doesn't like, dies," he whispered. "You, Prince Herne, me, any of us. Princes or not, Well-born or Well-user or not, anyone who cramps the Emperor's style goes without negotiation or mercy. By this precedent." And he thought further: King Panurgus had not executed people. Exiled, yes, but not executed; why, he had exiled Prospero. The King had taken subtler vengeances than murder.

"Dost think peace would prevail under those circ.u.mstances?"

"People would get worried," Otto decided slowly, thinking hard. "Maybe-a split, a coup... no, I guess it wouldn't be too peaceful. But, Marshal-Prospero has caused a lot of war already. It has not been peaceful. Is his life worth so much death?"

"I know not," Prince Gaston said, "but I know how many Princes there are, and what we are, and who we are, and 1 think 'twere ill to lose one to fraternal malice."

"You are a traitor."

"Nay. The realm is safe. His forces are bested."

"He'll be back. The Emperor won't let you off the hook for this. What are you going to say. Prince Gaston? Are you going to blame me for not Binding him strongly enough?"

"The Emperor and I will discuss this privily," said the Marshal.

"You're not indispensable. Your Highness."

"I have never pretended to be so."

Otto swallowed, drank some wine. It mellowed in his mouth. "I don't think he's worth it," he said softly. "One Prince, even if he is the Prince of Air, the Duke of Winds, is not worth so many lives, so much bloodshed, so much war."

"Art certain?" the Prince asked him, without inflection.

"No," he admitted even more softly. "I guess I'm not. You've thought about this a long time, haven't you."

Prince Gaston had been thinking about it since before Ottaviano's father was born. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he said, "Aye."

"You're conservative. You prefer the status quo."

"I'd liever another status quo, one in which Prospero 254.

'Etizabeth keepeth peace, one in which he's reconciled. Tis ill for us to be at one another's throats."

Ottaviano shook his head. "He's not going to give up," he said. "Not unless-" He stopped, an idea stirring through his words.

Prince Gaston watched the lamp's flame and then looked at Otto expectantly. He was a bright fellow, quick and deep-striking, and his wits were nimble; the boy was a better thinker than Sebastiano had ever been.

"Unless," Otto said slowly, "you can get some kind of oath or vow from him . . . Hm. And for that . . . Does the Emperor really want him dead?"

"There hast thou the very kernel-question," said Prince Gaston. "It is one only the Emperor can answer."

Ottaviano's horse, Lightfoot, was as groggy as he, but the exercise of trotting along in Prospero's wake woke them both up. He had left a note for Prince Gaston, saying that he was attempting to follow Prospero, and had departed the camp with Lightfoot and a lantern.

He stopped at Prospero's tent and prowled the place, looking for some trace which might be used in rinding him. The sorcerer had been careful, though, and after searching everywhere Otto had to make do with a pillow on which he had lain a little while. It was not going to get him far, but he hoped it might put him in the right direction.

The sky had clouded over and the air had taken on the sharpness of snow. Ottaviano wondered, as he rode, if Prospero had somehow-being the Prince of Winds-kept the weather favorable for war, and now, without his influence, the postponed winter would descend with added weight. The conjecture seemed plausible. The man commanded his element the way Prince Gaston commanded his men. The storms which had raged over them had left Prospero's lines unscathed.

Otto thought that if he were Prospero, he'd slip into Landuc and nail the Emperor with a lightning bolt. It would save time and blood.

Sorcerer and a QentCeman 255.

Once outside the camp. Otto stopped and wove around the pillow a low-powered spell of affinity. Riding onward, the spell guided him over some of the roughest and worst ground in the region; the action of water on and in the limestone here meant the terrain was irregular, cut with gullies and chasms. Many times he had to detour around places which were impa.s.sable in the dark, over which Prospero's horse had to all appearances flown.

By morning, he was miles from the camp, and the chasms and gullies had given way to the long, level highlands. Heavy snow was faliing. Ottaviano began to draw on the Well's currents for his sustenance, but they were thin here, comparatively, the area never having been much favored though it lay so near the Well, and he derived less good from them than he hoped. He stopped to rest Lightfoot often, but dared not stop too long.

As he rode, he took out his Landuc Well-Map and studied it, and at once his path became clearer. Prospero had headed for a Ley. At a Nexus at the end of the Ley, there was sometimes a Gate.

Even as Otto realized this and smiled, the affinity-spell jerked the pillow from his hand. Otto s.n.a.t.c.hed at it, surprised, and missed. The pillow plumped onto the snowy ground.

"Hm," Otto said, and reined in Lightfoot to stop for a look.

The snow was thin and dry. He brushed the pillow; the spell had snapped apart under the excessive stress of proximity and it was only a pillow now. Then, under a dusting of snow, he saw what it was that had brought the spell to an end.

An arrow.

Rather, a broken arrow. Ottaviano lifted it, beginning to smile broadly, and then he laughed. The head was stained with dried and frozen blood: Prospero's own.

"Thank you, thank you!" he shouted up at the snow clouds, and remounted with fresh vigor, chortling. He ripped up the pillow and wrapped the arrow in the fabric.

256.

"Lightfoot, we'll find some water, take a rest, and burn ourselves a trail," he told the horse, and gave him a nudge to start him walking again.

Down the Ley, through the Gate at dawn, and along the Road went Otto, led by the bloodstained arrow in his pocket. It was as bright and clear a beacon as the full moon; it felt like a string reeling him in toward the Prince, and the feeling grew stronger as he travelled. The arrow led him away from Landuc, a roundabout route. He checked the Ephemeris and found that indeed, Prospero had been able to take a more direct path. At a Gate where Otto had had to leave the Road and travel for more than a day on a Ley, Prospero had been able to go straight through.

The arrow guided him through a scrubby forest where he rested a few hours, having left the Road. He was no longer on a Ley, either; this might mean he was close to his quarry. Ottaviano ate the last of his food, but found no water. The place was cold and arid; the leaves leathery, and the wood tough and unburnable.

He rode out of the forest late at night and followed the arrow onward. It led him through low-walled pastures to a rocky sh.o.r.e, down a steep slope to a cliff-edge where a small house stood, as grey as the thick clouds overhead. The house was nearly indistinguishable from the stony ground around it; the sea roared below its ill-repaired walls and sent spray up to its roof.

Otto reined in and looked the place over.

This was it. Likely Prospero was still here. Otto's heart skipped and began to race in battle-rhythm.

He sent Lightfoot scrambling up the bank. Otto was perishing with thirst, so he led the horse back toward a muck-edged waterhole he had circ.u.mnavigated earlier. Three-toed footprints stippled the mud, and over them moon-shaped hoofprints. He let Lightfoot drink after filling his waterskin; no knowing what kind of animals they kept here, and the water was slightly funky, but it was better than nothing.

Sorwer and, a Cjentfeman 257.

That done, he led Lightfoot back among the stones and picketed him.

On foot now, in the dim cloud-strained light that had not changed, Ottaviano made his way quietly back to the cottage. The arrow he had b.u.t.toned under his jacket twitched and throbbed. Ottaviano crouched behind an array of stones and discarded clever and elaborate plans.

The place was Well-poor, making sorcery difficult for him, and anyway he knew he couldn't expect to challenge Prospero to a sorcerers' duel and live.

Otto closed his eyes and let the part of his mind or body- he was never sure whether it was one or both-that fed on the Well dominate his senses. He sensed no sorcery in the area; the stone hut was without reinforcement from the fire of the Well, and the dull glow of life within was unmoving and quiescent. Another living thing was on the other side of the building, most likely Prospero's horse.

Could Prospero have been so arrogantly confident as to have not bothered with protective spells? Otto looked again. A cautious man himself, he could not believe that anyone in Prospero's position might stop without warding himself nine ways or a dozen.

But there was no sign of the weblike knitting of Bounds nor of a protective spell.

Otto studied the place again through his Well-sense, and found nothing, no sorceries. Perhaps it was not Prospero- but the arrow strained to get to the place, Prospero's own blood.

He stood and picked his way to the hut, avoiding loose stones and making as little disturbance in the world as he -could. Out of sight, a horse stamped and chewed.

Ottaviano stood beside the uncovered low doorway, listening. Light snoring. The arrow thrummed.

Great and glorious Well, was the sorcerer Prince simply stretched there asleep? Was he so smug as to think no one could follow him in his flight? Was it to be as easy as this?

Otto took a dagger in one hand, drew his sword quietly with the other, and stepped swiftly into the hut. He froze, 258.

tense and ready; the breathing of the occupant went on. His eyes grew accustomed to the dim interior; he saw a long shape on the ground, dark-m.u.f.fled, and in the light of the doorway a bandaged hand, blood-stained. Otto took two quick steps and lifted the dagger, bringing the pommel down hard.

Prince Herne saw the Baron of Ascolet first on his return to Gaston's camp. Prince Herne was still furious about Pros-pero's escape, and the Baron's empty-handed arrival set him off again.

"He ran fast and far," Ottaviano said again and again. "I lost him. I tried to find him, but I lost him again." His grimy state and his horse's exhaustion - he had ridden hard to return from Malperdy, abused Lightfoot to make two Gates and the Road - attested to his story, and finally Herne, with a last snarl about useless jack-sprats, left him alone. Otto breathed a sigh of relief. He would tell them the truth, he fully intended to do so, but in his own time, when he'd rested and decided what the price of Prospero would be.

"Pay him no mind," Prince Josquin said, coming up beside Otto as he pa.s.sed a tent.

"Your Highness. You heard - "

"Herne and Fulgens share a temper, thus either has but half."

"I didn't take it personally, sir. I've seen him blow up before."

"Ah. He and Golias were at blows this morning, and not on the training ground."

"Setting a good example, my lord?"

The Prince chuckled. "c.o.c.k-fighting," he said. "I won two royals on it,"

"I want a bath, my lord," Otto said, "and a lot of food, and about twelve hours of peace and quiet. Think I'll get any of 'em?"

"Just pop round and say h.e.l.lo to the Marshal," Prince Josquin advised him. "We were going to have a briefing tonight, but he'll postpone it till tomorrow since you've returned. Good news?"

A Sorcerer and a gentleman 259.

"No news."

"Bad news."

"Right. Good news for Prospero, though."

Prince Josquin's eyebrows went up. "True. And bad news for somebody, certainly. -He's an amazing fellow. We can't work out where in the Well's bright worlds his army came from. Can't understand a word they say, and it's mutual."

"I thought the Well granted the gift of tongues, my lord."

"So did we, but this lot speak pure jabberish. d.a.m.ned frustrating. Their commander, Prospero's second, speaks a bit of Lannach, and he's getting testy. The Marshal hasn't admitted that we no longer have Prospero, you know. I'll lead your horse to the grooms with me; I'm going there myself. t.i.to! Take the Baron's horse."

"Thank you, Your Highness. You're very kind."

"Do enjoy your luncheon, Baron. Toodle-oo," said the Prince Heir, and his squire led Lightfoot away behind him.

Ottaviano gazed after him. It was hard to figure Josquin. When was he acting? There was something serious to him; he was good in the field, good enough for the Marshal to trust him as much as Herne, but the flippant, foppish veneer was difficult to penetrate. Dewar liked him-in fact, they were panting after one another as discreetly as possible- but Ottaviano couldn't see what the sorcerer might find so intoxicating in the Prince Heir. Perhaps Dewar, who had refused Otto's laboriously-located wenches, wasn't interested in girls, despite his continual flirting with Lunete in Lys. More likely, Dewar was uninterested in men or women, which would be usual for a sorcerer, and simply enjoyed playing eye-games with the future ruler of the Empire.

The Baron of Ascolet made his way to the Marshal's headquarters. He was kept waiting a few minutes and then beckoned in by one of the squires, who was repairing a mail-coat when he wasn't minding the door.

"Good day, sir," Otto said.

Prince Gaston nodded to him and nodded to a chair, the same Otto had occupied before. "Hast been away," he said.

260.

ttizaBetfi 'Wittey "I went hunting. A good run, as they say in the chase, but no kill."

"I did not think thou wouldst succeed, and I'd have ordered thee forgo it," the Marshal said.

"I went without leave. I know. I thought it was worth the risk." Ottaviano summarized the route he had followed after Prospero-truths and fictions. "I lost him at Fiargate. How long was I gone?"

"One day. Twas quickly ridden. -There's a matter of weight I'd bring to light with thee."

"Uh, Lys-"

"Thy sorcery."

Ottaviano nodded, as if he'd expected it. "I know a few tricks," he said. "Book-learning."

They studied one another. Prince Gaston was obviously waiting for more. Ottaviano tried to tough it out and found the Fireduke's unwavering regard too harsh.

"That's about it," he said. "I'm not Dewar."

"Clearly not," Prince Gaston said, which felt vaguely like an insult. "Yet hearsay claims 'twere needful thou attend initiation at the Well, ere thou couldst perform a Binding such as thou hast done."

Otto felt his face redden against his will. He hadn't expected this; he had forgotten in the excitement of the hunt and capture. Prince Gaston wasn't one to let anything pa.s.s without at least letting it be known he had noticed.

"Dm," he said.

"That's all," the Prince said impa.s.sively. "Go thou, eat and rest. We'll confer at the first hour o' morning. Tomorrow we're breaking camp."

Ottaviano got up and got out of there, grateful for the Fireduke's mercy, and hastened to his tent without seeing anyone else of consequence. Soon he lay in bed, unable to rest despite being dead tired and stuffed with greasy cold mutton. He thought hard about Gaston.

He had just been warned, Ottaviano decided. The Marshal thought he was up to something. Gaston needed his cooperation for now, but any c.r.a.p from Ottaviano, and Gaston was going to come down hard on him. Ottaviano Sorcerer and a Qentleman 261.

had high-tailed it out of camp after Prospero and Dewar. That looked bad. He had done it without informing his commanding officer. That was bad. He had failed in his c.o.c.keyed mission, ostensibly. That meant he'd wasted time, which was bad too.

The Prince Marshal had let the Baron know, obliquely, that he did not trust Otto, that he knew there was something fishy going on, and that he did not want his war mucked up by another sorcerer.

Ah, s.h.i.t, thought Otto, and rolled onto his stomach.

He thought of Malperdy, a severely-made fortress in As-colet, and smiled. The Marshal might think he'd wasted his time, but this time the Marshal was wrong. When the Baron of Ascolet showed what he had accomplished, Gaston would be surprised.