"So you managed to find the little tart, Mistress Greal," he said, giving Melli the full benefit of his menacing stare. "Farmer Trill spotted her horse this morning, Edrad," replied Mistress Greal. Melli noted there was someone else present, someone whom she had never seen before. The man spoke:

"Please if you would, Edrad, recount to me the events of the previous evening." Melli concluded from his rather pompous air that he must be Duvitt's magistrate.

"Certainly, sir. This young woman asked me to go with her for a walk. It was a fine evening so I foolishly agreed. She then lured me into the stables by promising me a kiss; the next thing I know she'd drawn out a knife. She threatened to stab me if I moved. I wasn't about to let a mere wisp of a girl get the better of me. But before I could make my escape, the little viper kicked me hard in the privates. Then she stole my saddle." Melli had to admit, Edrad sounded convincing.

"Are there any witnesses?" asked the magistrate, sweeping the room with his eyes.

"I was there when the little hussy asked Edrad for a walk. I also heard her promise him a kiss." Mistress Greal gave Edrad a conspiratorial glance.

"Well, as the young girl was found in possession of the saddle and did indeed leave without paying her bill, I can only presume her guilt." The magistrate was obviously pleased with the outcome. Melli could bear it no more.

"They are lying!" she cried. "It was Edrad who lured me to the stables. He kissed me against my will, that's why I kicked him."

"See!" shouted Mistress Greal. "The little hussy admits it; she has no shame. If you don't mind me saying, sir, I think you should deal most harshly with the girl. Although young, she is obviously a practiced liar and a hardened thief."

Melli couldn't believe this was happening to her. How could the magistrate take their word against hers?

She wondered with dread what her punishment would be.

The magistrate coughed loudly and spoke again, "I can see you speak the truth, Mistress Greal. The girl is obviously a bad seed. Master Hulbit has agreed to take her horse in payment for the tavern bill; however, I feel the girl must be punished. We must beat the evil from her. Not only must she pay a fine of five golds, she will also be flogged twenty times, in full public view in the town square." The magistrate looked to Mistress Greal and Edrad, both of whom looked satisfied with his pronouncement.

"It is a fair sentence, magistrate, very fair," said Edrad. "Will she be flogged with a leather or a rope?"

asked Mistress Greal.

"I think the rope will prove most unpleasant, don't you agree, Mistress Greal?"

"You are most wise, magistrate. The sting of the rope will certainly force the evil from the girl." Mistress Greal looked pleased. "Though may I be so bold as to make a suggestion?" .

"Certainly, Mistress Greal, I value your judicious opinion in all matters."

"Perhaps the rope should be soaked in salted water first. We wouldn't want the girl's punishment to be a half-measure, would we?"

"Wise as ever, Mistress Greal," said the magistrate. "Now, I believe that Master Hulbit has said the girl can work in his tavern to pay off any fine?"

"He has indeed, magistrate," replied Mistress Greal, shooting a malicious glance in Melli's direction.

"Excellent. After the girl has recovered from the beating, she will be sent back here to work. This has turned out most neatly. She will be flogged at two hours past noon tomorrow. She will be kept in my custody until then." The magistrate turned to Melli. "Follow me, girl, and quick about it."

He led her out onto the street and through the town. Everyone on the streets was staring at Melli, and she hung her head in embarrassment. After a while they approached a stone building. "You'll be spending the night in the pit," said the magistrate. "Let it be a lesson to you."

Jack shifted against his bindings. Pain coursed through his arm and down his back. For the briefest instant, the pain crystallized into something tangible. The pit of his stomach contracted and pressure flared within his head. Even as Jack recognized what it was, it left him. The loaves. It was the same feeling he'd experienced before the loaves. Jack rested his head against the huge oak. There was no doubt now. The loaves hadn't been a lone occurrence. He'd felt power again, and its taste was sickeningly familiar.

He was suddenly afraid. It seemed to Jack as if his fate was now sealed. All his life, he'd lived in a world full of reason: dough rose because of yeast, the longer the rising the better the bread, the larger the loaf the fresher it kept: simple truths that never changed. Now he was in a world where nothing was certain; where burnt loaves turned to dough, where anger or pain could spark the flare of power, and where the future held no promise of peace.

Jack pulled against the rope-there was no give.

The mercenaries had bound him to a tree to stop him from fleeing. They'd ridden hard all morning, heading east in . search of Melli, and were now resting their horses. Jack needed water. He had neither food nor fluid all day. And now more than ever, with the metallic tang of sorcery in his mouth, he was desperate for a drink. He called to the guards. One came sauntering over.

"What d'you want?"

"Water, please." Jack's throat was dry and sore. The mercenary kicked him hard on the shins.

"Bit uppity for a prisoner, ain't you." Just as he walked away, the leader, Traff, spoke up:

"Give him some water, Harl. After all, the boy did think to bring us a few gifts. Right polite of him, if you ask me." The rest of the men laughed heartily. Traff was referring to Falk's sack of supplies, which the mercenaries had wasted no time claiming as their own. It upset Jack to watch as they greedily tore at the precious food, gnawing on joints of meat and then flinging them away half-eaten. The dried fruits and nuts were scattered over the cold ground-the men had no interest in those.

"And find him half a loaf," said Traff. "If I remember rightly, it was Winter's Eve last night, and we don't want to be discourteous to our guest." More laughter followed this remark. Jack was brought a cup of watered ale and a hunk of bread.

Winter's Eve. Had he been gone from the castle that long? Frallit would not be pleased at being a man short for the second biggest festival of the year. There would have been scores of fancy breads to be baked: honey cakes, gingerbreads, malted fruit loaves. Normally at this time, Jack's hands would be stained yellow with saffron. Rare spices were sprinkled as liberally as salt on feast days. It was Jack's job to cook the frumenty, which was cracked wheat mixed with milk, eggs, and saffron. No festival was complete without a plentiful supply of that much-loved golden porridge.

Jack felt so alone. Feast days were the best time to be in the kitchens: plenty of food and ale, everyone busy and merry. There'd be joking and dancing and a few stolen kisses. He missed it all so much. For the first time since leaving the castle, he realized what he'd lost: his friends, his life, his mother's memory; they were all back at Harvell. He had belonged there. It was his home.

Jack picked up the cup, turning it slowly in his hand. Ale was dripping from its side. It took him a moment to spot the hairline crack.

He might have belonged, but he never fitted in. Even before the loaves he was an outsider. Everyone had something that set them apart: Master Frallit was as bald as a berry, Willock the cellar steward had a club foot, even Findra the table maid had to bear the shame of being caught in the hayloft with the blacksmith. To them, being taunted was part of being accepted; it was done in good humor and served to include rather than exclude the person in question.

For him it was different-the jokes were behind his back, not to his face. Jack took up the cup with his free arm. He noticed his hand was still trembling from what had happened earlier. Was this his fate, then?

Always to be excluded, to be set apart, to be an outcast? He flung the cup from him. Let the flavor of sorcery stay in his mouth. It tasted of loneliness, and that was something he'd have to get used to.

"No, Bodger, just because you tumble a wench when it's raining doesn't mean that she won't get knocked up."

"But Master Trout swears by it. He says that it's a sure method to stop a girl from getting with child."

"The only reason Master Trout has never got a wench with child is that no sane woman would ever let him near her."

"He is a bit past it, Grift."

"Aye, Bodger, there's only one method to ensure a wench doesn't get knocked up and it ain't rollickin'

her in the rain."

"What is it then, Grift?"

"The way to stop a girl getting knocked up is by making sure you never rollick her in the nude."

"What, the woman?"

"No, you fool, the man. Be sure to always keep your shirt on, Bodger, and you'll never be an unwilling father." Grift nodded sagely to Bodger, and Bodger nodded sagely back.

"It's terrible what happened last night in the banquet hall, Grift."

"Aye, Bodger. By all accounts the fire caused quite a panic. Lords and ladies scurrying like rats, they were."

"I took a look at the damage this morning, Grift. The whole back wall went up in flames."

"Aye, Bodger, I can't help wondering how it started."

"The queen's pronounced it an accident, Grift. Says it was fallen candles that did it."

"It's more than that, Bodger. I had a word with one of the lads who was serving the drinks. He said the whole room moved under everyone's feet, said something knocked people down where they stood, and all the metal cups were hot to the touch. If you ask me, something very nasty happened last night."

"Still, it was lucky that only one man was killed."

"You got a look at the body, didn't you, Bodger? Could they tell who it was?"

"Not a chance, Grift, the poor soul was burnt to a crisp. . . terrible death."

"So no one knows who died, Bodger?"

"No, no one's been reported missing, Grift. There was a drunken squire at the back of the hall when it happened, says he saw a man in black, but no one's paying his story much heed. The only clue is the dead man's dagger. It was found right next to him on the floor. Course the blade was ruined by the heat, but it was the only thing that was left-all his clothes had been burnt off his back. It was horrifying, Grift.

I've never seen a worse sight in all my life than that charred and blackened body."

"What sort of knife was it, Bodger?"

"Well, that's the strange thing, Grift. It wasn't a man's eating knife. One of the lords said it was a curious kind of knife to take to a dance."

"There's a lot more going on here than meets the eye. The queen might have pronounced it an accident, Bodger, but I for one can't see anything accidental about the way that man died."

Lord Maybor was seriously ill; he had spent the night gasping desperately for each breath.

By the morning his condition was so bad that the physicians and priests were called. Maybor lay on his bed, barely conscious, struggling for air. He was coughing up much blood. The red rash looked much worse; his skin was now raised and puckered. Sores had formed around his nose and mouth, oozing blood and pus.

The doctors did not know what to make of the great lord's illness. It was like nothing they had encountered before. They immediately ruled out the pox and water fever. It appeared to them that Maybor's windpipe and lungs were being burnt away from within. They shook their heads gravely, not holding out much hope. They prescribed filling the room with the smoke from fragrant woods to penetrate Maybor's lungs and drive out the malignant humors.

Maybor refused to let the physicians fill the room with smoke. Wheezing for breath, he ordered them away. The priests then stepped forward, with their precious oils and waters, sprinkling and chanting, preparing for death.

"Be gone, you damned clerics, I am not dead yet!" Maybor fell back amongst his pillows, coughing feebly, barely able to breathe, but still able to feel pleasure at the sight of the priests scurrying away like rats.

He asked for his sons, but his two youngest had headed off to the front to do battle with the Halcus.

Such was the fate of younger sons-they either sought glory in battle or commiseration in the priesthood.

Maybor was well pleased that he had raised no priests.

Kedrac entered the room, wrinkling his nose at the putrid smell of sickness. As he saw his father, he attempted, unsuccessfully, to conceal the horror that he felt. "Father, what has become of you?"

Maybor saw revulsion in his son's face and beckoned Crandle to bring the splinter of mirror. Kedrac took the mirror from the servant and would not let his father have it. Maybor had not the strength to protest.

"Father, I spoke with you only a day ago. What has happened since to cause this affliction?"

"I do not know, son." Maybor could only manage a rasped whisper.

"Could poison be the cause of this?"

"Any food or ale consumed by his lordship last night at the dance would have been sampled by many others. I have heard of no one else with any sickness," said Crandle. Both men turned to look as Maybor succumbed to a terrible fit of coughing. When he had finished, the sheets were speckled with blood.

"What do the doctors say?" Kedrac asked of Crandle.

"They do not know what ails his lordship. They advised smoke."

"Smoke! Are they out of their minds? The man can barely breathe as it is."

A soft knock was heard at the door, and the queen walked in. Her cold, haughty face changed when she saw the condition of Lord Maybor and she froze in mid-step. "Is it the pox?" she demanded of Kedrac.

"No, Your Highness," he said bowing. The queen breathed once more and approached the bed.

She saw the look of amazement on Kedrac's face and said in way of explanation, "Your father was requested to meet with me this morning. When he failed to come, I decided to seek him out for myself. I see he is most unwell. What ails him?" Maybor tried to speak for himself, but was overcome with coughing.

"The doctors do not know what afflicts him, Your Highness." Kedrac smoothed his hair and adjusted his clothes.

"Doctors! They are fools, they only made the king worse. I will send you my wisewoman-she is skilled in the lore of herbs. If anyone can help him she can." The queen looked with sympathy at Maybor. "I am well used to sickness, but this I cannot understand. Why, only last night I watched Lord Maybor. He was as healthy as a man can be. Was this caused by the fire?"

"No, Your Highness," offered Crandle humbly. "Lord Maybor left the hall just before the fire started."

The queen gently squeezed Maybor's arm. "I will go now, but I am glad I came. I will send my woman to you the moment I gain my chamber. Good day." She nodded to Kedrac and left the room. The moment she left, Maybor snatched the sliver of mirror from his son. With shaking hand he drew the mirror to his face. Seeing its hideous reflection, he dissolved into a fit of tortuous coughing.

Later on, as dawn's first light stole into the room, Baralis had become restless, tossing and turning in his bed. Crope hurried to his side and saw that his master was drenched with sweat and shaking violently.

He felt Baralis' brow and found it was hot to the touch. Quickly, he hurried for water to cool the burning, and with a gentle touch he wetted the brow.

Crope looked upon the bums that covered Baralis' face and hands--some of the skin was beginning to scar. Blisters and lesions could be seen, red and inflamed.

Baralis began to murmur words that Crope could not understand. He seemed filled with agitation and flailed restlessly in his bed. Crope felt great fear at seeing his powerful master so overcome. He worried that Baralis would wear himself out with his frenzied motions. So Crope tried to quiet his sleeping master, softly pressing Baralis' arms and legs flat against the bed and covering his body with sheets and heavy blankets.

He felt that his master needed to be able to sleep peacefully to better regain his strength. He could see that Baralis was getting no such peace--he was troubled by an inner turmoil that was allowing his body no rest. Crope decided he would administer a light sleeping draught to his master to help him fall into a more restful sleep. He walked to the library and searched among the various bottles-he'd watched many times as Baralis had taken the draught on late nights, when sleep refused to come. He found what he knew to be the right bottle, for it was marked with an owl on the stopper. Crope loved owls.

He returned to the bedroom and, with large and awkward hands, poured a small quantity of the liquid between Baralis' swollen lips. Crope then returned to his chair by the side of the bed and reached inside his tunic for his box. Just to look at it made him happy. It was beautiful, with tiny paintings of sea birds on the lid. He settled down, turning the little box in his hand, and prepared to watch over his master for as long as necessary.

Crope stood vigil as his master drifted in and out of consciousness. He had stayed awake all through the night, watching Baralis' limp form.

Twelve

Tawl was standing on the deck of The Fishy Few, staring out at the dark, sparkling ocean. Larn lay two days ahead, and he didn't know whether to be relieved or full of dread.

The harsh voice of Carver startled him from his thoughts. "Hey, you! What d'you think you were doing feeding us raw turnips yesterday. Had me pukin' my guts up all night."

"The turnips didn't make you sick, Carver," shouted Fyler, drawing near. "It's the sea that's finally gotten to you. Nobody born in the mountains makes a good sailor. It was only a matter of time before your true nature showed."

"I was not born in the mountains-it was the foothills." Carver's voice was suitably indignant. "And I was sailing before I was walking. Seasickness! Never had it once in my entire life. It's that boy's awful cookin'

that set me off. Turned my guts to jelly." Carver turned his attention to Tawl. "You better watch it, boy.

One more trick like turnip and parsnip salad and you'll be overboard before you know it."

"Well, I'm sorry the dinner wasn't to your liking, Carver. Perhaps if someone could show me how to get the stove lit and find me some wood to bum, I might be able to cook the turnips tonight."

"I don't want to see another tumip as long as I'm on this boat. In fact, if I never saw a turnip for the rest of my life, I'd die a happy man. I want some decent food."

"Why don't you catch some fish, then, Carver?" said Tawl ingenuously.

"Can't stand fish." Tawl and Fyler laughed merrily at Carver's pronouncement. "What's a man doing at sea, on a boat name of The Fishy Few, who doesn't like fish?" Fyler was enjoying himself. "They must have been pretty high foothills, Carver. You're the only sailor I know who won't eat fish."

Carver was about to issue a scathing reply when another man turned up. He addressed Tawl: "Hey, you.

Captain wants a word. Move sharpish-he's waiting in his quarters."

"Probably wants to give you a mouthful over those turnips," mumbled Carver as Tawl walked away.

Belowdeck in The Fishy Few was small and cramped. The rooms were so low that Tawl could not stand up straight, and he was forced to walk with his shoulders and neck bent. He knocked on the cabin door and was bidden to enter. He walked into a tiny, dim room lined with books and lit by one small oil lamp.

The captain looked at Tawl disapprovingly and told him to sit. When Tawl had done so, Captain Quain poured out two cups of rum. "Best rum in the known lands, this, boy," he said, handing it to Tawl. "Better be careful not to down it in one go. I don't want to have to answer to the Old Man if you fall overboard."

Quain gave Tawl a scornful look.

"I believe you were well paid to carry out this charter, Captain Quain," said Tawl. "No man forced your hand. It was your choice to sail to Larn."

The captain appeared to ignore Tawl's words and took a slug of his rum, taking time to appreciate its flavor. "The test of a good rum is not how strong, but how mellow it is. Only the best rum has a taste so rich and smooth that it conceals its true potency. Go ahead, try it."

Quain beckoned Tawl to drink. He took a mouthful of the rum, wondering if the captain had heard what he'd said. Tawl's thoughts were diverted, however, when the heady liquid met his palate. He wondered how Quain could call this drink mellow; to Tawl it was fiery and strong.

The captain smiled, noting his companion's reaction. "The first taste is always a surprise. Take another sip, and no rushing this time-let the rum dance upon your tongue."

Tawl took a second mouthful, pausing to appreciate the flavor before swallowing. He began to comprehend that the rum was in fact mellow; it was as smooth as late-summer honey. It warmed his mouth and his innards, and loosened the tension in his brow.

"Now you're getting the hang of it. Go easy, though, it's powerful potent." Tawl decided to heed the captain's advice and reluctantly put the cup down. "No self-respecting captain would dare set sail with less than four barrels of rum aboard. It's well known that a sailor can go months without a sight of land, weeks without fresh food, and days without fresh water, but stop that sailor's ration of rum for a day and you'll have a mutiny on your hands." Quain's eyes twinkled in the dim light. Tawl found it hard to tell if he was speaking the truth or joking.

The captain took another slug of rum and eyed Tawl speculatively. "You said before, I had a choice about sailing to Larn. I can tell from your words that you don't know Rorn very well." Quain poured himself more rum and then continued, "There are two people who count in Rorn. Forget the old duke and his nobles; even Gavelna, the first minister, is merely a figurehead. The people who really count are the archbishop and the Old Man. It doesn't do to cross either of them if you value your life."

"Now, when a crony of the Old Man's comes to me and asks me real nice, if I'd be so kind as to sail my boat to Larn, I'm not about to refuse. Sure, it's all amiable. They even see I'm well paid, say I'll be recommended to the right people. But what they and I both know is that I can't refuse. I can't afford to upset the plans of the Old Man. My business relies on word of mouth and, if I might say so, my own good reputation. If I was to refuse a favor to the Old Man, I might as well sail off into the sunset and never return." Quain drained his cup and looked Tawl straight in the eye.

Tawl was beginning to realize he had misjudged the man. "Captain Quain, I had no idea of the position you were in."

"Don't get me wrong, boy. I don't mind heading to Larn. I've sailed this ship through waters more treacherous and shallow than any Larn has to offer. But Larn's more than just dangerous water. My crew has heard tales of Larn--tales to set your hair on end. Now I can't say if these tales are true, but what is real is the effect on my crew. They're all feeling a little edgy, though they won't admit it, and a nervous sailor is a bad sailor. That's what I'm worried about, boy, not the island itself." Quain downed more rum.

Tawl was beginning to feel a little guilty for feeding the crew raw turnips.

As if reading his thoughts, the captain said, "Here, boy, get someone to light the stove. I'll eat no more raw turnips. Ask Fyler to bring up some decent stuff from the hold and tell him Captain Quain says no hoarding. I'm sure he was one sailor who ate better than turnips yesterday." Quain motioned to Tawl to finish his cup of rum. "Don't rush it, boy. Rum's for savoring not for gulping."

Melli wished with all her heart that she was back at the castle. Surely marrying Prince Kylock could be no worse than this.

Following yesterday's trial, the magistrate had first led Melli into a small room, where he'd then insisted on searching her. Melli grew hot with anger as his hands lingered excessively over her legs and buttocks.

It was obvious she was hiding nothing there! The magistrate had taken this particular duty very seriously, though, mumbling words to the effect that Melli might have a weapon concealed anywhere on her person.

When the magistate was satisfied that Melli had no hidden weapons on her, he led her back out onto the street. To Melli's surprise a small crowd had formed. As she walked down the street, people started shouting names at her. They called her a whore and a thief. One of them threw an egg at her, and then someone else threw a rotten cabbage.

Melli could bear no more, and so she spoke to the magistrate: "Unhandle me. I will no longer be treated as a common criminal. I am Lady Melliandra, daughter of Lord Maybor." She held her head high.

"Be quiet, you stupid girl. Do not make things worse for yourself with foolish lies. You are a common trollop, that much is obvious to me." The magistrate then twisted Melli's arm nastily and proceeded on.

Their destination was the town square. The crowd gathered round as the magistrate pronounced Melli's evildoings to the crowd: "This girl here, known as Melli of Deepwood, is guilty of the crimes of robbery, assault, prostitution, and deceit. She is sentenced to twenty lashes with the rope. The sentence will be duly carried out at two hours past noon on the morrow." The small crowd jeered at Melli. The magistrate then marched her a short distance, and with no warning pushed Melli into a deep pit.

Melli fell badly, landing hard on her shoulder and side. Pain burst through her shoulder and pelvis. She looked upward and was greeted by the sight of the crowd gathering round the top of the pit peering in.

They seemed well pleased that she had taken a bad fall.

"Serves the dirty little thief right," called one woman. "That'll teach her to go around stealing horses."

"A good whipping is just what her kind needs."

"It will show her we don't take kindly to filthy whores in our town."

Melli was almost positive the last voice belonged to Mistress Greal. Before she could confirm her suspicions, she was met with a barrage of rotting vegetables and meat. Most of the objects were smelly but soft, until someone started pelting her with turnips. Whoever it was had a good aim, and Melli was forced to shield her face from the barrage.

This action delighted the vicious crowd and only served to increase their enthusiasm. Someone dumped a large quantity of sour milk on her head, and then she was bombarded with crab apples. There was nothing Melli could do: she was trapped. She hung her head low and prayed that no one would start throwing rocks. After a while the crowd began to either lose interest or run out of things to throw. They slowly withdrew, with shouts of "whore!" and "thief!" on their tongues. Someone threw one last thing: a large melon. It landed right on her tender shoulder. Melli winced with pain.

She looked up to find the crowd had left. Tears welled in her eyes. Her body was battered and bruised, and she was terrified at the thought of being beaten. Everyone had believed what Mistress Greal had said. They even seemed to believe'more-she had not stolen a horse, or been a prostitute.

Melli tried to remove what she could of the rotten vegetables, brushing slimy cabbage leaves and moldy fruit from her dress. There was nothing she could do about the smell.

She looked around her grim surroundings. The pit was about two times the height of a tall man and barely wide enough for Melli to lie down. The walls were smoothed stone and the bottom was cold earth. Judging from the amount of vegetation in various stages of decay, the pit must have been used often. Melli tried to move her shoulder a little and pain shot through it. She managed to curl herself up in a ball and sobbed herself to sleep.

She was wakened several hours later by the shouts of men. Night had fallen while she slept.

"Hey there, missy! How's about flashing us your udders."

"Give us a look at your melons, or we'll throw our ale all over you." Melli could only stare wildly at the men. "Little bitch! I expect she's only willing to do it for money."

"Dirty whore!" With that the men dumped the contents of their jug of ale over Melli's head. "Waste of good ale, if you ask me." Melli shivered as the ale soaked through her clothes.

The men obviously found the sight of Melli soaked hilarious and they laughed merrily. One of the men was carrying a lit candle, and as he held it over the pit, hot wax dripped on Melli's bare arms. The men were oblivious to this, and Melli felt it best not to speak out in case they decided it would be a good way to torture her further. The men, having run out of ale, soon moved away. Melli breathed a deep sigh of relief.

She was freezing, the night was cold, and she wore, thanks to Mistress Greal, the flimsiest of dresses.

Now, to make matters worse, she was soaking wet. Every inch of her body ached: the turnips and crab apples had been thrown with cruel precision, and Melli's body was now a mass of bruises. Her most serious problem was her left shoulder. Tentatively she ran her fingers over the soreness. There was some swelling, but she could detect no broken bone.

As the night drew on Melli became colder, her body shivering. Eventually she fell into a fitful sleep, her body curled into a tight ball to keep warm.

In the morning she was wakened by someone pouring something foul over her head. Mistress Greal stood above her, carrying her now empty chamber pot. "That won't be the worst that happens to you this day, missy! You ungrateful little tart." Mistress Greal then turned on her heel and walked away.

Melli had spent the rest of the morning being cruelly insulted and having the remains of people's breakfasts thrown at her.

She knew she was due to be flogged this day, and her stomach fluttered with fear at the thought of the rope. She could think of no way out of it. She had attempted to tell the magistrate who she was, but in her current state not even her own father would recognize her. Melli suddenly wished very badly that she was with her father now. It was true he had slapped her and tried to force her into marrying someone she didn't want to, but he had loved her. She had been his precious daughter. He had bought her anything she wanted and delighted in seeing her dressed up and looking pretty. What a shock he would get today, she thought.

The time passed very slowly. Every minute seemed to drag on interminably. She was terribly thirsty, for she had not drunk anything in over a day. She was not hungry, though; the terrible, putrid smell of rotting vegetables kept her appetite in abeyance.

Melli noted with growing trepidation the angle of the sun in the sky. It was already noon: soon they would come and flog her.

Jack was thinking about Melli. He was worried that the soldiers who had caught him would soon capture her. Earlier, they had ridden through a small village. The horsemen had been met by hostile stares from the villagers. Traff, the leader, had asked one of the women if they had spotted a girl heading east, away from the forest. The woman's tongue had been successfully loosened by two silver coins.

"Yes, there was a girl, right odd-looking creature. Dark haired, like you said. Wearing a sack she was."

The woman's eyes narrowed as she assessed the situation. "I felt sorry for the poor girl. I told the sweet thing she'd be better off in Duvitt."

"How many days back?"

"Oh, I can't be sure, maybe four or five days ago."

"How far is Duvitt?"

"Oh, about half a morning's ride east. Can't miss it, all roads lead to Duvitt around here."

They had sped from the village, riding much faster than before since they were now on open road. Jack did not get to see much of the change in territory from forest to farmland because of his position strapped over the horse's back. He could see that the road was wide and well maintained-a sign of large population and prosperity. The place they were headed for was obviously a wealthy town.

He fervently hoped that Melli had decided not to stay in Duvitt for any length of time. It seemed certain that if she were in town this day, she would be picked up by Baralis' men. They rode on toward Duvitt.

A rope was being lowered down to Melli. "Grab hold!" came a harsh voice. Melli found the idea of being dragged out of the pit by a rope very distressing. She didn't know if her shoulder could take the strain. A thought occurred to her: if she didn't grab hold of the rope, they wouldn't be able to haul her from the pit, and so they wouldn't be able to flog her. She refused to take the rope, shaking her head stubbornly.

"If you don't take hold of the rope, you little tart, I'll make sure your whoring days will be over for good." Melli still refused to take the rope. "Look, missy, I'll give you one last chance: take the rope or I'll get Master Hulbit to heat up some chicken fat, and I'll pour it all over your pretty face. Now move it!"

Melli grabbed for the rope. Pain coursed through her shoulder and hot tears prickled in her eyes. She took the rope and wound it around her waist, holding on tightly to the slack. She braced herself, gritting her teeth and then felt the pull. The skin of her arms scraped against the stone as she was pulled from the pit. The pain in her shoulder was unbearable. Once her head was level with the ground, two men grabbed her arms and hauled her out. Melli felt herself about to faint from the pain and she struggled to control herself. She had her father's pride and was determined not to give the crowd the satisfaction of seeing her swoon like a giddy maiden.

She looked around. There was a much larger gathering of people in the town square than the day before. The crowd hissed as Melli looked at them. The cries of "whore!" and "thief!" had little effect on her now and she ignored them. The crowd, seeing what they took to be arrogance, grew nasty. They hissed and shouted vile insults. One man, who called her "a pox-ridden trollop," she recognized as Edrad.

Despite great discomfort, Melli could not help but smile at the irony. This, as far as the mob was concerned, was the worst thing she could have done.

"The brazen hussy!"

"The little bitch is pleased with herself." Melli was once again pelted with rotten fruit and vegetables. The men who held her shouted at the crowd to stop, for they themselves were being bombarded.

The two men led her into the middle of the town square. A wooden scaffold had been erected. One of the men pushed Melli forward so her back was to the crowd. He took hold of her arms, bringing them up level with her shoulders, and tied her wrists to the scaffold.

Melli was beginning to feel scared. She could no longer see the crowd but she could hear their taunts and jeers. As soon as the man backed away from the scaffold, the pelting started once again. Melli bit her lip in pain as hard objects were hurled at her back and legs. Her arms, spread out as they were, put great strain on her sore shoulder. Despite all of this, the worse thing to Melli was the wait.

No one seemed in any hurry to start the flogging. Melli supposed that being tied to the scaffold at the mercy of the crowd was part of the punishment. The mob called to her, heckling and insulting. She could feel the excitement of the people: they wanted a good show, they wanted blood.

The crowd suddenly became silent. Melli strained her neck to look around. The magistrate had appeared, walking with a man who carried a rope whip. It was no delicate riding whip-it was thick, coarse and stiff, with a knotted end. Melli shuddered and the crowd cheered.

The magistrate began to speak, telling the people once more of Melli's various crimes. With a dramatic flair the magistrate listed each crime individually, allowing suitable time for the crowd to hiss between each one. The list seemed longer today; it now contained the charge of horse thief and swindler. By the time the magistrate had finished the list, the mob was in a frenzy:

"Whip the bitch!"

"Take the skin off her back."

"Show no mercy."

The magistrate then pronounced her sentence: "Thirty lashes with the rope!" The crowd erupted into a fit of cheering. It had been twenty yesterday! Melli grew stiff with fear. The man with the rope whip was now showing it to the admiring crowds, holding it above his head so small children and those at the back could see. He then silenced the crowd by bringing the rope down to his waist, catching the knotted end in the palm of his hand.

He moved forward to the scaffold, his shadow falling over Melli's back. The crowd seemed to hold their breath. Melli tensed in preparation for the blow. The man drew the whip back, paused for the tiniest instant and then brought the rope down on Melli's back. She heard the crack before she felt the blow.

Melli convulsed with shock and pain. The crowd aah'd in appreciation. The magistrate started the count:

"One."

The whip was drawn once more and brought down with terrible force upon Melli's back. The rope knocked the wind from her body and tore at the fabric of her flimsy dress. "Two."

Tears of pain flowed down Melli's cheek. The man flexed the whip, bringing it high above his shoulders and lashed cruelly at her slender back. This time rope met flesh. ".Three."

The whip was up again, and down it came once more, welting Melli's tender skin. The first pinpoints of blood were drawn.

"Four."

The rope dug deep, raising skin and tearing flesh. "Five."

Melli felt the sting of the rope and then the warm trickle of blood down her spine.

"Six."

Just as the whip was drawn again, a disturbance in the crowd distracted the man from his action. Melli was too weak to care.

The sound of hooves ringing on stone could be heard; the horsemen pushed through the crowd. The magistrate was livid about the interruption. "Who comes here?" he demanded. "Be off and do not disturb this flogging any longer."

"If you don't untie the girl this instant," came a cold, deadly voice, "I will order my men to slice these good people to ribbons."

"You wouldn't dare," said the magistrate with little conviction.

"Wesk, Harl," the voice called and two of the mounted men urged their horses forward. They were both wielding long swords. The crowd was now scared. None moved.

"Do as he says, untie the girl," murmured the magistrate.

The man tucked the whip in his belt and came forward, cutting the ties on Melli's wrist with a knife.

Released from the scaffolding, she could barely stand. She swooned and stumbled. She was weak with pain and her back was on fire. Dazed, she looked up and saw the leader of the armed men come forward. Melli recognized him as the man who had ripped her bodice in the woods. She was confused.

He smiled grimly, grabbed her firmly in his strong arms, and scooped her up on his horse. Melli could hold out no longer; her world became black as she passed out.

Thirteen

Baralis lay in his bed. The past few days had been the worst of his life. He had come close to death. He was only now recovering a little of his strength. He had tossed and turned in his bed, sweating and weak.

Unable to think clearly, he had been tormented by images and demons, and his body could find no rest.

He had been badly burned, but that was, not the worst of his injuries. He had made a dreadful mistake.

The moment he knew the assassin was upon him, he lashed out with all the power in his body-a reflex action of survival. There had been no calculation, no moderation; he had drawn his power with no thought except to obliterate the threat to his life. So furiously did the power flow through him, he could gain no control over its frenzy.

In the instant that he realized he had drawn too much from himself he tried to draw back, but it had been impossible. It was too much, too furious. It had a will of its own.

Baralis could only watch the effects. He'd done something no master ever should: he lost control.

Everything in him had been drawn forth. There had been nothing left, all his strength had been used in the drawing. He was left expended. If it had not been for the care of his servant, Crope, he might have died.

He'd made a mistake a novice would have been ashamed of. All the years of training in his youth was underlined by one basic principle: never outreach yourself. He could remember even now his teacher's hand upon his shoulder: "Baralis, you have a gift and a curse," he said. "Your gift is your ability, your curse is your ambition. You draw too wildly. There is no temperance, and one day you will pay a high price for your boldness."

They always tried to hold him back, they were envious of his talents. Who were they but a few old fools who defied convention by setting up a school to teach sorcery? They wanted to bring people around to the idea that magic wasn't all bad and that Borc had been wrong to condemn it. The only reason they were allowed to go on for so long was that Leiss was a city that prided itself on its liberalism. Of course, all that had changed now.

So close to the Drylands, it took a farmer of genius to coax crops from its soil. Genius, and a little sorcery in his father's case. He'd come from a long line of successful farmers, their skills defying the thin soil that Leiss rested upon. Like savages, they married close: a half-sister, a distant cousin, a stepdaughter, it all served to thicken the mix. Sorcery was instilled in their blood, and the poor simpletons hadn't even known it-they thought it was skill alone that nourished the grain.

His mother had known differently, though. Too clever by far for a farmer's wife, she had seen the truth behind the record crops. She had seen the potential in him, too, and had sent him to the one place in the Known Lands where he could be trained.

Yes, he'd been lucky to be born in that once liberal city. If it wasn't for his training, he wouldn't be here today, King's Chancellor. His teacher was wrong: ability and ambition were his gifts.

He'd traveled far and wide to learn all the skills that were now in his possession. In the Far South they'd taught him how to command animals and make them his own, from the herdsmen of the Great Plains he'd learnt his skills with potions, and beyond the Northern Ranges he'd discovered the art of leaving his body and joining with the heavens. Many cities had he visited, many people had he talked to, many manuscripts had he read: no one in the Known Lands could match him.

But Winter's Eve had proved he wasn't infallible. It would have been easy to eliminate the assassin with much less power, leaving himself with nothing more than a moderate fatigue. Instead he'd been unconscious for two long days before his mind returned to him. Sorcery took its power from the essence of a man: from his blood, his liver, his heart. To perform even the simplest of drawings made one weak for several hours. To perform a drawing of the scale he'd done on Winter's Eve could drive a lesser man to madness or oblivion.

Baralis could not help but wonder at the power he had drawn. True, it had been dangerous to himself, but the feeling of strength coursing through his body--fast and terrible--had filled him with elation. He had not known he had such potential in him. Once he was fully recovered, he would put his newfound abilities to good use. He would be careful, though, never to put himself at risk again.

He had much to do, much he needed to find out. He could not afford to let fatigue hinder his plans. He called for Crope.

"Yes, master." His servant entered the bedchamber. "Crope, you have looked after me well and I thank you for your care."

Crope smiled, the many scars on his huge face pulling tight. "I did my best, master," he said, pleased that his efforts had been appreciated.

"Now, on to more important matters. How is the court taking the news of Lord Maybor's death?"

Crope looked puzzled at the question. "Lord Maybor isn't dead, master."

"Isn't dead! What devilry is this! Are you certain of what you say, you dim-witted fool?"

"Yes, master." Crope seemed pleased to be insulted. "Lord Maybor isn't dead. But he is powerful sick.

People are saying that his face is covered in sores and he can't breathe very well. The priests were even called."

Baralis could not understand it. The poison had been lethal. He had tried it out on an old horse and it had killed the pathetic creature in a matter of hours. "When did Lord Maybor leave the dance?"

"Everybody's talking about that." Crope paused for a minute, struggling to remember the story. "He was said to have had punch poured all over him by a young girl. He was made a laughingstock and left before the fire started."

It seemed to Baralis that Maybor had the luck of Borc himself. He knew that the poison would have been rendered less potent by having liquid poured over it, and Maybor may have taken the robe off early because it was wet. Damn him! Baralis thought for a moment. "Is Lord Maybor's condition improving?"

"I can't say, master. The queen was said to have sent her wisewoman to look after him."

"The queen has visited him?" Surely the queen would want nothing to do with Maybor now that his lies had been uncovered.

"Yes, master. The queen's messenger came here the other day, said the queen wanted to see you as soon as possible."

"How did you reply?"

"I told the messenger that you had caught a slight fever while out riding."

"Good, Crope. You have done well." Baralis paused and then asked: "What are people saying about the fire on Winter's Eve?"

"They're saying it was caused by fallen candles, master."

"Good. Were there any witnesses?"

"One drunken squire said a man in black caused it, master."

"What is his name?"

"I don't know, master."

"Well, find out, then! And once you have found out, arrange for him to have an accident." Baralis' eyes met those of his servant. "Do you understand what I mean, Crope?"

The servant nodded. "Good. Now go. I need to be alone to think."

Baralis watched as Crope lurched away. Once he had gone, Baralis rose from his bed. He was surprised at his own weakness; his legs were shaky and unused to his weight. He made his way slowly to his study. Once inside, he hunted among the many bottles and vials until he found what he was looking for. He lifted the stopper and drank the entire contents of the small bottle-he needed all the relief he could get from his pain.

He looked down at his hands, burnt by the aftermath of power. They were scarred, the skin shiny and taut. The curative oils had undoubtedly helped, and most of the scarring would heal. But it was the healing itself he was afraid of. The skin might permanently tighten, making it impossible to straighten his fingers. If that happened, he would be forced to slit the skin at his joints.

A drawing to quicken their healing was out of the question--he was too weak. There would be no sorcery for several days, which meant he would be unable to make contact with the second dove he'd sent to track Melliandra.

Maybor had a lot to answer for. Baralis was almost certain that he had been the one to arrange for the assassination attempt. He had many enemies at court, but none would like to see him dead as much as Maybor. The lord of the Eastlands was no fool; he would have wanted no blood on his hands and would have hired someone to do his dirty work for him.

Baralis had much to occupy his mind. He had to concentrate on bringing his plans to fruition. He must step carefully, for it seemed as if the queen was still sympathetic to Maybor despite his fabrications. He needed Maybor out of the way. He could not risk the queen becoming close with him.

Baralis decided he would not waste any more time trying to poison Maybor. The lord appeared to be almost charmed against such methods. He would arrange instead for his attentions to be diverted from the court. He knew the one thing that Maybor loved more than himself was his eastern lands. They were rich and fertile, planted with seasoned apple orchards from which the best cider in the Known Lands was produced. A curve of a smile stole across Baralis' face: he would arrange for Maybor's attention to be diverted eastward for a while.

Tawl squinted in the direction that Fyler indicated. "I can't see a thing," he said. Fyler had told him that Larn was on the horizon, but Tawl could spot no sign of it.

"You from the Lowlands, boy?" asked Fyler. Tawl nodded, amazed at how the seaman could know such a thing. The navigator winked and then explained, "People from the Lowlands are known for their bad eyesight. All those marsh gases affect the eyes. It was just as well you left home before they had a chance to do worse damage."

The two men were on the bow of the boat. All day the waters had been growing choppier. A strong easterly wind was blowing, whipping up the waves, causing them to crash mightily against the hull of the small boat. The Fishy Few, which for the first two days had seemed so sturdy to Tawl, was now at the mercy of the restless sea.

The crewmen, who had come to accept Tawl's presence, were now grave and silent. All hands were on deck. The sails needed to be constantly turned to accommodate the unruly wind.

Even as Tawl and Fyler stood on deck, conditions were worsening. The sky darkened ominously and the first spits of rain were felt. The wind blew hard and picked up the waves in its path, driving them high and rough. Tawl was forced to hold on tightly to the railing.

"How far before we reach Larn?" he asked. Fyler, who was much more used to the unstable sea than Tawl, stood with his arms folded.

"Well, I'm sure it was on the horizon, only it's gotten so damned dark and nasty that I can't see it no more. I'd say we're half a day away. Course in these sort of conditions it could take a lot longer. The wind is against us. And I -don't fancy navigating low waters in a storm."

"How dangerous are the waters around Larn?" Tawl was now having to shout to make himself heard.

"Well, I've navigated worse waters, but Larn's are pretty bad. It's not just the shallows ... though if you're not careful you could find yourself run aground." Fyler looked to the horizon. "No, the real problem is the rocks. The sea bounces off 'em and becomes unsettled. There's no telling which way the current runs, but one thing's for sure-if you're not careful, it'll run you onto the rocks."

"Captain Quain said he wouldn't take the ship too close."

"Aye, lad. Captain's no fool. Still, it won't be easy. You can see what's happening to the boat already."

As if to illustrate this point, the sea swelled suddenly, causing the boat to roll beneath their feet.

"I thought it was just bad weather," shouted Tawl. "There's always bad weather around Larn, boy.

That's the problem. I can navigate shallows and rocks in a calm sea with my eyes closed. Larn's one of those godforsaken places that allows the sea no rest."

"Is is because of where Larn is?"

"No, it's because of what Larn is."

Tawl watched as Fyler walked away, marveling at the man's ability to walk so steadily with the boat heaving as it was. Tawl stayed at the bow, the wind and rain driving into his face. He looked ahead, trying to spot the island on the horizon. He could not see it. Something within Tawl knew that Larn was there: it called to his blood, beguiling and inviting. He looked ahead at the bleak gray of sky and sea, and he became afraid.

He did not know how long he stood, blasted by the elements. A sharp voice interrupted his thoughts:

"You there! What d'you think you're doing? You'll catch your death there in this storm." Tawl looked round to see Carver. "Best get belowdeck, captain's askin' after you." Tawl realized that he was cold and his cloak was soaked through. The sky was growing darker, the waves higher, and the rain was now driving in sheets against the ship.

"See what trouble Larn brings," muttered Carver as Tawl made his way belowdeck.

The captain's cabin was warm and cozy and smelled of old leather and rum. "By Borc! You're soaked to the skin, lad. What have you been up to?" The captain swiftly poured Tawl a full cup of rum. "Take your cloak off. Here, wrap yourself in this." Quain handed Tawl a rough blanket.

"I was on deck. I didn't realize how long I was there."

"Lost in thought, eh?" The captain gave Trawl a questioning look.

"I was thinking about Larn."

"You're not the only one, boy. Larn's the sort of place that's hard to put from your mind."

"You've been there before?"

The captain nodded. "I came close as a lad and it's haunted me ever since."

"What purpose did you have with the island?"

"No purpose at all, it was my first job as navigator and I was as green as seaweed. We were bound for Toolay, but I was so nervous the ship veered off course." The captain took a deep draught of rum and was silent for so long that Tawl was surprised when he spoke again. "Can't say that I was sorry, though.

To this day, I still hold that it was fate, not I, who steered the ship that cold and windy morn." Quain slammed his glass down on the table, effectively ending the subject.

"You'll be there tomorrow. Course if the seas don't calm you've no chance of landing. No one in their right minds would set a small rowboat on these waters. I'm beginning to think I've lost mine coming here with The Fishy Few. " Quain lifted his glass. "Come on, lad, drink up. That rum will warm you better than any fire." Tawl obliged the captain, finding his words to be true. The rum warmed him to his toes.

"Once you're on the island, you know I won't wait longer than a day for your return. The waters are just too treacherous. I'm sticking my neck out putting down anchor. If the waters don't calm by the morrow, no anchor will be able to hold her. That's not your concern, though, lad. I just want to make sure there's no misunderstanding. If you're not back within one day, then I'm off. And God help you; you could be stuck on Larn for many months." Quain gave Tawl a hard look.

"There is no misunderstanding, Captain. I've decided I'll go alone-you're one man short as it is. I can row myself." Quain grunted and poured them both another cup of rum.

"Pray for calm waters, boy."

Tavalisk was taking an afternoon stroll in the palace gardens. The gardens were famous throughout the east for their spectacular beauty. Tavalisk was more interested in what he was eating than the breathtaking surroundings. Walking a few steps behind the archbishop was a liveried servant holding a platter of delicacies.

"Boy, be careful no flies land on the chicken livers." Tavalisk beckoned the boy forward so he could pick what he would eat next. The brisk air had given him quite an appetite.

Tavalisk decided on a large, juicy specimen and popped it in his mouth. It was just as he expected-rare and tender.

The archbishop sighed heavily as he noticed the approach of his aide, Gamil. "Come, boy," he said to the servant. "Let us make haste." Tavalisk hurried away in the opposite direction, his voluminous robes flapping in the breeze. "Do not drop the platter, boy," he warned as they turned into a hedged walk.

Gamil's feet proved faster than Tavalisk's, and he eventually caught up with master and servant.

"Gamil, what are you doing here? I didn't see you approach. Did you see him approach, boy?" Tavalisk looked to his attendant; the boy obediently shook his head. The archbishop reached forward and took another liver from the tray. "Though I must admit you're difficult to miss in your splendid new robe. Silk, if I'm not mistaken. I didn't realize I paid you so well."

Gamil became a little red of face. "It's nothing, Your Eminence. I picked it up cheap in the Market District."

"Well I'm not at all sure I like my aides dressing better than L" The archbishop could not resist the exaggeration: his robes were by far the finest that could be bought in all of Rorn. "Now tell me why you're here." Tavalisk daintily spat out a piece of gristle.

"About the knight," said Gamil, brushing the offending piece of gristle from his robe. "My spies. . . "

Tavalisk cut him short. "Your spies, Gamil? You have no spies. I am the one who has spies." Tavalisk's small eyes took in the look of animosity on his aide's face. He pretended not to notice, though, and busied himself picking out another delicacy.

"Your spies have confirmed our suspicions, Your Eminence."

"What suspicions are those?" Tavalisk had now turned to admire a late-blooming flower.

"The Old Man paid for the boat that sails for Larn."

"This is indeed interesting. Do you think the Old Man knows I am having the knight followed?" Tavalisk picked the flower, smelled it, and then threw it away.

"I think he must, Your Eminence."

"His friendship with Bevlin aside, I wouldn't be surprised if the Old Man helped the knight merely to irk me, Gamil." Tavalisk now stepped on the flower, grinding its delicate petals into the ground. "He knows I have no love for the knighthood. Not that the Old Man is their greatest advocate, but he's not averse to doing a little business with them from time to time."

Tavalisk walked off, beckoning his servant to follow. As he had not been excused, his aide was forced to keep up with them. Tavalisk stopped a little later and chose another tasty morsel from the tray. "Oh, by the way, Gamil, what news have you of the drawing the other night?" Tavalisk threw a chicken liver into the air and nimbly caught it between his teeth.

"It appears, Your Eminence, that others felt the ripple of power several nights back. I have spoken with one who knows of these things, and she was certain that the aftermath came from the northwest."

"The northwest, indeed. If I am not mistaken, there is little else in the northwest beside the Four Kingdoms. They have that particularly fertile corner of the world all to themselves." Tavalisk began to feed the sweetmeats to the birds. "How soon can you question my spies about this matter?"

"If anything remarkable has happened in the Four Kingdoms, I will soon know of it, Your Eminence."

"If the incident of a few nights back was Lord Baralis' doing, then I will have to revise my estimation of him, Gamil. Great power was drawn that evening. Whoever is responsible bears watching closely. Power is seldom found in those without ambition." Tavalisk found it was more fun to throw the sweetmeats at the birds rather than to them. "It is all the more reason to track down his enemies."

"I will know who they are in a matter of days, Your Eminence."

"Good. Before you go, Gamil, may I be so bold as to offer you a piece of advice?"

"Certainly, Your Eminence."

"Red is a most unbecoming color for you. It shows up the pock marks on your cheeks most unpleasantly. I would try green next time, if I were you." Tavalisk smiled sweetly and began to walk back to the palace.

Lord Maybor was beginning to feel much improved. His breath still came in wheezes and his throat burned hot and sore, but he knew he was feeling better when the queen's wisewoman rubbed warm oils into his skin. The wisewoman was not a great beauty, and she had passed her prime some years back; however, when her skillful hands worked on Maybor's body, he began to find her most appealing.

With a firm touch she worked the fragrant oils into Maybor's flesh. She noticed the lord's reaction and smiled pleasantly, showing small, white teeth. "I see you will be up soon, Lord Maybor," she said softly.

She leaned over him, her breast brushing against his face. He could not resist and squeezed the roundness gently. The wisewoman smiled on, moving her agile hands lower. Maybor drew more bold and squeezed the breast vigorously.

The woman laughed: a bright, pretty sound. "I do not think, Lord Maybor, that you are quite ready for a tumble yet. Maybe in a few days." Maybor was disheartened; the wisewoman was looking very attractive to him now. "It is a good sign though-when a man's urges return, his good health will soon follow." She stood up and smoothed her dress. "I must be off now. Be sure to drink your honey balm."

She patted him lightly on the shoulder and left the room. There is a lot to be said for older women, thought Maybor regretfully.

When she had gone, Maybor called his servant, Crandle, to bring him his minor. Maybor had always been very proud of his appearance; he considered himself to be strong boned and handsome. His greatest fear now was that the terrible sores that blighted his face would leave scars. He regarded his reflection carefully. There seemed to be a slight fading of the redness. His face was hideous; the sores had formed mostly around his nose and mouth. Some of the sores had started to heal, but some were still open and wet. The wisewoman had given him some herbal water, and it appeared to help a little.

He was still contemplating his reflection when Crandle rushed into the room and announced the queen.

She followed directly after the servant, her beautiful face pale and unreadable.

"No, Lord Maybor, do not try to rise." She turned to Crandle and bid him leave. The servant scuttled away quietly. "It is indeed an honor, Your Highness." Maybor was trying hard to keep his voice and breath steady. He did not like appearing ill to the queen.

"I have come this day because I have just spoken with my wisewoman, and she has advised me you are much improved."

"Your Highness was most gracious to send her to me." Maybor succumbed to a fit of coughing. He held his handkerchief up to his lips-he did not want the queen to see he was coughing up blood.

The queen waited until the coughing stopped before continuing, "My wisewoman is better than any physician. I am glad to see her remedies have helped you. You seem much better than when I looked upon you last. I am well pleased."

The queen moved away from Maybor and began to pace the room, her back rigid and her head high.

"Lord Maybor, I must ask an unpleasant question and I require a straightforward answer."

Maybor began to feel a little apprehensive. "What would you ask, Your Highness?"

"I would know the truth about your daughter, Melliandra. I have heard say she has run away from the castle." The queen turned and looked Lord Maybor in the eye. "Is this true?"

Maybor instantly realized that if he lied and told her his daughter was in the castle, she would demand proof. He had no choice but to confess. Sick though he was, he rallied his wits about him. The queen was already sympathetic to him. His best defense would be to play on that sympathy. "Unfortunately, Your Highness is right. My daughter has run away. She has been gone seventeen days now."

"Has she run off with a lover?" The queen's voice was hard and unyielding.

"No, Your Highness. She has had no lovers. Melliandra is a virgin."

"Why did she run away, then? Was it because she didn't want to enter into the betrothal with Prince Kylock?" Maybor thought quickly, glad that his affliction had not affected his sharpness of mind. "No, Your Highness, her fleeing had nothing to do with Prince Kylock. At the time she left, she knew nothing of the match ... I thought it better not to mention the betrothal until the matter had been fully decided."

"So why then did your daughter flee, Lord Maybor?" The queen looked skeptical.

"Regrettably, Your Highness, I am to blame." Maybor hung his head low, coughed pathetically, and tried hard to bring a tear to his eye. "I have not treated my daughter as well as a father should." A single tear glistened forth. "I have been a bad father. All Melliandra ever wanted was my love and affection, for she is a sweet and lovely girl." The tear made its noble descent down Maybor's cheek. When the salty tear encountered one of his open sores, he winced in pain-a gesture easily mistaken for a shudder of remorse.

"Melliandra would come to me, begging for my attention, wanting to play me the latest tune she had learnt on her flute, or to show me how pretty she looked in her newest dress. I would send her away, unregarded. My sons were all my eyes could see. I am ashamed to say I neglected her badly." Maybor was warming to his theme: a second tear conveniently welled in his eye.

"It was I who drove her away. All she ever wanted was a father's love. I failed my daughter, Your Highness. I all but sent her away. She fled purely to gain my attention. I would give up my lands for just one chance to tell her that I love her. I would give up my life to have her back, safe within the castle." The second tear dropped, with perfect timing, off the end of Maybor's nose.

The queen came over to Maybor's bedside and placed her cool hand on his shoulder. She appeared deeply moved. "Lord Maybor, I am ashamed for having doubted you. We will find your poor daughter together. I myself will send the Royal Guard to look for her. I will not rest until she is brought safely back into your arms. Have no fear, the betrothal will go ahead as planned once she is found." The queen bent and kissed Maybor's forehead lightly before leaving.

After she left Maybor slumped back against his pillows. He smiled broadly, disregarding his painful sores. He would be father to a queen after all.

Jack watched as Traff laid Melli on the cold earth. He longed to be able to go and help her. He could see she was in a terrible state: she was hot and fevered, her face covered in a film of sweat. The worst thing was her back, where six welts were seared into her flesh. Two of the welts were scabbed with blood and badly swollen-a sure sign of infection.

The mercenaries had done nothing for her, save provide her with a blanket to draw around her tom dress. They appeared not to realize the seriousness of her condition. All Jack wanted to do was go to her. He hated to see anyone suffer, but to watch Melli's rapid descent into fever was almost more than he could stand. There was one point yesterday, when the mercenaries had laid her on the ground, heedlessly banging her shoulder against a hard stone, that he'd felt something building up inside him. Anger at her treatment became tension in his head. It was the same sensation that he'd felt two days earlier. He tried to hold onto it, knowing power was at its core: so close, he could feel the bum at his throat, so overwhelming that he nearly lost himself to it.

Traff had been the one who unwittingly brought him to his senses. The leader came over, holding out a cup of water. "Boy, see to the girl." And that was it. The power was gone more quickly than it came, leaving Jack with a sickening headache and a tangible sense of loss.

Since then, he'd had little chance to consider the importance of what had happened. His time was taken up with thoughts of Melli, not himself, which was probably a good thing, for Grift had warned him many times that "thinking leads to trouble." Armed men dragging him back to Castle Harvell was trouble enough for the moment.

They had traveled west three days now, and Jack expected they would reach the castle in a day or so.

He was almost anxious to return, for Melli could then be looked after. It was obvious her wounds needed cleaning and tending.

Melli was in a weak, dazed state. She appeared to have little strength, and Traff had ridden with her leaning heavily at his back. This arrangement had forced the pace to be slowed, as Traff's horse was greatly burdened. Jack had managed to catch Melli's eye on one occasion; she seemed to recognize him, but could do no more than return his gaze.

They had stopped to eat and rest the horses. Traff, seemingly ignorant of Melli's worsening condition, placed the girl against a tree and left her to join his men. Jack was untied from his horse and was brought a cup of water and some drybread. He watched as Melli was given the same provisions. She was barely able to register their presence and made no move to drink. Jack was extremely worried about her; she was sweating and feverish and needed water. With his wrists and ankles tied he could not approach her, so he shouted to the mercenaries: "Help her! Can't you see she's sick with fever? She can't even drink her water."

The mercenaries looked around, astounded at his outburst. The one named Wesk came over to Jack and kicked him hard on his legs. "Hey, boy, don't tell us how to do our job. The girl will survive till we get to Harvell. After that we don't care." This statement was met with grunts of approval from his fellow mercenaries.

Traff, however, looked toward Melli and shouted "Cut the boy's ties, Wesk. Let him tend to her. I for one don't fancy Lord Baralis holding me responsible for her death."

Jack saw the treacherous look in Wesk's eye. "Go to it!" shouted Traff, and Wesk reluctantly cut the bonds.

Jack wasted no time relishing being cut free; he hobbled to where Melli lay. Raising the cup to her lips, he forced her to drink. Once she had enough to satisfy him, he tore off part of the lining from his cloak and soaked it in the remaining water. With great tenderness he cleaned the welts on Melli's back, washing away dried blood and dirt. With growing alarm, Jack noticed that underneath one of the welts the skin was soft and bloated: it was badly infected and needed to be drained.

"I need a clean knife," he shouted toward the mercenaries.

Traff sauntered over, pausing to spit out a wad of snatch. "What d'you need a knife for, boy?"

Jack was annoyed at the mercenary's casual manner and struggled to remain calm. "The wound on her back has become inflamed. It's full of pus and needs letting. It must be done now. " Jack gave Traff a hard look; he would not be hindered in this.

Jack saw something close to respect in Traff s face as he handed over his knife. "I hope you know what you're doing," said the mercenary, staying put, ready to watch the operation.

Tension that Jack had hardly been aware of made its presence felt by its retreat. His head was reeling as if from drink, and the bands of muscle around his stomach were as taut as a strung bow. The power had been upon him, and he'd hardly noticed its swell. He'd come close to losing control.

Jack had to make a conscious effort to focus on the present. Melli was what counted now. It was a relief to dismiss thoughts of what might have been if Traff had denied his request. With hands that wouldn't stop shaking, Jack cleaned the blade as best he could.

Thanks to Frallit's violent temper, Jack had a certain skill in tending wounds. He leaned over Melli and called her name gently. She did not respond. "I'll try not to hurt you," he said, more worried than ever.

He felt her back, finding the spot where the inflammation was at its worst. He delicately sliced into the bloated flesh. Greenish-yellow liquid spewed forth from the incision. A fetid smell assailed Jack's nostrils.

He lightly pressed the skin, forcing all the remaining fluid from the wound. When he was sure that it had all been drained, he called for more water and was brought it quickly. He cleansed the wound and then patted it dry. He finished off by stripping the soft inner lining from his cloak. He made a makeshift bandage, tearing the fabric into long strips and bound it around Melli's back and chest.

Jack cooled Melli's brow with the remaining water. He looked up to find that he was being watched by all the men. Jack handed the knife back to Traff. "I think she should be allowed to rest for a while to give the wound a chance to scab over. If she were to ride now, it would take longer for the bleeding to stop."

The men looked toward Traff for an answer.

"All right," he said roughly. "We'll make camp early, we'll ride no further this day."

Jack was relieved. He gathered the blanket around Melli. It was not enough to keep her warm, so he took off his cloak and laid it over her. He was pleased to see that she had fallen asleep-rest was the best thing for her. He regarded her pale, drawn features; they were glistening with sweat, and he knew the fever would get worse before it got better.

Brushing a strand of hair from Melli's face, he settled down beside her. Night was nearly upon them, and Jack closed his eyes, hoping for sleep. It didn't come. The moon made a slow arc across the sky as he tossed and turned, unable to find peace. Images of what might have been tormented him. Only hours earlier, he'd been on the point of lashing out wildly. There was such potential for destruction within him: he knew it as surely as bread needed salt. It took its strength from anger, and when he thought he wouldn't get his way with Traff, it nearly consumed him. Who could tell what might have happened? He was unpredictable-a coiled spring. He could have hurt Melli, and although the mercenaries were no friends of his, he didn't want their deaths on his hands. He was a baker's boy, not a murderer.

Jack turned on his back and faced the cold stare of the moon. He might not be evil, but he was dangerous, and it seemed that there wasn't much difference between the two.

Fourteen

Tawl looked into the distance. The mists shifted and he received his first glimpse of Larn. He could see little except rocky, gray cliffs. Seagulls flew overhead, their haunting cries the only noise to disturb the deathly calm.

The sea, which had raged so the night before, was now still. It was early morning and a pale sun rose over Larn, its rays enfeebled by the low, restless mist. The sea was like liquid metal, heavy and slow, the color of silver. Tawl was filled with great apprehension.

The crewmen were lowering the small rowboat over the side. He would be on his way soon. Captain Quain approached him, and the two men stood silent, looking into the mists for some time.

When the captain finally spoke, his warm, gruff voice seemed to break through the spell of beguiling cast from the isle. "When you approach the island, head north around the cliffs. There is a rocky beach that you can land on."

"I've never seen a sea so calm," ventured Tawl.

"Aye, it sends the shivers down my spine. It's almost as if they know you're coming." Quain spoke the very words that Tawl himself was thinking. "I should be glad that the sea's calm. My ship's in no danger of running aground." The captain shook his head, speaking in a low voice as if he did not want to be overheard. "I know it's not right, though. A terrible storm like last night, and now, water as smooth as a maiden's belly. Take care. Lad, may Borc lend speed to your journey." Quain moved off, leaving Tawl alone once more.

After a while he was called over by Carver. The redhaired man put his arm around Tawl's shoulder.

"Rowboat's all ready, lad. In it you'll find food and a bottle of rum, courtesy of the good captain." Carver hesitated while he looked toward the faint outline of Larn in the distance. "I understand, lad, I've something to thank you for."

"I don't know what you mean." Tawl was genuinely puzzled.

"I was the one who was due to go with you in the boat. Captain says as you insisted on going alone. Not that I was afraid to go, of course. It's just that my elbow's been playing up, and a couple of hours of rowing would've played havoc with it."

"Well, I'm glad not to be the cause of any further discomfort to you, Carver." Tawl spoke gravely, with no hint of mockery.

"Well, just thought I'd let you know," Carver said brusquely, moving away.

The mists parted for a brief instant and Tawl was given a clear look at the island-it was almost an invitation. He breathed deeply, rubbing his chin with his hand. It was time for him to be on his way.

He climbed down the knotted rope ladder and into the rowboat. Once he was steady, he looked up to the deck of The Fishy Few, where all the crewmen including Captain Quain were lined up. They were silent with grave faces as Tawl took up the oars.

He started to row, enjoying the feel of the smooth wood in his hands. He soon made his way from the ship and into the mist. Just before he lost sight of The Fishy Few, he heard the voice of the captain ringing out: "One day, lad. Back in one day."

Tawl was surprised at how much of his strength had returned in the few weeks since he had been released from Rorn's dungeons. His arms pulled the oars with powerful grace. He soon fell into a rhythm; it felt good to be doing something physical. Muscle and sinew stood out against the flesh of his arms. It was the first time since setting sail that he'd rolled up the sleeves of his shirt he had taken the Old Man's advice about hiding his identity.

The sea was yielding and Tawl made good time; even the current was in his favor. He watched the cliffs of Larn loom near. After a while he altered his course north, as the captain had suggested. The banks of mist were lifting and sunlight was allowed to nuzzle the water once more. Tawl looked over his shoulder.

Although the mists were clearing ahead, behind they were still thick-swirling and reeling, hiding The Fishy Few in their lair.

He rowed for some time and saw that the cliffs were lessening, gradually declining. He made his way around a rocky precipice and finally caught sight of the beach Quain had mentioned. Tawl rowed on, his arms growing tired, grateful that the tide was on its way in, bearing the boat forward in its push to the shore. As he approached the rocky beach, he could make out a solitary figure, black against the gray of rock and sky. Tawl knew the man waited for him.

Minutes later, his small rowboat landed on the shores of Larn. The figure in the dark cloak did not move forward to meet him. Tawl dragged the boat from the surf and tied its mooring to a sturdy outcropping.

He made his way up the pebbled beach to the cloaked man.

"Greetings, friend," said Tawl. The man's face was hooded, casting his features in shadow. He said no word to Tawl. He beckoned him to follow by the briefest raising of his hand. Tawl trailed the stranger up the beach and onto a well-concealed path that led between huge slabs of granite. Part of the path had been hewn from the rock, enabling Tawl to see the many intricate layers within the stone.

The path began to steepen and bend as it headed upward into the cliffs. The path was cut entirely from the rock now, becoming a tunnel. Tawl was plunged into darkness. His guide did not seem concerned with the dark and led him further ahead. Light peeked through at irregular intervals and Tawl managed to follow. The path ended suddenly and he found himself in bright sunlight again.

He brought his hand up to shade his eyes and looked around. They were on top of the cliffs and the view out to sea was breathtaking. Tawl felt certain the shadowy object on the horizon was The Fishy Few. He turned his gaze inland. Ahead lay a large stone temple, stark and primitive, old beyond reckoning. Low and oppressive, it was built from huge slabs of granite, their edges rounded by the weathering of centuries, white with the droppings of countless generations of sea birds.

The cloaked man beckoned Tawl forth, and he followed him into the shadows of the temple.

What struck him first was the extreme cold. Outside the day was mild and pleasant, yet on entering the temple the air temperature dropped sharply. The interior was not at all gaudy and ostentatious like the temples he'd visited in Rorn and Marls; the walls were left bare and unadorned. Tawl had to admit there was an austere beauty to be found in the naked stone. They passed through several dark, low-ceilinged rooms. Low ceilings on The Fishy Few had not concerned Tawl, but these ceilings, formed by immense slabs of granite, caused him to feel a measure of foreboding.

He was led into a small room which contained nothing but a stone bench. His guide wordlessly motioned him to sit. He then withdrew, leaving Tawl to wait alone.

Tavalisk was toasting shrimp. He had by his side a large bowl of sea water, in it many live shrimp. With his little silver tongs he plucked a large and active shrimp from the water. He then impaled the shrimp upon a silver skewer. The specially sharpened point pierced the shrimp's shell with no effort. Tavalisk was pleased to see that the impaling had not killed the shrimp: the creature was still wriggling. The archbishop then lowered the unfortunate animal over a hot flame. The shell crackled nicely in the heat, blackening quickly, and the shrimp soon wriggled no more. Tavalisk then waited for the shrimp to cool a little before removing its shell and eating the tender crustacean within.

The archbishop heard the usual knocking that always seemed to occur when he was about to enjoy a light snack. "Enter, Gamil," Tavalisk breathed, his voice metered with boredom. His aide walked in. The archbishop did not miss the fact that Gamil was dressed in an old and decidedly green robe. "Gamil, you must forgive me."

"I do not understand what Your Eminence means. Forgive you for what?"

"For giving you bad advice." Tavalisk paused, enjoying the puzzled expression on his aide's face. "Do you not remember, Gamil? Last time we met I said you would look better in a green robe. Only now I find I was wrong. It appears that green becomes you even less than red. It makes you look decidedly bilious." Tavalisk turned back to his bowl of shrimp, so as not to betray his delight. "Maybe in future, Gamil, you should steer clear of the brighter colors altogether. Try brown; you may look no better, but at least you will draw little attention."

Tavalisk busied himself with picking out his next victim. "So, what have you to tell me today, Gamil?" He decided upon a small but lively shrimp: it was much more interesting to skewer an active one. Many of this batch seemed decidedly lethargic.

"I have received word from our spy of who Lord Baralis' enemies are."

"Go on." Tavalisk skewered his victim.

"Well, it appears that Your Eminence was correct in assuming that Lord Baralis has many enemies. The most powerful and influential one is named Maybor. He holds vast lands and has much sway at court."

"Hmm, Lord Maybor. I do not know of him. Gamil, I would like you to make contact with him. Be subtle, see if he would be interested in ... keeping our friend Lord Baralis in his place." Tavalisk thrust the shrimp into the flames.

"I shall send the letter by fast courier, Your Eminence."

"No. Leave that to me, Gamil. I will use one of my creatures to hasten its delivery." This was an instance where it was worth using the debilitating art of sorcery. He had to find out what was going on in the Four Kingdoms. Tavalisk was becoming more and more uneasy about Baralis' doings of late. The man was intriguing on too large a scale. The duke of Bren was a dangerous person to be conspiring with; his greed for land, combined with his current association with the knights, made many people nervous. Baralis'

plotting would further sour an already bitter mix.

The archbishop removed the skewer from the flame. "Use discretion when you write the letter, Gamil.

Do not name me. These things have a habit of falling into the wrong hands and I would see if Lord Maybor takes the bait before risking my reputation." Tavalisk popped the hot shrimp onto the floor, where the little dog scooped it up. Burning its mouth, the dog howled and dropped the shrimp. The archbishop smiled-the sight of suffering never failed to delight him.

"If there's nothing further, Your Eminence, I will make haste to write the letter."

"One more thing before you go. I wonder if you'd be so kind as to take Comi and rub some oil into her mouth. The poor creature gave herself quite a burn." The archbishop watched as his aide struggled to pick up the dog. "I'd be careful of your fingers if I were you, Gamil. Comi has teeth like daggers."

Tavalisk smiled sweetly, waving man and dog on.

Tawl was beginning to feel a little impatient. He had been kept waiting for some time now, and no one had come. He felt as if he was being made to wait on purpose, to make him feel uneasy. He noticed that his sleeves were still rolled up and his circles were showing. Tawl quickly concealed them under his sleeve; he wanted the people here to know as little about him as possible.

More time passed before someone finally came. An elderly man approached, his shadow preceding him.

He, like the guide, was hooded, his face dark. The man led Tawl through a stone corridor and into a large, dimly lit room.

The room was dominated by a huge, low table formed from a single slab of granite. Four men sat, one on each side, around the rectangular stone. Tawl was relieved to see that these men had their hoods drawn back from their faces. Three of the men were old and graying. The fourth was much younger, with sharp but handsome features. The one who had led Tawl to the room silently departed.

Tawl was scrutinized by the four men for some time before any spoke. Finally, the oldest of the four addressed him, "Why have you come to Larn?" Tawl was surprised by the directness of the question.

The four waited impassively for his reply.

"I have come because I was advised to do so." His voice seemed small and powerless, muffled by the heavy stone.

"You have failed to answer the question," said the younger of the four. Tawl did not care for his biting tone.

"I came because I need to find a boy." The four men exchanged glances.

"What boy?" The younger's voice had the sound of one accustomed to having his questions answered promptly. Tawl defiantly waited a few minutes before replying.

"I cannot say. I will know him only when I find him."

"You hope our seers will point the way?" The elder spoke softly, in mild reproof of his younger companion.

"I have hope that they will."

The elder nodded. "Are you willing to pay the price?"

"What price?" Tawl was beginning to feel uneasy. "Name it."

"It is not as simple as that. The price can only be settled after the seeing has been given."

"What if the seeing fails?" Tawl felt he was being lured into a baited trap.

"That does not concern us. You will still be liable to pay the price." The younger of the four continued,

"It is a risk you take. Leave now if you would not take it." The man's eyes challenged Tawl.

Tawl stood firm under the scrutiny of the four. "I willing to pay the price."

The elder nodded once more. "So be it."

The younger stood up. "Follow me." He led Tawl out of the room and down a series of passageways.

Tawl felt he was descending, and the walls grew damp, confirming his suspicion that he was being led belowgound.

He began to hear a noise. At first he could not tell what it was--bats or wild animals, he thought, growing uneasy. As they drew closer to the source, he realized with horror that the sound was human cries. He grew cold as he listened to the desperate keening. He was led around a comer and suddenly found himself in a vast, natural cavern.

Tawl barely noticed the magnificent towering rock and the huge domed ceiling aglow with seams of crystal. He was transfixed by what he saw in the cavern. Rows of massive, granite blocks.

Bound to each stone was a man.

Tawl was horrified by the state of the men: their bodies were thin and emaciated, their hair wild and long.

It was their limbs that were the most shocking: the muscle had atrophied and withered away, leaving only bone thinly coated by skin. The ropes were thick and coarse, and held the men motionless. Tawl wondered why the men were still kept bound, for they would surely never walk again.

It was the noise the seers made, even more than the sight of them, that chilled Tawl to the bone. Terrible, anguished howling, frantic screaming, each sound telling of the torment of their souls. The seers of Larn lived hell on earth. Tawl shuddered-the seers had been driven to madness.

He could not bear to look on their anguish. He turned his head, and by doing so locked eyes with the younger of the four. The man, seeing Tawl's distress, spoke: "The seers do God's work." His voice was without emotion. "Performing their task takes its toll. No one can look upon the face of God and remain unchanged."

"I thought God was good." Tawl found it hard to think with the tortured cries of the insane ringing in his ears. "That is your mistake. Good or evil is not his concern. God exists. There is nothing more."

"Your God is not mine," Tawl said softly. "All are one here."

"I cannot go ahead with the seeing. I will not be party to such inhuman cruelty."

"You knew what Larn was before you came." The younger stated the fact with the barest hint of malice.

"Yes, I was told, but I never realized it would be like this." Tawl motioned toward the rows of men, men destined to lie bound to the stone for life.

"It is too late to back out now. You have agreed to pay the price. The seeing will go ahead." The man gestured minutely with his hand and three hooded men stepped forward. "You will not leave Larn without paying your due." The younger moved forward and Tawl was escorted behind him by the hooded men.

As he walked down the rows of seers, they called to him, wailing their terrible laments, their bodies jerking gracelessly as they shifted against their bindings. Tawl was escorted to the end of a row, near to the wall of the cavern.

The younger stopped and turned to him. "He is for you. Ask and you shall be answered." With that, he and the hooded men withdrew.

Tawl looked upon his seer. He saw with revulsion where the man had been bound so tight for so long that his skin had grown over the rope, its rough and knotted texture clearly visible beneath the pale skin.

Tawl realized that if the seer were to be unbound it would tear open his flesh.

The seer was babbling frenzied words in a tongue Tawl could not understand. He did not look at Tawl, he was lost in his own torments. The seer urinated; he seemed unaware when the liquid soaked his linen wrap and then formed a pool around his hips.

Tawl wanted to be away from the place as quickly as possible. He asked his question: "Where do I find the boy whom I seek?"

He was not sure that the seer heard-his incoherent rantings never stopped for an instant. Tawl could discern no signs of comprehension from him. He waited, bitterly regretting having come to Larn. He could not believe that God's work was done here.

After a while the seer became visibly more agitated. Spittle frothed at his mouth and his eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. The babblings grew louder-strange, haunting words, their meanings unknown to Tawl. The seer seemed to be repeating the same phrase over and over again. He could not understand it, and moved closer to the seer. He caught the sharp smell of ammonia in his nostrils.

The seer was becoming frenzied, saliva dripped down from his chin and onto his thin chest. Tawl strained for meaning in his voice. He made out the word "king." The phrase sounded like "for king on."

Over and over the seer repeated it. Tawl puzzled at its meaning. The seer's speech became hysterical.

Tawl looked closely at his wet lips. Suddenly the phrase took shape for Tawl. He realized the seer was not saying "for king on." The words were, "Four Kingdoms."

Tawl's blood ran cold. He became still, feeling a shifting within: the seer had spoken.

For some reason, he expected that the seer would stop, but he carried on, repeating the phrase with great agitation. A hooded man approached and drew Tawl away from the seer.

He led him down the rows of bound men and toward the cavern entrance. Taw] looked back. The seer was oblivious to his departure: he still recited the same phrase over and over again, his dull eyes focused on the face of God.

Baralis did not bother to look up from his work when Crope entered the room. "Has our sharp-eyed squire met with an accident yet?" He continued his writing.

"He did that, master. A might unpleasant one, too. He mishandled a wheat scythe."

"How unfortunate for him. Disturb me no further, Crope. I have many matters to attend to. In the library you will find a book with a blue leather binding. It contains illustrations of sea-creatures. It is yours. Take it and leave me alone." It was Baralis' way of thanking his servant for the care he had given him when he'd collapsed the night of Winter's Eve. Crope went off quickly, eager to look at the pictures in his new book.

When the man had left, Baralis stood up and began to pace the room. He had many matters on his mind.

He had been disturbed by the sight of the Royal Guard riding out of the castle in the early morning; he needed to find out what mission they were on. The Royal Guard answered only to the queen. He had lost several days to exhaustion and he was anxious to waste no more time.

A knock came on the door of his chamber. Baralis opened the heavy door. "Yes?" he barked at the liveried steward, annoyed at being interrupted.

"Her Highness, the queen, requests your immediate presence in the meeting hall." Baralis had been expecting such a summons.

"Very well, tell Her Highness I will be there directly." The servant withdrew. Baralis moved swiftly, preparing for the audience, donning the fine robes that were expected by the queen. He looked into his small hand mirror and saw that the burns on his face still showed a little. He would have to think of an excuse for them. He did not want the queen to suspect any connection between him and the Winter's Eve fire. He was soon ready and made his way to the meeting hall.

"Lord Baralis, I trust you are recovered from your bout of fever?" The queen greeted him coolly. She was dressed in magnificent splendor, wearing a gown of midnight blue, bedecked in pearls. She was no longer young, but age seemed to enhance her further, bringing grace and poise in exchange for the bloom of youth.

"1 am feeling much better, Your Highness."

"Tell me, Lord Baralis. It must be an odd fever that would leave your face looking as if it were burnt."

The queen drew her lips to a thin line.

"No, Your Highness, the bums I incurred in my chambers, when I was working on my medicines. I was careless with a flame, nothing more."

"I see." The queen turned and pretended to admire a painting. "Were you by any chance working on the medicine for the king?"

"I was indeed, Your Highness. I have prepared a fresh batch. I would presume by now that the initial dose has been used up?" Baralis was beginning to feel more confident. He could tell that the queen was trying to hide how desperately she wanted the medicine.

"There is none left. The king has been without it for two days now. I fear a relapse if he is without it much longer."

"Then Your Highness must be most anxious to have some more."

The queen wheeled around. "I can play your games no longer, Lord Baralis. I must have the medicine today." The queen was beginning to lose her composure. Baralis remained calm.

"Your Highness knows my price."

"I will not allow you to say who Prince Kylock will marry."

"He must marry someone and Lord Maybor's daughter is no longer a suitable choice. Even if she is found and brought back to the castle, Your Highness would not want the prince married to a girl who can not bear the sight of him."

"You are wrong, Lord Baralis. I have been told the truth of the matter by Lord Maybor himself. He has told me the true reason for his daughter's flight. I have much sympathy for him and have agreed to send the Royal Guard to search for Melliandra. When she is found, the betrothal will be carried out." Baralis could hardly believe what was being said. What lies had Maybor cooked up to fool the queen so effectively?

He hid his surprise. "And if the girl is not found?" The queen gave Baralis a sharp look. He continued,

"Or if the girl is found but is no longer a virgin?"

"I have every confidence that Melliandra will be found, and that when she is, she will be untouched." The queen's eyes drew narrow and she spoke again, "Lord Baralis, I have a proposition for you."

"I am eager to hear it, Your Highness."

"If you agree to supply the king's medicine indefinitely, and the girl is not found within the month, I will agree to your terms."

"And if the girl is found within the month?"

"The betrothal will go ahead as planned, but you must still continue to supply the medicine, and do so until such a time as the king no longer has need of it."

"So you are offering me a wager."

"Are you a betting man, Lord Baralis?" The queen was now her serene self, poised and in control.

"I pride myself on taking risks. I accept the wager." Baralis bowed slightly and the queen smiled charmingly, showing her beautiful, white teeth.

"I wam you, Lord Baralis, the Royal Guard will find Maybor's daughter wherever she is."

"That remains to be seen, Your Highness. In the meantime I will arrange to have a portion of the medicine sent to the king's chamber." Baralis bowed once more and left. Once out of the meeting hall, his step grew light. The queen was a most enjoyable adversary. He almost admired her. It was too bad that she would lose the wager.

Maybor was studying his reflection in the mirror. He was pleased to see that his good looks were returning. True, the sores marred his handsome features somewhat, but they would fade. The soreness in his throat was not of such importance to him, that he could live with. Today he would leave his bedchamber for the first time in days.

He rose from his bed, slapping the wisewoman's buttocks to awaken her. As she woke, Maybor could not resist pulling back the sheets to admire her nakedness. He had found to his surprise that being with an older woman had its advantages; she was much skilled in the art of lovemaking and was not subject to a young girl's modesty. Why, if she'd had land of her own, he might even have considered marrying her!

The wisewoman arose from the bed and proceeded to dress with slow provocation. Maybor looked on in appreciation. When she had dressed, she kissed him lightly on the cheek and left. That was another good thing about her, thought Maybor, she had asked for nothing in return for her favors. He wondered, for a brief instant, if the ailing king had ever partaken of her services. After all, even a sick man has desires.

Maybor did not bother to call for Crandle. He would dress himself this day. He strolled to his wardrobe, deciding he would buy himself a new mirror; he missed looking upon himself in full length.

He was feeling decidedly pleased with himself. He had managed to turn his circumstances round-he had gained the sympathy of the queen. Just this morning, she had sent out the Royal Guard to look for his daughter. Everything could not have worked out better. Now the only thing he needed to make his happiness complete was news of Baralis' death. He decided he would meet with his assassin one last time; the damned man was taking too long about his business. He would have Crandle arrange an assignation.

Maybor opened the door to his wardrobe and surveyed its contents, deciding which robe to wear. He remembered with regret that the red silk he had worn on Winter's Eve had to be discarded-the punch had not washed out. The grayeyed vixen had ruined his best robe! Maybor's eye was caught by something in the corner-he looked closer and found it was a dead rat. This was most strange. If he remembered rightly, on the night of Winter's Eve, Crandle had come from his wardrobe carrying a dead rat. Rats were a constant nuisance in the castle, but it was unusual to find a dead one. Two dead rats were damned suspicious.

Maybor picked the stiff creature up by its tail. He held it at arm's length-it was well known they carried the plague. Maybor could see no obvious signs of the cause of the rat's demise. He brought the creature nearer. Now he could see that its nose was red and swollen. A thrill of revelation passed through Maybor. The rat had died of the same thing that had caused his affliction. There was something in the wardrobe that had killed the rat. Maybor thought back to Winter's Eve. He had been perfectly well; the illness overcame him only after he had dressed for the evening. His clothes had been poisoned!

Baralis had somehow managed to put poison onto his clothes. The fumes given off by the poison were what had caused his sickness. Everything fit into place: the reason he was not dead was that he had been forced to take off the doctored robe before it had finished its commission. The grayeyed snippit had unwittingly saved his life.

Maybor stepped away from his wardrobe. What if all his clothes had been doused in poison? They would all have to be burned. Maybor was furious. He had spent years acquiring the most exquisite robes in all the Four Kingdoms; he had spent a fortune on them. Baralis would pay dearly for this, he vowed. It is one thing to poison a man's wine, but quite another to poison his robes!

Tawl was led back into the room containing the large stone table. The four. were waiting for him.

"You have your answer," said the elder, more a statement than a question. Tawl nodded. "The seers seldom fail. God is benevolent to them."

"It seems to me that God is more benevolent to you." Tawl could not stop his anger. It was a welcome release from the horror of the cavern. "You are the ones who reap the benefits of the atrocities performed on those men. You use them for your own gain. God has no hand in this!" Tawl was shaking.

The four were unmoved by his fury.

"You know nothing of God. You know less of Larn." The elder was perfectly calm. "We do not use the seers, we are here to serve them. They are blessed by God and we are humbled by that blessing, we are their servants. Do not let the sight of them mislead you. They exist in God's own ecstasy. We can only guess at what joy is theirs."

"I am not fooled by your fine words. Where I have just come from is no place of God's; no heavenly ecstasy exists there. The seers are living closer to hell." The four looked upon Tawl as if he were a foolish child.

"The sight can be a little disturbing, but I can see you have no wish to understand. You did, however, use their services, and so now you must pay your due." The elder regarded Tawl with the slightest trace of contempt.

"What is my due?" said Tawl looking directly into the elder's eye.

"We require a service of you." The elder's voice became soft and seductive. "Nothing really, a mere trifle." Tawl felt his eyelids grow heavy. He struggled to keep his wits about him. The elder continued, his voice low and inviting, "The smallest of favors, the easiest of tasks." Tawl's eyes closed. "The tiniest of services, the most innocent of undertakings. . ."

Fifteen

Tawl awoke and wondered where he was. As his head cleared he realized that he was still on Larn. He puzzled over how he had fallen asleep. He was in a small room, lying on a stone bench. As he rose, his aching back told him he had spent some time lying on the hard surface.

He had no memory of being brought to this place. He could recall nothing after leaving the cavern. Tawl felt alarmed. He could remember the seeing clearly, but nothing else. He realized he had to get back to the ship. Captain Quain had said he would sail after one day. Tawl had no way of knowing what time or what day it was. He had to leave immediately. As he made his way from the room, the youngest of the four entered.

"Greetings," he said. "I hope you are well rested."

"How did I come to be here?" demanded Tawl.

"It is a natural side effect of the seeing. The one who seeks answers is usually drained of all his strength..

It is nothing to worry about. Seeing takes its toll on all of us. You became tired and we brought you here so you could sleep."

"How long have I slept?" Tawl did not believe a word the younger had said. He remembered feeling fine immediately after the seeing.

"You have slept for many hours. There is a new dawn."

"I must go. My ship is due to leave soon." Tawl remembered the earlier talk of price. "Tell me what due I must pay."

"Oh, that." The younger's tone was casual. "I think the price will not be high. I believe you will be asked merely to deliver some letters on our behalf in Rorn. You are sailing there, I take it?" There was something about the man's voice that made Tawl suspicious. He had been given the impression earlier that his due would be much greater than acting as a messenger.

"Is that all?" he asked.

"Why, of course. You should not believe all those fireside stories you hear about Larn. All we ever ask in return for a seeing is some small service. We looked upon you with benevolence and decided you should not pay too dearly. If you follow me, I will give you the letters." The man turned and walked from the room and Tawl followed.

He was given two letters, both sealed with wax. He was told where and to whom they should be delivered. He was then led by a hooded man down through the cliffside. As he walked, Tawl found he could not shake off his uneasiness. Something was not right. He could not believe the four were letting him off so easily-letters to deliver in a city he would be in anyway? The most disquieting thing to Tawl, though, was how he had managed to lose the greater part of a day and night.

Tawl was forced to focus on other matters as he approached the beach. He must row fast if he was to reach The Fishy Few before she set sail. The fresh air seemed to Tawl like a blessing after the stale atmosphere of temple and cavern. With every breath he took, he felt his mood growing lighter. Soon he would be free from this cursed place. He decided that when he eventually returned to Valdis he would talk to Tyren about the terrible plight of the Seers of Larn. He wanted to make sure that no more young men would ever be forced into such a life.

Tawl launched his rowboat into the surf, reveling in the cold water about his waist. He jumped into the boat and took up the oars, glad that his feet were no longer on the island.

He was soon making good time. He put all his energy into pulling the oars. It helped him to put Larn out of his thoughts.

It was difficult for him to remember the location of The Fishy Few. Mists swirled at a convenient distance from the shores of Larn, hiding its presence from passing ships. Tawl tried to keep a heading southwest, hoping to eventually stumble upon the boat. After a few hours of rowing, he became anxious: surely he would have spotted the ship by now. He stopped rowing and started listening. He thought he heard a faint call. It came again: the sound of a fog horn. The crew of The Fishy Few were trying to help him by making their presence known. Tawl immediately became heartened and started rowing with renewed effort in the direction of the horn call.

Not much later, Tawl caught sight of the ship's high masts above the mist. His heart filled with joy at the sight. The Fishy Few had not abandoned him. He drew nearer and the mists parted; he was greeted by the sound of a cry, "Boat, ahoy!"

Tawl looked on as the crew of the ship gathered to watch his approach. He made out the form of Captain Quain, who raised his hand in greeting. Tawl heard the crew join in a loud cheer and then, as he drew alongside the ship, he heard the captain shout, "Break open a barrel, shipmates, our good friend has returned."

"No, Bodger, it ain't the miller's wife who'll tumble for a length of cloth and a spring chicken."

"That's what I heard, Grift."

"No, Bodger, there's no one better off than a miller's wife. No, it's the tallow maker's wife who'll tumble for goods. Everyone knows there's no profit to be made in tallow."

"The tallow maker's wife never looks short to me, Grift. She always wears the prettiest dresses."

"Exactly, Bodger! How can a woman whose husband barely makes one silver a month afford fine linen?

She sets a good table, too, plenty of roasted chicken."

"Still, Grift, Master Gulch told. me that he managed to take a tumble with the miller's wife by giving her one length of cloth and a spring chicken."

"Master Gulch should have saved his money, Bodger. The miller's wife will take a tumble with just about anybody in breeches, and for no reason other than she's just plain randy."

"Do you think I'd have a chance with the miller's wife, then, Grift?"

"I'm not sure that you'd want to, Bodger."

"Why's that, Grift?"

"Unfortunately, Bodger, it appears that the miller's wife has been spreading her favors so far and wide that she's caught the ghones. And unless you fancy the idea of watching your balls slowly putrefying and then dropping off, I'd stay clear of her."

"I'm glad you warned me, Grift, you're a true friend."

"I consider it my duty to keep you informed of such matters, Bodger."