Oliver put his grand hat over his heart and lowered his head in respect. But then the cyclopian jerked suddenly and straightened, letting go of his weapon. He stumbled backward several steps and tried to turn, and Oliver saw that he was grabbing his belly, trying to hold in his spilling guts. Back on the ground, Luthien's sword, the top half of the blade bloodied, was sticking straight up. Luthien sat up, tossing the spear aside, and Oliver laughed loudly as he recognized the truth of the matter. Luthien hadn't been impaled; he had caught the cyclopian's blade under his arm and rolled to the side as he fell to disguise the ruse.

"Oh, I do think that I am going to like this one," the halfling said, and he tipped his hat to the victorious Luthien.

"Now, cowardly fat merchant-type, will you admit that you are defeated?" Oliver called, rapping the coach door with his rapier. "You may get out now, or come out at the end of my so fine rapier blade!"

The door creaked open and the merchant came out, followed by a painted and perfumed lady wearing a low-cut-up-high and high-cut-down-low silken crimson gown. The woman eyed the halfling incredulously, but her expression changed when she noticed the handsome young Bedwyr as he walked over to join the group.

Luthien caught her lewd gaze and returned it with an incredulous smirk. He immediately thought of Avonese, and his left hand unconsciously tightened on the hilt of his b.l.o.o.d.y sword.

Three graceful hops-to the seat, to the horse's rump, and to the ground-brought Oliver down to them, and he walked around the two prisoners. A yank of his free hand took the merchant's belt purse, and a flick of his rapier took the woman's jeweled necklace over her head.

"Go and search the coach," he instructed Luthien. "I did not ask for your help, but I will graciously split the wealth." He paused and thought for a moment, counting kills. At first, he gave Luthien credit for three of the cyclopians, half the enemy, but then he convinced himself that the driver belonged to him. "You defeated two of the six," he announced. "So four of six items are mine."

Luthien stood up straight, indignant.

"You think you get half?" the highwayman balked.

"I am no thief!" Luthien proclaimed. All three-Oliver, the merchant, and the lady-looked about the carnage and the dead and wounded cyclopians lying in the muck.

"You are now," they all said together, and Luthien winced.

"The coach?" Oliver prompted after a long and silent minute slipped past. Luthien shrugged and moved by them, entering the coach. It had many compartments, most filled with food or handkerchiefs, perfume and other items for the journey. After some minutes of searching, though, Luthien found a small iron chest under the seat. He pulled it out to the open floor and hoisted it, then moved back outside.

Oliver had the merchant on his knees, stripped to his underwear and whimpering.

"So many pockets," the halfling explained to Luthien, going through the man's huge waistcoat.

"You may search me," the woman purred at Luthien, and he fell back a step, banging against the coach's open door.

"If you are hiding anything precious under there," the halfling said to her, indicating her skintight, revealing gown, "then you are not half the woman you pretend to be!"

He was laughing at his own joke until he noticed the iron box in Luthien's hands. Then Oliver's eyes lit up.

"I see that it is time to go," he said, and tossed the waistcoat away.

"What about them?" Luthien asked.

"We must kill them," Oliver said casually, "or they will bring the whole Praetorian Guard down upon us."

Luthien scowled fiercely. Killing armed cyclopians was one thing, but a defenseless man and woman, and wounded enemies (even if they were cyclopian) defeated on the field of honor, was something entirely different. Before the young man could begin to protest, though, the halfling moaned and slapped a hand across his face.

"Ah, but one of the one-eyes got away," Oliver said in feigned distress, "so we cannot eliminate all witnesses. It would seem, then, that mercy would serve us well." He looked around at the groaning cyclopians: the driver behind the team; the one trampled into the ground by Oliver's pony, propped on one elbow now and watching the proceedings; the one that Luthien had stabbed still kneeling and holding his belly; and the one that Oliver's horse had sent flying away standing again, though unsteadily, and making no move to come back near the robbers. With the one Oliver had sent running away, rubbing his behind, that left only the dead crossbowman atop the coach.

"Besides," the halfling added with a smirk, "you are the only one who actually killed anybody."

"Take me with you!" the lady screamed suddenly, launching herself at Luthien. She crashed into him, and Luthien dropped the iron box-right on both of his own feet. Inspired by the pain, the overpowering stench of the lady's perfume, and his memories of Avonese, Luthien growled and pushed her back, and before he could think of what he was doing, he punched her right in the face, dropping her heavily to the ground.

"We must work on your manners," Oliver noted, shaking his head. "And your chivalry," he remarked to the merchant, who made not the slightest protest about the punch.

"But that, like the chest of treasure, can wait," the halfling explained. "To the road, my friend!"

Luthien shrugged, not knowing what to do, not even understanding what he had done.

"Threadbare!" Oliver called, a fitting name if Luthien had ever heard one. Oliver's ugly yellow pony trotted around the coach horses and kneeled so that the halfling could better gain his seat.

"Put the chest upon your own horse," Oliver instructed, "and I will go and find my main gauche. And you," he said, tapping the quivering merchant atop the head with the side of his rapier blade. "Count as you would count your own coins. And do not stop until you have counted them, every one, a thousand times!"

Luthien retrieved Riverdancer and secured the chest behind the horse's saddle. Then he walked over and helped the woman back to her feet. He meant to offer a sincere apology-this was not Avonese, after all, and he and the halfling had just robbed her-but she immediately wrapped herself around him once more, biting at his earlobe. With great effort (and nearly at the cost of that ear), Luthien managed to pull her back to arm's length.

"So strong," she purred.

"Your lady?" Oliver began, walking Threadbare past the kneeling merchant.

"My wife," the merchant replied sourly.

"A loyal type, I can see," Oliver said. "But then, now we have the money!"

Luthien shoved off and ran away from the woman, getting into his saddle so quickly that he nearly tumbled off the other side. He kicked Riverdancer into a short gallop, seeing the woman running fast after him, and rushed right past Oliver, toward the bridge.

Oliver watched him with amus.e.m.e.nt, then wheeled Threadbare around to face the merchant and his woman. "Now you may tell all your fat merchant-type friends that you were robbed by Oliver deBurrows," he said, as though that should carry some significance.

Threadbare reared on his hind legs, and with a tip of his hat, Oliver was off.

Chapter 7.

THE DIAMONDGATE FERRY.

"I am Oliver deBurrows," the halfling said, bringing his pony to a trot after the two had put more than a mile behind them. "Highwayman," he added, sweeping his hat off gracefully.

Luthien started to likewise introduce himself, but the halfling was not finished. "I used to say 'highwayhalfling,' " he explained, "but the merchants did not take that so seriously and I had to more often use my rapier blade. To make my point, if you understand my meaning." As he spoke, he snapped the rapier from the loop on his baldric and thrust it Luthien's way.

"I understand," Luthien a.s.sured him, gently pushing the dangerous weapon away. He tried to introduce himself but was promptly cut off.

"And this is my fine horse, Threadbare," Oliver said, patting the yellow pony. "Not the prettiest, of course, but smarter than any horse, and most men, as well."

Luthien patted his own s.h.a.ggy mount and started to say, "Riverda-"

"I do appreciate your unexpected help," Oliver went on, oblivious to Luthien's attempt to speak. "Of course, I could have defeated them by myself-there were only six, you see. But take help where you find help, my papa halfling always say, and so I am grateful to ..."

"Luth-" Luthien began.

"Of course, my grat.i.tude will not carry beyond the split of the profits," Oliver quickly added. "One in four for you." He eyed Luthien's rather plain dress with obvious disdain. "And that will probably be more wealth than you have ever seen."

"Probably," the son of the eorl of Bedwydrin said immediately, trying to hide his smirk. Luthien did realize, though, that he had left his home without taking much in the way of wealth. He had enough to cross on the ferry and support himself for a few days, but when he had left Dun Varna, he hadn't really thought much beyond that.

"Not in debt, then," Oliver said, barely pausing for a breath, before Luthien, for the fourth time, could offer his name. "But I will allow you to ride beside me, if you wish. That merchant-type was not surprised to see me-and he knew all along that he could have kept me away by showing his six guards openly. Yet he hid them," the halfling reasoned, seeming as if he was speaking to himself. Then he snapped his fingers and looked straight at Luthien so quickly that he startled the young man.

"I do think that he hid the one-eyes in the hopes of luring me in!" Oliver exclaimed. He paused for just an instant, stroking his goatee with one of his green-gloved hands.

"Yes, yes," he went on. "The merchant-type knew I was on the road-this is not the first time I have robbed him at rapier point. I got him outside of Princetown once, I do believe." He looked up at Luthien, nodding his head. "And of course, the merchant-type would have heard my name in any case. So you may ride with me," he offered, "for a while. Until we are beyond the traps this merchant-type has no doubt set."

"You think that the danger is not behind us?"

"I just said that."

Luthien again hid his smirk, amazed at how the little one had just pumped himself up to be some sort of legendary highwayman. Luthien had never heard of Oliver deBurrows before, though the merchants traveling to his father's house in Dun Varna often brought tales of thieves along the road.

"I a.s.sure you," Oliver began, but he stopped and looked at Luthien curiously. "You know," he said, seeming somewhat perturbed, "you really should properly introduce yourself when traveling beside someone you have never met. There are codes of etiquette, particularly for those who would be known as proper highwaymen. Ah well," he finished with a great sigh, "perhaps you will learn better in your time beside Oliver deBurrows."

"I am Luthien," the young Bedwyr shouted quickly, before Oliver could interrupt him once more. He wondered if he should, perhaps, go by an alias. But he couldn't think of one at that moment, and he really didn't see the point. "Luthien Bedwyr of Dun Varna. And this is Riverdancer," he added, giving the horse another pat.

Oliver tipped his hat, then pulled up short on his pony. "Bedwyr?" he asked, as much to himself as to Luthien, as though he wanted to hear the ring of the name again. "Bedwyr. This name is not unknown to me."

"Gahris Bedwyr is the eorl of Bedwydrin," Luthien said.

"Ah!" Oliver agreed, pointing one finger up into the air and smiling widely in recognition. That smile went away in an incredulous blink. "Family?"

"Father," Luthien admitted.

Oliver tried to respond, but nearly choked instead. "And you are out here on the road-for sport!" the halfling reasoned. In Gascony, where Oliver had spent most of his life, it was not uncommon for the rowdy children of n.o.bles to get into all sorts of trouble, including ambushing merchants on the road, knowing that their family connections would keep them free. "Draw your sword, you silly little boy!" the halfling cried, and out whipped his rapier and his main gauche. "I so much do not approve!"

"Oliver!" Luthien replied, swinging Riverdancer about to put some ground between himself and the fuming halfling. "What are you talking about?" As the halfling turned his pony to pursue, Luthien grudgingly drew his weapon.

"You bring disgrace to every reputable highwayman in all the land!" the halfling went on. "What need have you of coins and jew-wels?" Threadbare sidled up close to Riverdancer, and the halfling, though he was sitting at only about half Luthien's height and could barely reach the man's vital areas, thrust forward his rapier.

Luthien's sword intercepted the weapon and turned it aside. Oliver countered with a rapid series of thrusts, feints and cuts, even slipping in a deceptive jab with the main gauche.

Skilled Luthien defeated every move, kept his balance perfect and his sword in proper defensive posture.

"But it is a game for the son of an eorl," Oliver remarked sarcastically. "He is too bored in his daily duties of cowering his subjects." The thrusts became fiercer still, Oliver apparently going for a kill.

That last line got to Luthien, though, insulted him and insulted his father, who had never acted in such a way. He rocked back in his saddle, letting Oliver play out his fury, then came on with an attack routine of his own, slapping the rapier out wide and swiping his sword across fiercely. Oliver's main gauche intercepted, and the halfling squealed, thinking that he could send Luthien's weapon flying, as he had done to the cyclopian.

Luthien was quicker than that brute, and he turned his blade before Oliver could twist the trapping dagger, nearly taking the main gauche from the halfling's hand and freeing the sword so that it could complete its swing.

Oliver's great hat fell to the ground, and both the halfling and Luthien knew that Oliver's head would have still been inside if Luthien had so desired.

A tug on the reins sent Threadbare back several feet, putting some distance between the combatants. "I could be wrong," the halfling admitted.

"You are wrong," Luthien answered sternly. "You could find fault with Gahris Bedwyr, that I do not doubt. He does not follow his heart if that course would go against the edicts of King Greensparrow, or the duke of Montfort, or any of the duke's many emissaries. But on pain of death, never again speak of Gahris as a tyrant!"

"I said I could be wrong," Oliver replied soberly.

"As for me ..." Luthien went on, his voice subdued, for he was not sure of how to proceed. What of me? he wondered. What had happened this day? It all seemed a surrealistic blur to the suddenly confused Luthien.

For once, Oliver remained silent and let the young man sort out his thoughts, understanding that whatever Luthien might have to say could be important-both to Oliver and to Luthien.

"I no longer claim any of the rights that accompany the name of Bedwyr," Luthien said firmly. "I have fled my house, leaving the corpse of a cyclopian guardsman behind. And now I have chosen my course." He held his sword up before him, letting its fine blade shine in the sun, though it was still a bit stained with the blood of the merchant's guard. "I am as much an outlaw as are you, Oliver deBurrows," Luthien proclaimed. "An outlaw in a land ruled by an outlaw king. Thus will my sword swing for justice."

Oliver raised his own rapier in like salute and outwardly proclaimed his agreement. He thought Luthien a silly little boy, though, who didn't understand either the rules or the dangers of the road. Justice? Oliver nearly laughed aloud at the thought. Luthien's sword might swing for justice, but Oliver's rapier jabbed for profit. Still, the young man was a mighty ally-Oliver couldn't deny that. And, Oliver mused, lending some credibility to the smile he was showing to Luthien, if justice was truly Luthien's priority, then more of the profits might fall Oliver's way.

Suddenly, the highwayhalfling was beginning to think that this arrangement might not be so temporary. "I accept your explanation," he said. "And I apologize for my too rash actions." He went to tip his hat again, then realized that it was lying on the ground. Luthien saw it, too, and started to move for it, but Oliver waved him back. Leaning low off the side of his saddle, the halfling tipped his rapier low, slipping the point in under the hat. A flick and twist brought the hat spinning atop the rapier's tip as Oliver lifted the weapon. He thrust it up, then jerked his rapier away, and the hat dropped in a spin, landing perfectly atop the halfling's head.

Luthien sat amazed, answering Oliver's smug smile with a shake of his head.

"But we are not safe on the island, fellow outlaw," Oliver said, his expression turning serious. "That merchant-type knew me, or of me, and expected me. He was probably on his way to your own father to organize a hunt for Oliver deBurrows." The halfling paused and snorted. He looked at Luthien and his chuckle became a full-blown laugh.

"Oh, wonderful irony!" Oliver cried. "He goes to the eorl for a.s.sistance, while the eorl's own son comes to my a.s.sistance!" Oliver's laughter continued to grow, and Luthien joined in, more to be polite than with any real feelings of mirth.

They did not make the ferry that afternoon, as Luthien had hoped. He explained to Oliver that the ferries would not cross the choppy seas at night. In the darkness, the island spotters could not see if any dorsal whales had come into the narrow channels. A description of the ten-ton man-eaters was all that Oliver needed to be convinced that they should forgo plans to be off the island that same day and set up their camp.

Luthien sat up long into the night in the drizzle beside the hissing and smoking low campfire. To the side, Threadbare and Riverdancer stood quietly, heads bowed, and across the fire, Oliver snored contentedly.

The young man huddled under his blanket, warding off the chill. He still could not believe all that had happened over the last few days: Garth Rogar, his brother, the cyclopian guardsman, and now the attack on the merchant wagon. It remained unreal to Luthien; he felt as if he had fallen into a river of uncontrollable events and was simply being swept along in their tide.

No, not uncontrollable, Luthien finally decided. Undeniable. The world, as it turned out, was not as he had been brought up to expect it to be. Perhaps his last actions in Dun Varna-his decision to leave and his fight with the cyclopian-had been some sort of pa.s.sage into adulthood, an awakening for the naive child of a n.o.ble house.

Perhaps, but Luthien knew that he still had no solid answers. He knew, too, that he had followed his heart both in Dun Varna and when he had seen Oliver's fight with the merchant's guards. He had followed his heart, and out there, on the road, in the drizzle of a chill August night, Luthien had little else to guide him.

The next day was similarly gray and wet, but the companions made good time out of their encampment. Soon the smell of salt water filled their nostrils and put a tang in their mouths. .

"If the day was clear," Luthien explained, "we could see the northern spurs of the Iron Cross from here."

"How do you know?" Oliver asked him sarcastically. "Have you ever had a clear day on this island?" The banter was light and so were their hearts (Oliver's always seemed to be!). Luthien felt somehow relieved that day, as though he would find his freedom when he crossed the narrow channel and stepped onto Eriador's mainland. The wide world beckoned.

But first, they had to get across.

From the top of a rocky bluff, the two got their first view of the Diamondgate Ferry, and of the mainland across the narrow channel. The place was called Diamondgate for a small, diamond-shaped isle, a lump of wet black rock in the middle of the channel, halfway between the sh.o.r.es.

Two flat, open barges sat at the ends of long wooden wharves whose supporting beams were as thick as ancient oaks. Off to the side loomed the remains of the older wharves, equally well constructed, their demise a testament to the power of the sea.

The barges, including the two now moored across the channel, had originally been designed and built by the dwarves of the Iron Cross more than three hundred years before, and had been meticulously maintained (and replaced, when the rocks or the currents or a dorsal whale took one) by the islanders ever since. Their design was simple and effective: an open, flat landing for cargo and travelers, anch.o.r.ed at each corner by thick beams that arched up to a central point ten feet above the center of the landing. Here the beams connected to a long metal tube, and through this ran the thick rope that guided the ferry back and forth. A large gear showed on each side of the tube, its notches reaching in through slits along the tube's side. A crank on the deck turned a series of gears leading to these two, which in turn caught the knots on the rope and pulled the ferry along the taut cord's length. The beauty of the system was that, because of the marvelous dwarven gearing, a single strong man could pull the ferry even if it was heavily laden.

But still the crossing was always dangerous. The water this day, as every day, showed white tips on its bouncing waves and abundant rocks, especially near to Diamondgate, where the ferries could dock if they encountered any trouble.

One of the barges was always inoperable, taken down so that its guide rope could be replaced, or when its floor planking needed shoring up. Several dozen men worked long days at Diamondgate just to keep the place in operation.

"They are planning to shut down that one," Luthien, familiar with the operation, informed Oliver, pointing to the barge on the north. "And it seems as if the other is about to leave. We must hurry, or wait perhaps hours for the next barge to cross over." He gave a ticking sound to Riverdancer, and the horse started down the path leading to the landings.

A few minutes later, Threadbare pranced up alongside and Oliver grabbed Luthien's arm, indicating that he should slow the pace.

"But the ferry-" Luthien started to protest.