clothing a small scarlet viper emerged, hissed angrily at the merchant, and wriggled quickly into the bushes.
One of the watch behind Sirc’al started and cried out, “Sir, that’s Sergeant Vilyous. Him that’s on the north gate. I spoke to him there yesterday.”
The commander’s eyes widened..“Vilyous! Whoever helped him out of this world did us all a favor. He’ll not be missed.” He chuckled and spoke to Spielt and Kreelan. “A fine pair of assassins you turned out to be! Couldn’t even kill one of the men you were aiming for.”
Spielt giggled. “Yes, Kreelan. I imagine if you get out of this, you’ll have a pretty time trying to explain things to the squid-master of Eldrinparr. He’ll turn you into fish bait.”
Kreelan scowled. “Come off it, Spielt! You bungled this completely. I wonder to what slave pit they send assassins who kill the wrong man.”
There was a moment of painful silence. The watchman holding the blade to Spielt’s throat gave a slight murmur of one whose arm muscles are beginning to ache intolerably. The sword in his hand shook, drawing a thin line of blood on Spielt’s neck muscles.
Sirc’al broke the pause. “Do you two mean to tell me,” he said ominously, “that neither of you killed this lout?”
Spielt said cautiously, “I mean to tell you that I didn’t.”
“Liar,” snarled Kreelan. “I never touched the fellow. I saw him fall while you were near him. Since I thought you were working for Doegan as well, I assumed you’d completed the mission and we should get out.”
“Wait a minute,” sputtered Spielt. “I thought you were employed by Konigheim.”
There was another silence while everyone digested the import of these words. It was broken by Avarilous casually moving toward the wooden doors that led outside, still holding a nearly full tankard of ale. Spielt’s eyes followed him. “There!” he shrieked. “There, commander! There’s the murderer!”
Slowly Sirc’al’s eyes swung toward Avarilous. “Who in the nine hells are you?
The merchant looked at him apologetically. “The Ulgarthan government rather prefers to see the political situation in the Five Kingdoms remain the same,” he observed. “I came here to make sure the balance was preserved. And the man was extremely rude to me when I entered the city.”
He turned to go.
“Hoy!” cried a half-dozen voices simultaneously.
Avarilous turned back toward the yard. At the same instant, his left foot kicked back against one of the doors, slamming it as hard as he could.
The terrific crash precipitated a flurry of action within the courtyard. The watchman’s sword arm jerked violently, and his blade slid into Spielt’s neck. The blond man fell to the ground, writhing in his death throes. Almost at the same instant there was a dull twang, and a crossbow quarrel suddenly protruded from the back of Kreelan’s head. He staggered forward against the commander. Two of the watchmen whipped crossbows from beneath their dark robes and fired at the balcony where Raeglaran was standing. There was a cry and a crash of rending wood as Raeglaran’s lifeless body plummeted to the floor of the inn.
Kreelan’s nerveless fingers jerked in a dying reflex, flipping the glass baIl upward. The commander snatched it out of the air. “Thank the-” he started to say, then watched in horror as the ball slipped from his sweaty grasp.
Sirc’al screamed in frustration and anguish. Then he felt a sudden blow to the back of his knees and unexpectedly sat down in the chair thrust beneath him. The glass ball landed on his lap, unbroken, and his hands clasped round it. He could feel his heart thudding against his ribs.
There was a quiet cough behind him, and he looked around to see who had saved him.
Necht, Avarilous’s driver, stared at him with his hands still outthrust. Avarilous himself stood before the door watching calmly the havoc he had wrought. In the silence that followed, the merchant stepped carefully back into the courtyard and strolled over to the still recumbent landlord.
“Daltrice,” he observed calmly, “I do have time for one short drink. And I think you owe me something.” He picked up a tankard and drained it. At the same time, he bent and effortlessly jerked a heavy purse from the landlord’s belt. He scattered its coins on the polished bar top and, swiftly flicking his forefinger, counted out one hundred and forty pieces. No one moved as he scooped them up and dropped them in his own pocket. Jingling slightly, he put down his drink and moved toward the door.
“I forgot to tell you,” he said to the landlord. “I won’t be back again. Urgent business elsewhere. New accounts to service. You know how it is.” He grinned, beckoned to Necht, and was gone.
Lynaelle
Lynaelle awoke suddenly to find herself face to face with a cocked crossbow. Hurlonn Davenwiss was at the other end, aiming it at her with a snarl on his face. Hurlonn was a generally sour fellow who had lost his wife two winters ago in an orc raid. “Get up, you ungrateful wench!” he yelled at her, even as she noticed others looming over her bed. The girl blinked, trying to clear the cobwebs of sleep, even as the sheets were yanked back and she was dragged to her feet. Teress Turigoode’s husband Shastin was there, and behind him Gorlin the hunter stood, a long dagger in his belt, a lantern in one hand, and a coil of rope in the other.
“What’s the matter?” Lynaelle asked, shivering from the cold in only her thin shift.
“Shut up!” Hurlonn spat, keeping the crossbow trained on the girl. “Tie her, Gorlin. Don’t let her use any of her infernal magic on us. Ungrateful little whelp.”
Shastin spun Lynaelle around and pushed her against the bed, then grabbed her arms, jerking them cruelly behind her back. “Ow!” she cried out, not understanding. “Please! What’s wrong?” She could feel rope being threaded around her wrists, burning her skin as the slack was drawn up. “Please, Gorlin, someone, tell me what’s going on!” Lynaelle sobbed, desperately wishing Ambriel would arrive and call off this mob. She did not struggle as Gorlin finished tying her hands and began to bind her fingers, immobilizing them completely.
“I say we kill her now and be done with it,” Hurlonn raged. “No sense in waiting.”
“No,” Gorlin said quietly but firmly as he helped Lynaelle to her feet. “The Lady’s law says she gets a trial. There will be no killing.”
“Fah!” spat Hurlonn. “A trial is a waste of time.” Outside her small one-room cottage, Lynaelle could see that dawn was breaking, but the sun was still behind the mountains.
“Nonetheless,” Gorlin pronounced firmly, “the Lady’s law is clear. There will be a trial. Let’s go, girl.” He gently pushed Lynaelle forward, toward the door, steering her by his grip.
“Please!” Lynaelle said, moving forward woodenly, shivering, her feet aching from the cold floor. “I didn’t do anything! Somebody please talk to me.” She felt numb, as if none of this were real. Where is Ambriel? she wondered. Or Daleon?
“Don’t pretend you didn’t kill him!” Hurlonn fumed. “Don’t pretend you didn’t go up there last night and blast him with the very magic he taught you to use!”
Lynaelle stumbled then, her head spinning. Ambriel! No! She sank to her knees, unable to breathe. Someone had taken Ambriel from her. I didn’t do it! her mind screamed. No, it can’t be real. She began to shake uncontrollably. “P-please,” she sobbed quietly. “I didn’t do that. I would never…” Never kill the only person who ever really cared about me, she finished in her head, remembering the previous day, the last time she had seen him.
“No, no, Lynnie, twist it. Like this,” Ambriel chided as he tore another strip of parchment from the sheet in his lap. His gnarled fingers, steady despite their age, pulled the strip taut and then deftly looped it back on itself, giving it a half twist. “There, like that,” he said, pinching the ends together between his thumb and forefinger and holding it for the girl to see.
Lynaelle chewed her lower lip as she studied the twisted shape in the older man’s hand, wanting to make certain she understood what he had done. She nodded finally, confident she could duplicate it. She took her own strip and pulled it taut by the ends, as he had done, then mimicked his movements to form the endless loop.
