“My feeling,” Beryl said, “is that Coblebay was working on his own.”

Mirwell tapped the catamount head of his armrest.“Nevertheless, I’m not willing to take chances. Bring me Taggern.”

The guardsman was summoned, and clicked his boot heels to attention before his lord-governor.

“Taggern, see that Rider M’farthon doesn’t come in private contact with anyone while she is being provisioned. Get a look in her message satchel if you can, then get her underway as soon as my reply to the king is prepared. Escort her out of the village. I expect a report. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

When the guardsman left, Beryl said, “I could keep an eye on the Rider myself, my lord.”

“I need you to respond to Zachary for me. Your hand is fairer than mine.”

She stepped over to his massive desk, a behemoth of carved cherrywood inlaid with blond oak, which sat upon legs fashioned as the talons of some enormous raptor. He never used the desk himself, and rarely even cracked a book in his library collection. These had all been acquired over the generations, mostly by a Mirwell of a more scholarly tendency. Tomastine II suspected that the province had begun to fail during that particular ancestor’s reign. Still he liked the ambiance of the room with its large fireplace and hide-covered armchairs. Beryl seemed to feel right at home behind the desk. She dipped her quill into the inkwell.

“Your message, my lord?”

“Write to our esteemed king that we will accept his invitation.”

“We, my lord?”

Mirwell smiled broadly. “Yes, we. Did you notice the date of the ball? Not long before the king’s annual hunt.”

“That’s what concerns me.”

“What better way to conquer than to be there to see it happen, eh?”

Beryl brought the message over for him to sign. He took the paper, and the hand that held it. He caressed her hand. The palm was well callused from using a sword, but the other side was soft and smooth, not riddled by the brown spots and tangle of green veins women his age were cursed with. She looked at him, stricken.

“As I said, you’ve a fair hand, my dear.” He released it and looked the letter over, ignoring her as she stepped away and clasped her hands behind her back. She stared straight ahead at nothing. “We shall have a fine time in Sacor City.”

“Yes, my lord.” Her voice was flat.

She took the message, slipped it into an envelope, and sealed it with red wax and the imprint of the two war hammers. She left the library, a bit hastily, Mirwell thought. We’ll see what comes of a visit to Sacor City.

He stood over his Intrigue board. He’d have to find its traveling case. Maybe he would have D’rang look for it. He picked up a red governor and a red soldier, and placed them in the court of the green king.

“I look forward to the hunt.”

RALLY

Karigan stepped out into the overcast morning, leading The Horse down the alley to the main street. The stableboy watched after them wistfully, probably hoping for another copper. He deserved it, Karigan reflected. The Horse gleamed despite the dullness of the day. She just could not afford to dip into her reserves for more coins, but she had made a point of praising the boy for his fine care.

The main street was still muddy. Townsfolk walked on wooden boards lined in front of nearly every building and storefront, but the boards didn’t help if one had to cross the street or veer off course. Women held their long skirts high, their faces in perpetual frowns as they trudged through the slop. Karigan grimaced herself as her foot sucked in the mud. The shine on The Horse’s coat would not last long.

She mounted to let The Horse deal with the mud, and they went in search of a food vendor. Shopkeepers were just opening their doors and throwing back shutters. A blacksmith fired up his forge and the roar of flame could be heard all the way out into the street. North could have been any town awakening, but this one was without refinement. She missed the cobbled streets of Selium.

She found a shop with cluttered shelves of baked and dried goods, coarse cloth, axes, knives, rope, handsaws, blankets, lamps, flour, sugar, lard . . . everything a town of this sort could use. She dismounted and hitched The Horse to a post in front of the shop. She scraped mud off her boots on an iron rung placed outside the doorway just for that purpose.

As she stepped inside, she heard a shout on the street. She peered through a window and watched a man, encumbered by two sacks, running through the mud, making little progress. He was pursued by another man whose white shopkeeper’s smock was splattered with mud.

“Come back with that, you thief!”

The shopkeeper, unencumbered, caught up with the other man, and jumped on him. The two fell into the muck, each grappling with the other. Passersby paused to watch the scene. A dagger flashed in the thief’s hand, and he struck down at the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper loosed a hollow wail that Karigan felt every inch up her spine. The thief had stabbed the shopkeeper, and no one had attempted to stop him.

The thief climbed to his feet, threw the two sacks over his shoulder, and walked away. Pedestrians ignored the thief and simply walked around the shopkeeper’s body as if it were no more than a rock obstructing their path.

Someone clucked his tongue behind Karigan. A burly, bald-pated man in a white smock shook his head, his jowls wobbling. “Old Mael didn’t take any precautions.” He patted a short sword sheathed at his side. Anywhere else, a shopkeeper wearing a sword was an unusual sight.