adventurous of the trio. Like Ambrose and Ogier, though, concern for Helain kept him closer to home these days
The shopkeep clapped the smaller man on the shoulder. 'Ill see what I can do,' he said. 'The Vistani haven't been much for trading with me since Magda died, and no one else is going to be caught dead bartering at the border. How about another game? See if you two can even things up and save me the trouble.'
The store's main doors burst open. One of the wooden panels shattered; it fell to the floor like so much kindling.
Framed by the doorjamb were two of Azrael's Politskara. The miners knew one of them, a heartless tough named Markel who'd been conscripted from the pit. He brandished a small silver axe. Each politska carried one, though Markel seemed intent on using his every chance he got. Hence the shattered door.
The other was an elf. He regarded Ambrose, Ganelon, even Markel with a look of open disdain. Azrael hadn't exempted the citizens of Mal-Erek, Hroth, or Har-Thelen from service; the wild elves were their enemies, too, though it was hard to imagine them despising the savages any more thoroughly than they did the humans.
'We have a report of a stranger hereabouts,' Markel announced. 'Seen on your doorstep, in fact.'
The pair offered no more of an explanation before splitting up to search the store. They pulled Ganelon from behind the counter and shoved him roughly to the floor. When he tried to protest, the elf kicked him in the ribs. 'You've gotta teach the boy manners,' Markel shouted to Ambrose.
The two politskae moved on, shoving aside any barrel or crate in their way, causing as much casual chaos as they could manage. When they came to the two women, they snatched the cloth bags that held their purchases.
'Sorry to have to do this, dears,' Markel said as he upended the sacks. He poked through the scattered contents with the toe of his boot, searching for the white rose carried by the Thorns.
'I've never even seen a white rose,' one of the women cried.
'No one around here has,' her friend added, 'not in ten years.'
'The Politskara knows otherwise,' Markel said smugly. He slapped both women hard enough to drive them to their knees.
Ganelon watched the brutality with growing anger and indignation. He pushed himself from the floor. Someone has to stop this, he decided. His hands curled into fists, and he took a step toward Markel.
'Don't even think about it, son,' Ambrose warned in a quiet tone. He wrapped one flabby arm around the young man's shoulder. 'You've got to remember your promise to Helain and stay out of trouble. That oath might be the only thing she has to hold on to. Let them break a few chairs, feel big about themselves. They'll be gone soon enough.'
Helain's name struck Ganelon like a dash of ice water. For her sake, and his own honor, he would stay true to his oath.
'All right,' the young man growled. He moved to the counter, limping heavily on his left leg. He still didn't know how he'd injured himself, but whatever strain or sprain he'd suffered wasn't getting any better. At the moment, it felt as if unseen hands were twisting the limb, wringing it like a wet cloth.
Markel didn't bother to interrogate Ogier or Kern. Instead, he headed up the wooden stairs to the second floor. Ganelon turned pleading eyes toward Ambrose, begging for permission to act.
'I said stay out of this, and I meant it.' A dark expression clouded the shopkeep's face, one Ganelon had never seen there before. 'Trust me. I'll handle this,' he whispered.
Ambrose trundled to the foot of the stairs. 'There's a sick girl up there, Markel. Azrael himself told me that she wouldn't be disturbed.'
The politska regarded the door before him. 'Which room's she in?' he asked. Before Ambrose could answer, Markel kicked in the door. 'Not this one, I hope.'
Shocked from sleep, Helain let out a terrified shriek. Ambrose was up the steps much faster than Ganelon would have suspected possible, though he was clutching his chest as he lumbered across the landing. If he's not careful, his heart will burst, the young man brooded. Another thought followed that, as disturbing as it was sudden: No, it can't. Ambrose is already dead.
A high-pitched scream from the store's shelving made Ganelon start. 'The little girl,' he hissed.
He found Markel's partner shaking her violently. 'Why are you here?' the elf shouted. When she didn't respond, he slammed her against the heavy wooden shelves. The impact shook loose a box of iron nails; they rained down onto the floor like metallic hail. Keeping the girl pinned against the shelving with one hand, the elf reached down for a nail. The use he intended for the spike was clear in his hate-filled gray eyes.
'Leave her alone!' Ganelon shouted. 'She's only a child!'
One eyebrow quirked in surprise, the elf regarded the young man. 'Hey,' he called out to his partner, 'this bumpkin is interfering with my interrogation.'
Over the sounds of Helain's frightened weeping, Ganelon could hear an argument building on the second floor. The interplay of murmurs had devolved into an exchange of barked insults.
'Markel?' the elf shouted. But the argument had become a scuffle. The politska tossed the child aside. He barely spared her a second look as she tumbled into a pile of Borcan cloth. 'I'm coming,' he called.
Too late. From the landing came a gasp of pain and a wet, lingering death rattle. A heavy thud, thud, thud told of a body bumping down the wooden stairs. Ganelon's heart stopped. They'd killed Ambrose!
When the young man emerged from the shelving, the elf close behind, he found not Ambrose but Markel heaped at the foot of the stairs. The shop-keep was crouched over the corpse. The silver axe clutched in his hand was dark with the politska's blood.
Ambrose gestured with the axe toward the two women. 'Get them out of here.' His voice was deep and resonant, unburdened by the constant wheeze caused by his accident. 'Now!'
Kern and Ogier were as startled as anyone at the change in their usually mild-mannered friend, but they didn't hesitate to follow his orders. 'An unfortunate accident,' Kern said as he shepherded the women into the night. 'The man tripped and fell upon his own weapon.'
Ogier scowled. 'But the wound's in the middle of his back.'
'No more unusual around these parts than someone strangled by his own tongue,' Kern replied with a sigh.
The elven politska shouted after the women, 'You'll be called as witnesses. Don't think I've forgotten your faces.'
'I'm sure they've already forgotten yours,' Ambrose said. He raised the axe and started forward. There was something liquid to his movements, a grace he'd never demonstrated before. He swayed like a serpent, or a shadow cast by a flickering fire.
Ganelon found himself backing away along with the elf. 'Ambrose,' he said softly.
'Shut up,' the innkeep hissed. 'See to the girl.'
'She's my prisoner,' the elf said, though he never took his eyes off Ambrose. To lower his guard, to turn away for just an instant, would be death. He could see that in the shopkeep's grim face.
Head swimming, Ganelon hurried into the aisles to find the little girl. He found her lying in the midst of a jumbled pile of Borcan cloth. She was dazed and struggling to free herself. 'Here,' Ganelon said. 'Let me help you up.' He pulled her to her feet. As he did, the tattered hood fell away, revealing short blond hair and pointed ears. This was no little girl but a young elven boy. The tattoos curling from his temples down the sides of his neck-a scattering of triangles and swirls-marked him as belonging to one of the feral Iron Hills tribes. Ganelon looked again at the tattoos. Not triangles and swirls, he thought, thorns and stems.
The politskae had been correct. The stranger was a spy, a Thorn of the White Rose.
'Why are you here?' Ganelon gasped. 'What do you want with us?'
'With you' the elf said. 'I bring a message from the most holy and terrible White Rose.'
Ambrose came around the corner, a silver axe in each hand, a trail of bloody footprints behind him. 'What's this?' he boomed.
The Thorn's face went pale with fear. It wasn't the weapons or the blood that inspired that fright. Something else he recognized in Ambrose prompted him to whisper a prayer against evil and flee the shop.
'Wait,' Ganelon shouted. 'The message.' 'Your hope lies with her,' the Thorn called as he dashed out the door.
The young man crossed the room as quickly as his aching leg would carry him. Ambrose caught him well before
