"Honor's easy for you," he sneered, "you're living. I'm existing." Then abruptly as it rose, his rage subsided and his voice, when she heard it again, sounded close to tears. "I'm sorry, Vree. It's just... I mean, I want..."

"Vree?"

Fighting her way up out of Bannon's despair, she discovered the reins were sliding lose through her fingers. Her gelding, taking advantage of her momentary absence, had swerved for the edge of the road and dropped his head to s.n.a.t.c.h a mouthful of the coa.r.s.e gra.s.s. The bard, physically exhausted by the day's ride and emotionally shredded by the reason for it, appeared not to have noticed, but Gyhard stared at her, his expression looking very much like concern. A heartbeat later Vree decided she had to be mistaken- she'd fallen a little behind so he'd had to turn and face the setting sun. It was a squint. Nothing more. Because it couldn't be anything more.

"You have a suggestion?" Gyhard continued, lifting a hand to shade his eyes.

Vree gathered up the reins and with them her control-of the horse, of herself. "I do. We stop at the next inn. If there's a healer around, we have her head looked at..." She jerked her chin at the bard. "... either way she eats and goes to bed. We leave at dawn and we ride hard before the day heats up."

Gyhard opened his mouth to speak, but Karlene broke in before he had a chance. "We ride until dark," she said. "It would be stupid to waste the cool of the evening."

"Stupider to die," Vree pointed out. "Much stupider to fall off your horse and break your neck. You look like s.h.i.t, and you need to rest."

Karlene took a deep breath, the air equally scented with sweaty horse and sweaty bard, and discovered that even her lungs ached. "The prince..."

"Will be rescued later or not at all. Your choice."

Later or not at all had been Vree's choice from the moment she'd seen another man wearing her brother's body.

The bard stroked at a dark strand of mane with one finger. Finally, she sighed, surrender implicit in the release of air. "Are all a.s.sa.s.sins so tenacious?"

"What does tenacious mean?" Bannon asked peevishly, curiosity dragging him up out of depression.

"How should I know?" Vree lifted her chin. "We're trained to remove anything that gets between us and our target," she said, and because it was important to keep in mind just what she needed to remove, she looked past Karlene to Gyhard.

He raised her brother's eyebrow in what could have been acknowledgment.

Chasing the dead, the three of them had ridden from the Capital much faster than Gyhard and Vree had ridden in, and they'd long pa.s.sed that section of the East Road where buildings were as frequent as Imperial law allowed and stopping at an inn meant merely making a choice. They rode into the next village as the setting sun dipped below the horizon, their shadows no longer stretching out before them, leading the way, but blending back into the dusk.

Vree lifted sweat-damp hair off the back of her neck and scanned the cl.u.s.ter of buildings grouped as close to the south side of the Great Road as the law allowed. Habit planned routes through shadow, marking doors and windows she could enter unseen.

Then the breeze carried the sound of keening down the road toward them.

The lament came from a tiny cobbler's shop, tucked up against one wall of what appeared to be the village's only inn. As they approached, a burly young man standing outside the shop's closed shutters glared at them suspiciously and shifted his ornately carved cudgel from hand to hand. He watched them pa.s.s, the sound of their horses' hooves momentarily drowned out by the cries of grief from within.

When they rode into the inn yard and the bulk of the building cut off the ululating cry, Vree checked her weapons. "I wonder what he's guarding against."

"Death," Karlene replied dully. "It's the custom in this part of the Empire to hire a strong arm to stand guard at the door for a day in case the body calls Death back into the house. The club he was carrying had protections carved into it. He'll lead the procession to the grave."

"We don't do that in the south."

"'Cause we're not stupid enough to think it would make any difference. Death walks where she wants to. Slaughter it, Vree, we walk where we want to."

"In the south, you burn a sprig of parsley and sprinkle the ashes across the threshold to keep restless spirits from returning home." Half her mouth crooked up in a humorless smile. "Bards study these things. I'm so tired of death." She slid out of the saddle. Vree barely managed to catch her as her knees folded and she continued to drop all the way to the hard-packed dirt of the stableyard.

A life spent in the army allowed Vree to recognize and appreciate the stream of profanity pouring out of the bard's mouth even without knowing the language. "Come on," she grunted, heaving the taller, heavier woman back up onto her feet. "Inside. A hot soak..." A quick glance through gathering darkness ascertained that the inn did, indeed have a bathhouse. "... and then sleep."

"And it'll be better in the morning?" By will alone, Karlene got her legs moving toward the door.

"No." False promises were for children. "But you may be."

The common room was empty, hardly surprising as the wailing could be heard clearly through the adjoining wall. Shooting a glance that contained as much irritation as sorrow at the place where the sounds originated, the innkeeper lit one last lamp and hurried toward them. As Vree eased the bard down onto a bench, Gyhard negotiated for care of their horses, three places in the dormitory, and use of the bathhouse.

"Two crescents every time we fill the bath," the woman told him.

He stared at her in astonishment. "What are you filling it with, a.s.s's milk?"

"The water doesn't heat itself," she said shortly, her tone suggesting haggling would raise the price. "Nor raise itself up out of the ground. One at a time or all together?"

"It's large enough for the three of us?"

She pursed her lips, her head rising and falling as she made silent measurements. "It is."

Gyhard looked into his depleted purse and frowned. The bard had better have been in the Empire long enough to absorb a few of the customs she'd studied. "Then all together."

A speculative gaze alighted on the obvious foreigner for a second or two, then the innkeeper took his coin and jerked a thumb back over her shoulder. "Loft's at the top of those stairs, you've your pick of the pallets. I don't provide blankets, so I hope you've got your own." When Gyhard nodded, she continued. "Bath'll be ready by the time you are."

"Who died?" Karlene asked suddenly, her voice surprisingly strong.

The irritation vanished and the innkeeper heaved a heavy sigh. "Aven-that's the cobbler with the shop next door-it was his son. Only days old."

The bard paled beneath old tan and the crimson blush added that day by the sun. "A baby?"

"Aye. His mother's not recovered from the birthing and now this. Babe just up and died. Aven says one heartbeat he was warm and the next cold..."

"Cold," Karlene repeated.

"Aye, cold. And the next thing poor Aven knew, the babe was dead."

"How could I have forgotten about the babies that died in the Capital?" The thick golden ma.s.s of her hair spread out over the rim of the bath, her eyes closed, Karlene gnawed on her lower lip.

Vree braced her foot against the broad ledge that ringed the small bath and provided a place to sit while soaking. Lip curled, she dug her fingers into the knotted muscle of the bard's right leg. "You met two dead men up and walking, you were hit on the head, His Highness got s.n.a.t.c.hed, and you spent a day in the saddle when you should've been resting in the Healers' Hall."

"That's not an excuse," the bard began, but Vree interrupted with a snort.

"Maybe not, but it's a slaughtering good reason."

On the far side of the bath, his position dictated by the need to accommodate three pairs of legs, Gyhard swiped at the sweat dribbling down from his hairline. "Why is he doing it," he muttered. "Babies! I don't understand why."

He sounded so confused, Vree found herself wanting to slip a blade across the throat of the person responsible.

"What for?" Bannon demanded.

"Because he's in your body and I keep reacting like it's you that's been hurt." Which made perfect sense, but then, all the best lies did. Mollified, Bannon settled back below the surface of her thoughts. "Maybe he isn't doing it," she suggested, allowing Karlene's right leg to slide under the water and picking up the left. "Maybe it's just happening."

Gyhard glanced up at her. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you said that our spirits..."

"The kigh."

"All right, our kigh..." The foreign word felt unbalanced in her mouth, like a borrowed dagger. "You said they look away from the dead. Maybe baby spirits, baby kighs, haven't been around long enough to get attached to their body. Instead of looking away, they run."

"And the babies die," Karlene murmured.

Vree nodded. "And the babies die."

"It makes sense." Relaxing, Gyhard shifted position, sending a wave of rapidly cooling water to lap at Vree's chin.

For the first time since they'd peeled off sweat-stained clothing, Vree turned to look full at him. "This is the only death we've run into on the road; I think he stopped here. If it only took the dead pa.s.sing by, we'd be knee deep in bodies by now."

He played with a bit of loose plaster as he considered it but found himself considering her instead. That she was both dangerous and dangerously loyal, he'd known from the beginning. Adaptable, beautiful, ruthless; he'd discovered that on the road. Since she'd challenged him over the bard in the Healers' Hall, he'd seen that a strong intelligence lurked beneath her single-minded intensity. She was capable of such intense love that she'd agreed to lay her sanity on the line rather than have her brother die. All at once he found himself wondering what Kars would have thought of her.

Kars. He closed his eyes for a moment and wondered if this new love, if it was love, had somehow called back the old. He'd lived too long to believe in blind chance. When he opened his eyes again, Vree was still looking at him. "You want me to find out why he stopped?"

She nodded. "The more you know about a target, the better your odds of success."

"He's not a target, Vree."

"No?" She locked her gaze onto his. "Then what is he?"

Gyhard flushed, but before he could answer, Karlene pulled her leg from Vree's grip. Sucking the moist bathhouse air through her teeth, she pushed herself forward and onto her feet, the water rippling around her hips. Her nostrils were pinched tight and her voice trembled. "We have to catch up to him before he stops again. We have to catch him before more ba..." She looked fleetingly surprised, then her eyes rolled up and she collapsed.

The water itself caught the bard and eased her back onto the ledge.

Vree stopped her forward dive so suddenly her muscles locked. Blood roaring in her ears, she glared at Gyhard, silently demanding an answer.

"Water kigh," he said softly, pulling himself up and out of the bath, the quick economy of his movements in direct contrast to the matter-of-fact tones in his voice. "She must be very strong in that quarter for them to manifest without a Song."

"Water spirits?" Vree could feel her skin crawling under the caress of the warm liquid. All the tension the heat had dissipated returned. Between one breath and the next, she stood dripping on an ugly mosaic of cavorting G.o.ds that adorned the floor.

Focus on freeing the prince, she told herself, crouching to slip her hands into the bard's armpits and haul her up out of the bath. The rest of this doesn't matter.

"She's got great..."

"Not now, Bannon."

Gyhard reached for a drying cloth and shook his head. "And you thought this would be less complicated than just you and I," he said mockingly.

It was getting dark. Otavas licked the peach juice from his fingers and pressed his spine hard against the rough side of the cart. They'd stopped three times since they started again in the late afternoon; once for him to relieve himself, once to fill the empty skin with fresh water, and once so that the dead could change places between the shafts of the cart. They were not going to stop for the night.

"We have to get home," the old man told him earnestly. "So we can start again."

"I'm not who you think I am!" Over the course of an impossibly long day, the prince had shouted it, whimpered it, wailed it, but every time the old man had merely smiled.

He was losing track of how long he'd spent within the confines of the cart, pa.s.sing unseen and unheard through the lives of those who lived or moved along the Great Road. Muscles ached from the constant pounding as the high, narrow wheels slammed into every imperfection, every pothole in the stone.

He flinched as the old man lightly stroked a warm, dry finger down the length of his arm.

"It's late, my heart. It's time to sleep. Dawn comes early this quarter."

This quarter? Otavas twisted to stare through the dusk at the wizened face. The countries to the north, Shkoder, Cemandia, and Petrok beyond that divided their year into quarters; the Empire did not. "Who are you?" He wondered why it had never occurred to him to ask before.

Rheumy eyes filled with tears. "You'll remember everything, my heart, as soon as we get home. But now you must sleep."

Sleep. The prince glanced toward the end of the cart where the dead sat. Not the men this time, but the two women. He guessed that the younger, Kait, was thirteen or fourteen and Wheyra his age or a very little older. To his disgust, the old man had introduced them just as though they were people. Kait had stared past him, unblinking eyes locked on the old man's face while Wheyra ignored them both, crooning to a desiccated bundle that crawled with flies. No, he couldn't sleep, not around them. Pity may have tempered the horror, but the horror remained. Bad enough to be trapped in this waking nightmare-worse to be plunged time after time into the terror of darker dreams.

"No." He shook his head, sable hair flinging lines of shadow against the night.

"Yes."

Something in the old man's voice drew him around. Something in the old man's eyes held him.

"Sleep."

"Yesterday, around noon, an old man came into the village and got food and a cotter pin-didn't pay for any of it, just asked and, for some reason no one I spoke to is clear on, they handed it over." Gyhard straddled the bench and leaned an elbow on the tabletop. "No one saw where he went."

Vree glanced toward the group of four travelers at the other end of the common room who were speculating on the prince's kidnapping and making their own loyalties loudly clear. She leaned forward so as not to be overheard should any of the four suddenly stop talking. "No one was willing to look where he went?"

"Very likely."

"What's a cotter pin?"

"Among other things it's used to hold a wagon wheel on the axle."

"He has a wagon?"

"Or a cart."

"s.h.i.t on a stick."

He smiled at her expression. "Don't worry about it, nothing's really changed; his

horses are going to have to rest as often as ours."

"Oh?" Her brows went up and she drummed her fingers against the table. "What if the dead are pulling it? the dead who never need to rest. The old man can do everything but s.h.i.t in the wagon and how often are they going to stop for that?"

"Not often," Gyhard admitted. He swung his inside leg out over the bench and leaned back against the table. After a moment's thought, he said, "Perhaps the other wheel will fall off."

"Yeah, maybe." Vree jerked her chin at the stairs leading to the loft. "This is going to really upset her."

"Then maybe we shouldn't tell her."

It could have been Bannon sitting there, offering to share a secret with that exact glint in his eye. Just between you and me, Vree... But it wasn't Bannon. She shook her head, uncertain of what she was refusing.