"Feolan?"

"I agree. He's leery of the Gray Veil, that's certain, but he's a warlord. He holds power by being bold and predatory. He won't allow foreign riffraff to amble off with his plunder."

Dominic nodded. His own a.s.sessment followed the same lines. It might be wise, given Madeleine's condition, for Turga to let them go and save his stronghold from further exposure. But it would look like weakness, and men who rule through fear cannot afford weakness.

"Then let's get to work."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

SO HE HAD BEEN RIGHT to be suspicious. But by the Hewer's blood, Cavran had never dreamed of murder, not by that ragtag little group! He had been braced, rather, for Turga's wrath at being awakened, had almost turned back when Turga's guard told him the boss was asleep after a night of drinking. But he had persevered, and when he explained his suspicions-suspicions that had sounded so flimsy at the guardhouse that he had tried to follow Rayf's advice and bury them in a few rounds of betting tiles-he had gained an unexpected ally.

Turga's night guard had frowned. "That don't sound right," he said. "I don't see how he could have even got news of those slaves-he was shut up with that dancing woman all night. She only left a short while ago."

And so they had knocked and shouted and then entered Turga's private chambers, and found him not deaf from drink, as they expected, but dead.

Now, while Turga's guard went to rouse Zhirak, Turga's second man and likely successor, Cavran's mind raced into the future. The death of a warlord brought danger-and sometimes opportunity-to his men. Zhirak would not a.s.sume Turga's power unchallenged. And as soon as word got out, neighboring warlords would attack, sensing weakness in the leadership like a shark senses blood.

Where would Cavran be when the blood stopped flowing?

He pondered this as he made his way back to the gatehouse. He had some faith in Zhirak-the man didn't have Turga's style, but he was smart and courageous, not to mention a one-man powerhouse in a fight. As a betting man, he put his coin with Zhirak. And that meant he wanted to be right at his side, under his protection, as soon as possible.

Cavran was a recent recruit of Turga's, a former merchant sailor hired for his knowledge of the Krylian language and coastline. He was still low in the ranks, but if he were to prove his worth now he could rise, and fast. How better than to bring back Turga's a.s.sa.s.sins, along with his slaves (alive and kicking, Cavran would bet on that too) and their gold? He would need men...horses. And weapons. He was not authorized to order up a posse, but if there was ever a time to bend the rules, this was it.

A sudden doubt stopped his steps. What about the girl? She was not long gone from Turga's chamber, surely still within the walls. Should he not go after her? His lip turned in scorn-all those men, and they sent the Tarzine woman to do the dirty job.

No, he would let Zhirak deal with her. Cavran's business was with the foreign thieves, the ones he had suspected when the others were gulled.

He was trotting now, his purpose clear. Men. Horses. Weapons. They would sweep down on those ill-begotten vagabonds and teach them the folly of cheating a pirate warlord.

MATTHIEU BRUSHED AT THE mosquito feasting on his neck, not allowing himself to slap, and shifted his weight to one side, trying to ease away from the stone poking up against his hip. He'd been lying there a long time, long enough for every rock, stick and root to make itself felt. Long enough for the air to lose its dense blackness and soften to gray. He had even heard a few sleepy tentative birdcalls, but the road was still quiet. Maybe they weren't even coming. Maybe they'd guessed wrong, busted the wheel for nothing and now they'd be stranded.

It hadn't been that easy to find a place to hide, especially in the dark. The torches from the caravan made only small puddles of light. This low pocket of land had a lot more trees than the rest of the countryside, but most were thin and scrubby. The one Matthieu peered through, however, had been ripped from the ground in some former storm, and its once buried roots now thrust their snaky fingers into the air. The solid center was broad and high enough to shield him even if he sat up, while the gaps in the twined wood made perfect peepholes.

The short sword his father had given him lay snug along his side. He eased his hand down to curl around the hilt. "Just for your own protection," Papa had stressed, and given firm orders to stay out of sight. Still, he hadn't made him go off into the woods with Gabrielle and Madeleine, had allowed him to stay within view of the road. If anything did happen, Matthieu would see it.

FeOLAN, STATIONED BEFORE the bend in the road, heard the hoof-beats long before there was anything to be seen. As he loped back to the others, he took a last look at their handiwork: The approaching hors.e.m.e.n would come down a slope to a hairpin turn, then to the cart canted off at the roadside with a broken wheel. He nodded, satisfied: It was a believable scene. And there wouldn't be time for them to think twice. He raised his arm to signal their pursuers' approach.

YOLENKA'S KNOCK ON the barracks door was soft but persistent. The last thing she wanted was to wake the whole lot of them.

Finally, she heard a mumbled curse and footfalls. The door opened.

"What?" The man's sleep-rumpled face went slack with surprise when he saw her; then it rearranged itself into a bleary grin.

"h.e.l.loo-oo. Looking for me?"

Yolenka smiled apologetically. "Sadly, no. I'm sorry to disturb. I need to speak to Gurtemin. Is he there?"

"Course he's here, he's sleepin' like the rest of us." Surly again. "'Cepting me, that is."

Yolenka laid a placating hand on his arm. "I'm sorry. I think he will not mind waking up for me. And"-with a little caress, she laid a gold coin into his hand-"of course I will make it worth your while as well."

"Mmm." Cheerier now. "Hang on, then."

Gurtemin, one of the gatehouse guards Yolenka had made it her business to meet, was more alert than his predecessor when he came to the door. He tugged his fingers through bed-tousled hair and leaned against the doorframe in a pose he no doubt imagined as rakish.

"Yolenka. Couldn't keep away from me, is it?"

It was easy to get him outside into the privacy of the compound.

"Gurtemin, I need your help. My partners"-she spat angrily- "my so-called partners, have left. They took our profits and lit out. And they've lifted some of Turga's possessions and left me to shovel their dung."

Gurtemin's bony hands lifted in the gesture of warding.

"You got me up for this? It's not my problem." Mouth drawn down in displeasure, he made to turn away.

"Gurtemin, wait! You haven't heard all."

A pause. A sigh. And he faced her once more.

"Tell, then. But make it fast. You're a woman to dream on, but you got no claim on me."

"Yet I think you will be interested in my offer." Yolenka smiled lazily and drew close to him, speaking low so he would have to bend toward her to hear, as she laid out her plan.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.

HOW MANY WERE THERE? Hopefully not as many as the horses Dominic had seen in the stable. They would have little chance of success if they were wildly outnumbered.

It all hinged on Turga's beliefs about them, Dominic decided. He didn't think, even yet, that anyone had suspected their true ident.i.ty. As long as Turga still believed he was after tradesmen-bold dishonest tradesmen to be sure, but not trained warriors-he was unlikely to bother mustering a large force. The speed with which they had been pursued argued that a quick response, rather than strength, had been uppermost in Turga's mind.

Worry for his children-Mother of all, Madeleine looked so ill!-washed through Dominic like a sudden chill. He should have made Matthieu go with Gabrielle, someplace where there was no chance the boy would try to join in the fight.

Dominic clamped down on his mind before the image of Matthieu sprouting a sword through his side could become fully formed. He could hear the hoofbeats himself now, coming fast. There was no room in battle for any other thoughts. How strange, he thought, that to protect his children he must forget about them now.

He checked his bow one last time. He and Feolan were crouched across the road from the caravan. They had one shot only, with any luck disabling two men, before they must leap out and grapple directly with the remaining hors.e.m.e.n. The Tarzines must not be allowed time to retreat back down the road or to take cover. Derkh, untrained in archery, would attack with his sword from the other side, closing in behind the Tarzines as soon as the arrows had been loosed. If the two bowmen did not join him in an instant, he would not last long against mounted opponents.

And then they were upon them. The pounding hoofbeats slowed for the sharp turn, and he could see their dark shapes: three, four, six men. More than he would like, but not impossible odds. Their horses danced in place while the men pulled up to take in the scene. In the dawn half-light Dominic could just make out the flash of teeth as they exchanged c.o.c.ky smirks. Good, he thought. That's just how I want you to feel. Imagine how you will thunder upon us as we limp helpless down the road just ahead.

As the men kicked their horses forward and drew even with the caravan, Dominic eased up from behind the boulder that hid him and trained his sights on the broad back of the nearest horseman, obligingly turned his way as the man studied the broken wagon wheel. He couldn't ask for a better target.

HIS PAPA SHOT first and hit his mark square. Matthieu had to bite his lips to hold back a yell of triumph. But his excitement was short-lived, drowned by the cry of the shot man. This was not like the confused battle Matthieu had seen before, the air full of shouts and battle screams and vague dark figures. This scream pierced the silence, filling his ears, and he saw the grimacing face as it fell, lips drawn back like a dog's.

A heartbeat later, Feolan's bow sang out. His shot was not so clear, and his target's horse, rearing in alarm at just that moment, saved its rider from a lethal hit. The arrow sank into his thigh, painful but not disabling.

The bowstring tw.a.n.ged again. His father? No, Dominic was already running in with his sword drawn. Feolan then, impossibly fast. But his opponent was fast too and quick-witted despite his wound. Antic.i.p.ating the second shot, perhaps, or reacting with catlike speed to the sound, he threw himself down and sideways in the saddle. The arrow meant for his heart drove into his shoulder.

It was enough. Feolan darted in, pulled the wounded man to the ground and vaulted into the saddle.

Where was Derkh? And his father? Matthieu's eyes scanned frantically-and his legs went weak with alarm.

They were in trouble. Derkh had rushed forward as planned, only to find himself facing not swords but spears, a seeming thicket of them. Dominic was at his side, having somehow made his way across the road. With the height of the mounted Tarzines and the long reach of their weapons, there was no effective way to attack. Instead, Derkh and Dominic were pinned behind the cover of the caravan, unable to break free without being skewered by a spear hurled at close range.

Feolan yanked the lance free from its clip on the saddle. Three men hedging in Derkh and Dominic and only one left against him-but that one had already kicked his horse to a canter with his arm c.o.c.ked back for the throw. Feolan dropped the reins, drew his sword left-handed. It seemed to Matthieu he became a statue, frozen in all that turbulent clamor. His opponent grinned, avid, sure of his prey. But just as he loosed the spear, Feolan's horse sidestepped left and his sword swung in an arc, deflecting the spearhead past his right shoulder. The Tarzine came on, caught in his own momentum, and Feolan's spear flashed. A final brutal sword stroke and it was done.

It was three on three now. The Tarzines, Matthieu saw, were no longer grinning. He guessed they hadn't expected any real danger, only a bunch of scared runaways. But they still had the advantage in horses and weapons.

If Feolan had his bow...But it was on the other side of the road from Matthieu-no way to get to it unnoticed. Was there nothing he could do but watch helplessly?

In a chiggers game, this is where you would need your hidden token, he thought. Too bad we don't have one. But the idea stayed with him. In a way, this was like a chiggers game, wasn't it? Looking at it that way helped to quiet the scared feelings that scrabbled around in his mind, making it so hard to think.

Matthieu's eyes narrowed. He looked again at the scene below him. It was a chiggers board...a very large, very unusual chiggers board.

THREE MEN DOWN! Cavran's hope of reward for his daring action had fallen into the s.h.i.t pit. Even a.s.suming the boy was still healthy, he would hardly compensate for their losses. He would do better to s.n.a.t.c.h the boy and take off, sell him and keep the profit for himself. Of course his colleagues might have something to say to that.

First they had to finish off this lot. They had them now, he was sure, but he had underestimated them badly before and was not about to make the same mistake twice. The two trapped behind the wagon were hardly cowering in fear. And the other, the skinny musician-he was fast as a snake and just as deadly.

Cavran edged his horse toward the back end of the caravan and motioned to his fellow to go around the front. They would squeeze the two on foot between them, finish them off first while the musician was kept at bay.

A sudden noise in the wooded hill above them caught his attention.

"It's the boy!" shouted his mate. "Will I go for him?"

"Hold your ground," Cavran roared. "He's got nowhere to run to-we'll pick him up after this work is done." Sure, run off with the prize and leave me outnumbered, he thought. Not likely.

"DOMINIC, THEY'RE COMING around to make their move." Derkh shifted position, keeping his face square to the horseman, but he didn't harbor much hope of dodging the spear when it finally flew. The Tarzines would have to ride into the brush at the side of the road and search around a bit for a clear flight path, but it wouldn't take them long. "I don't relish a headlong flight into the bush with horses on my tail."

"Got your knife, Derkh?" Dominic had already switched his sword to his left hand and eased the Elvish blade, now at his waist, from its sheath. It might be his last hope now.

"Yeah, right here. I guess it's the only thing left to do, but, dark G.o.ds, it's a b.u.g.g.e.r of a throw." To hit a man at such a height, while trying to avoid a flying spear? Even when he was in peak training form that would have been beyond Derkh's skill.

"I was thinking the horses," Dominic muttered. "I know we need them, but we can lose a couple."

Derkh nodded agreement. Of course. Horses made an easier target, and if they could manage to make the horses stumble or rear that might just gain them an opening.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

MATTHIEU SCRAMBLED THROUGH the scrubby brush. He ran at an angle, away from the road and back toward Turga's. There it was-the big outcropping of rock.

"Gabrielle!" She was sitting with Madeleine's head in her lap, but thank the G.o.ds not in her spooky trance.

"Matthieu, what on-"

"I need the mule. There's no time to explain. They're in trouble down there, and I have an idea. Gabrielle, just trust me-it's not that dangerous, and it might help. But it has to be now."

Uncertain green eyes rested on him while Matthieu squirmed with impatience. Then they cleared, and Gabrielle nodded.

"Go then. But for pity's sake, Matthieu, be careful."

He untied the mule and began urging her through the woods. She was happy to follow-she didn't like this rough country and sensed the road ahead. Matthieu aimed to reach it just ahead of the hairpin turn. He should be able to walk right onto it and still be out of sight.

He gave a quick glance up and down as they reached the roadside, but there was no time for real caution. If there were more men in wait there, they were scuppered anyway. He led the mule into the road, faced her toward the caravan and skirted around to her back end.

"Sorry, girl," he murmured. And quickly, before he could get cold feet, he drew his sword and stabbed her in the flank.

Searing pain branded his thigh. He sprawled in the dust, clutching his leg to his chest, while behind his eyes the great black shape of a hoofprint flared and throbbed.

"Serves me right," he croaked.

But his plan, such as it was, had worked. The mule had bolted down the road in a lather. Maybe she would actually crash into them. Matthieu hoped so. He hoped it wasn't too late to matter.

He hoped his leg still worked.

DOMINIC KEPT HIS EYES trained on the approaching horseman while he hefted the weight of the knife in his hand. It was years since he had practiced knife-throwing and never with a blade like this. It was slim, beautifully balanced, but longer than he was used to. That would mean slower rotations-so he would need a little more distance to get a stick. And he needed to get his throw in ahead of the spear cast. His fingers closed down into the hammer grip that General Fortin had taught him. He would aim at the broadest part of the horse's neck. Harder to miss.

The Tarzine coming at him hefted the spear back in preparation for his throw. Dominic's arm swung up. A screaming bray shattered the air, a large brown shape shot clattering and skidding around the bend, and the Tarzine's taut features dissolved into slack-mouthed surprise. A mule-their mule-streaming blood and already out of control from the sharp turn, screamed again in panic as it saw the obstacles before it, tried to swerve, slewed its back end into the Tarzine's horse and lashed out with a frightened kick. The Tarzine yelled in pain and clutched at his calf-and Dominic had his chance.

He eyeballed the distance, took two quick steps back and snapped his arm in a smooth arc. The knife sailed away, made two lazy turns and sank into the horse's broad neck.

The horse collapsed at the knee and pitched forward. Dominic's sword was at the Tarzine's throat before the poor beast came to rest. He hauled the man off the saddle and shoved him up against the wagon with the long blade pressed across his neck.

Over his own heavy breathing, he heard the scuffle and grunt of fighting. Derkh and Feolan had followed his lead, but they had not had so good an opening as he.

This time there was no avoiding it; he would have to kill the man in cold blood. He couldn't stand here waiting while his friends were hard pressed.

Gritting his teeth, he took a firm, two-handed grip on his sword.