Now he heard someone coming and ducked into a side door, watching as a young knight hurried past. When that man headed down a nearby stairway, the warrior ran in the direction the knight had come from. He climbed another flight of stairs, darted around a corner, and halted suddenly in front of a pair of veteran, stern-faced knights.
Jaymes froze, his sword ready, though not yet aflame. The two knight captains glared at him coldly. Eyes narrowing, the warrior recognized one of the officers, then the other.
“Captain Powell,” he said tersely. “I sincerely hoped never to see you again.”
“I am sure of that,” said the Knight of the Rose, “after you killed a good, loyal knight, escaping from me.”
“And Captain Marckus.” Jaymes nodded coolly to the other knight. “I am glad to see you survived the battle at the bridge.”
“Yourself, as well,” the grizzled officer admitted grudgingly. At Powell’s puzzled look, he explained. “This man held the rearguard together all the way to the bridge. Then he and a dwarf, with some help from the White Witch, destroyed the bridge before the enemy could cross the span and ravage our retreat.
“I just left two of your comrades-Captain Dayr and Sir Rene-down in the temple of Hiddukel, only a few minutes ago. I hasten to add that I left them alive,” Jaymes said.
“What temple of Hiddukel?” demanded Marckus. “Here? In Caergoth?”
“Right under the Temple of Shinare. It seems the Patriarch was working nights, serving the Prince of Lies. I didn’t leave him alive, however,” the warrior explained, still holding his sword warily. “When you go down there and remove the Nightmaster’s mask from his body, I think you’ll see a distinct resemblance to Patriarch Issel. He’s the one who persuaded the duke to kill his wife.”
“How dare you utter such an accusation!” declared Sir Marckus. “You’re a brave enough fighter-I’ll give you that-but I won’t have you slandering a Lord of the Rose!” His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as he stepped forward.
“Lord?” spat Jaymes, contemptuously. “I’m only slandering killers and cowards!” He glared at Powell. “That knight I killed? He had been sent to slit my throat, to make sure I never made it to Palanthas alive.”
“Do you believe this villain?” Marckus angrily asked his comrade, though his eyes never left the swordsman.
“Perhaps I do. It’s possible,” Powell acknowledged in a low voice.
“Listen! It makes more sense than me sneaking in here to kill the duchess, while leaving the duke alone,” Jaymes said. “Of course, you’ll believe only what you want to believe…”
Captain Powell held up a hand. “No, I have been rethinking many of my beliefs. So has the Princess Selinda. We happen to think you may be telling the truth.” He glanced at his fellow officer. “Marckus, you were the first one on the scene after the duchess was slain, were you not?”
“Aye,” declared the grizzled veteran. His eyes, cold and hard, never left Jaymes’s face.
“Did you see any burned fabric-any evidence of a fire around the wound? Was the cut caused by a huge sword such as the one wielded by this man?”
“No, I’d have to say the wound was caused by a knife, not a sword. There was no sign of fire. Nor were there any witnesses, though the duke claimed the Assassin fled along the top of the wall. I did think it strange that none of the guards spotted the culprit.”
“Let’s go have a talk with the duke,” Jaymes suggested. “See what he has to say about all this.”
“I won’t let you near him-not while you’re carrying that blade!” Marckus declared hotly.
The swordsman thought for a moment, his eyes shifting from one captain to the other. After a long pause, he sheathed the weapon then unhooked the scabbard from his belt.
“I expect this back,” he said, before handing it to the surprised officers.
“I’ll make no promises,” Marckus said, as Powell took Giantsmiter. “But if you are telling the truth…”
“Wait,” said Powell. Almost apologetically, he leaned forward, patted the swordsman’s waist, felt the outlines of the two crossbows. “I remember you carried a little surprise under there. We better take those, too.”
The two captains, carrying their own swords, flanked the disarmed Jaymes as they hurried down the hall to an ornate door. The portal was ajar, so Powell knocked, then stuck his head into the room.
“He’s not here!” he said.
“I think,” Marckus said, very slowly, “I might know where we can find him.”
Dram Feldspar hopped down from the supply wagon as it rolled through the gate of Castle Caergoth. He had secured transport from the frightened teamster by standing in the road and threatening to chop the wagon’s wheels off with his axe if the man refused.
Sulfie and Salty Pete were beside him, and now they jumped to the ground and rushed after him through the doors that lay in pieces just inside the hall of the keep. From the charred, broken planking, the dwarf suspected Jaymes had preceded them.
“Up here,” the dwarf shouted, indicating a vast staircase rising to upper floors. “I think our boy’s gonna need some help.”
Axe in hand, he started up the stairs, the gnomes panting after. He reached the first landing, looked to the right and left into a pair of ornately decorated corridors. Each had crystal chandeliers, gilt-lined columns, plush red carpeting. Taking a guess, he jogged to the left down a long hallway lined with doors.
“You-hey you, dwarf!” cried a woman, coming into view down a side hallway. “Tarry a moment.”
He turned in surprise. “Do I know you?” he asked the person, obviously a noblewoman, who was advancing toward him, considering he was an intruder wielding an axe (not to mention accompanied by two out-of-breath gnomes, who looked slightly mad). Her long hair was golden, her face proud, sublimely beautiful.
“No-but I’ve seen you before,” she replied. “Here, in Caergoth, I watched you in the Gnome Ghetto-when you and the man they call the Assassin-the man you call Jaymes-escaped-with Coryn’s help. You’re his friend, are you not?”
“Might be.” Dram glared, still suspicious. “Who in Reorx’s foundry are you?”
“I’m the Princess of Palanthas,” said the lady, “and I’d like to help you.”
“How?”
“Well,” she said, her hands on her hips, “you’re looking for Jaymes and the duke, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Dram admitted.
“For starters, you’re in the wrong place. This is the guest wing-the residential quarters are over there.”
“Is that so?” demanded the dwarf, with a confused scowl. “Why should I believe you?”
“I’m as interested in the truth as you are,” said the princess. “Stop arguing. We don’t have much time. Come with me.”
She started along the corridor, with the gnomes shrugging their shoulders and following her at a brisk pace. Shaking his head in exasperation, Dram joined in the race.
“Captain Marckus! Captain Powell!”
“Yes-Reynaud? What is it?” said Marckus.
They were escorting Jaymes toward the door of the duke’s game room, when the other officer approached them at a run.
“I have a message for Captain Powell-the princess needs you right away!” Reynaud said to Powell. “She’s in the guest wing and said to tell you it’s urgent! I’ll take over here.”
“All right. Keep an eye on the prisoner,” Powell said, his thoughts immediately on the safety of his noble charge.
He rushed down the corridor and turned the corner, as Reynaud took up a flanking position behind Jaymes.
“We’re on our way to the game room,” said Marckus, warily eyeing Reynaud. “We’re going to talk to the duke.”
Another dozen steps brought them to that chamber, and Marckus reached out to open the door. He didn’t see the knife in Reynaud’s hand, though he felt the steel blade stab into his back.
The veteran captain turned to protest and slumped to the floor. The last thing Marckus saw before his world went black was Reynaud pushing Jaymes Markham into the game room, following the prisoner inside, and slamming the door behind him.
