"Better leave the watching of piglets to a wolf," Geoffrysen blurted. "Stay here, Majesty, and tomorrow let me escort you safely home."

Neil tensed and with a sidewise glance caught Sir Edhmon's eye.

"Marhgreft," Muriele said softly, "that is uncalled for. For one thing, I am not a piglet."

"Majesty, they have gathered troops at Suthschild. They are marching even now in the north."

"That will be enough, my lord," Muriele said. "I hope to enjoy your hospitality on my return."

Geoffrysen was red in the face. He swallowed hard, then nodded. "As you say, Highness."

"It is," Muriele gently agreed.

Neil could almost hear muscles relaxing. He nodded a salute at the marhgreft as they rode past.

After a moment's thought, Neil rode up alongside Aradal.

"Sir Neil," Aradal acknowledged.

"My lord. May I have a word with you?"

"Of course."

"What did the marhgreft mean by 'the Hansan side'?"

"Ah. Never been to Bitaenstath before?"

"No, my lord."

"Well, there it is."

They had been riding over an old earthwork, probably the remains of an earlier castle, but now Neil could see houses and shops. Most of them hugged the road closely, but some sprawled out from it. Beyond, perhaps a third of a league distant, he saw the towers of another castle.

"That's Suthschild, our counterpart to Northwatch," he said. "The border of our countries is out there. I think long ago there were two towns, one near each fortress, but over the years they've grown together. After all, a miller doesn't care which side buys his flour, nor a wh.o.r.e whose soldiers she's servicing."

"But what happens during war?"

"It hasn't come up in a hundred years," Aradal pointed out. "But castles always have villages, and villages are always at risk when war comes." He nodded. "This is Southmarket. When the marhgreft needs beer or broadcloth, it's here he'll likely get it. But if he throws a feast, he'll want mead or svartbier, and to get that he'll send to Northmarket."

"There are no border guards?"

"Do you see a border?"

Neil didn't. There was no wall, no standing stones, no pickets to mark where Crotheny became Hansa.

Most of Southmarket seemed to be shutting down for the evening, except for the inns and bierrohsen, from which issued cheerful singing and the savory scents of roasting beef. Some of the patrons had taken their cups into the street and stood in little circles, talking and laughing. Many looked like farmers, still in their sweat-soaked shirts. Others were cleaner and more neatly dressed and seemed likely to be tradesmen. The few women he saw appeared to be working, not drinking.

As they moved toward the center of town, the look of the people appeared richer. The taverns had tables and chairs outside and lanterns to keep the night away. The houses and shops were grander, too, some with gla.s.s windows. The road went from dirt to gravel to paved, and not much later they found themselves in a largish village square, which at one end had an imposing, high-timbered hall with great doors swung open and dance music playing within.

"Just in time," Aradal said, pointing up.

Neil looked and saw the first stars appearing in the rose sky.

"That's our destination?"

"The Wexrohzen. I promise you, you'll find no better bread, b.u.t.ter, pork, or ale in the world than right there." He slapped his rotund belly. "And I've looked."

"Not even in Kaithbaurg?"

"Fancier. Not better. Too many dumplings."

"This hardly seems the place for the queen," Neil said, lowering his voice. "Too busy, too crowded."

"William stayed several times," Aradal said. "Muriele was with him at least once, and I don't think she complained."

Neil felt a hand settle on his shoulder.

"It's perfectly fine," Muriele told him.

"Majesty..."

"As I told Geoffrysen, we're in the archgreft's care now."

"Yes, Majesty."

And so they entered the Wexrohzen, and the music dropped away as every head in the hall turned toward them.

Aradal raised his voice. "Welcome, all, Her Majesty Queen Muriele."

To Neil's surprise, a great shout went up, and flagons were raised as the crowd answered with a welcome.

Aradal patted his shoulder and leaned close to his ear. "They don't, after all, know who will win the war," he said.

"I suppose they don't," Neil replied, but he already was frowning as some commotion seemed to be moving toward them, and s.p.a.ce suddenly was cleared on the dance floor.

And in that s.p.a.ce stepped a man with close-cropped red hair and a sharp beard. He wore a sable tunic displaying a lion, three roses, a sword and helm.

The hairs on Neil's neck p.r.i.c.ked up, because he knew the man.

The fellow lifted his chin and addressed Muriele.

"Your Majesty, I am Sir Alareik Wishilm af Gothfera, and your knight and I have unfinished business."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE N NATURE OF A S SWORDSMAN.

ANNE FOUND Cazio in the hen yard of the monastery, thrusting and stamping on the packed, swept earth. The chickens at the edge of the yard clucked protests but kept a respectable distance. Cazio in the hen yard of the monastery, thrusting and stamping on the packed, swept earth. The chickens at the edge of the yard clucked protests but kept a respectable distance.

He hadn't noticed her yet, and Anne waited a moment, watching his graceful movements. If she hadn't seen him kill so many people with those deft, clever movements of his feet, she might think he was practicing some sort of dance.

She remembered the first time she had seen that dance, when two armed and armored knights had attacked her. Against such machines of war, Cazio had stood little chance, yet he'd put himself between her and them, anyway, and since then he'd never stopped.

But it hadn't just been her, had it? Austra had been there, too.

The color of the sunlight seemed to change, becoming less like gold and more like bra.s.s.

He is Austra's love, but he is my man, she thought. she thought.

"Cazio," she said.

He stopped in midaction, turned, and saluted her with his sword.

"Majesty," he said.

For a moment she felt breathless and silly. Her attempt to seduce him flashed vividly in her mind's eye.

She cleared her throat. "I'm told it requires three days to walk the faneway of Mamres, and as you know, I am pressed to return to Eslen."

He nodded, an odd look on his face, but didn't answer. She felt a flash of pique. Surely he understood what she was getting at. Did she have to make everything clear?

Apparently.

"You need to start walking the faneway today," she said. "Within the hour."

Cazio sheathed his sword.

"I don't want to," he said. "I'm sorry."

But he didn't sound apologetic.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"You said I could walk it if I wished," he replied. "I don't wish."

Now she thought she understood his tone. "You're angry?"

He paused, then stared her in the eye. "I'm offended," he replied. "When has my sword failed you? When have I not defeated your enemies with my own strength and skill?"

"You would have failed yesterday if I hadn't helped you."

You will fail when he he comes. You will die; I have seen you dead. comes. You will die; I have seen you dead. But she couldn't say that. But she couldn't say that.

He flushed brightly. "Maybe so," he admitted. Then: "Probably. But I am a dessrator, Majesty. I am not a killer or a mere swordsman but an artist. Would you give a singer a different voice? A painter a different pair of eyes?"

"If they could make better work, yes."

"But it wouldn't be theirs, would it?"

"Cazio, with the skills you already have and the blessing of Saint Mamres, you could be invincible."

"I have beaten such invincible men. Their physical abilities made them foolish."

"But you are not so foolish."

"I think if I had that power I might become so."

"Cazio..."

"Majesty, whatever gifts this faneway can give me, I do not want and I do not need."

"But I want them, Cazio. I want them for you. I'm sorry if I've offended your pride. You are certainly the greatest swordsman I have ever known. I only want you to be the best swordsman you can be. How else can you guard me against the things that are to come? How else can you survive them?"

"The way I always have. With my blade and my wits."

"That is no longer good enough," she said softly.

"If you wish another bodyguard-"

Something had been welling up in her throughout the whole conversation, something hard in her belly and throat. She felt deeply shaken by something, frustrated by Cazio's inability to listen. listen. Now she suddenly convulsed and felt tears on her face. Now she suddenly convulsed and felt tears on her face.

"Cazio," she managed. "Do not be so selfish. I need you. I need you with the blessing of Mamres. Would it be so bad to be l.u.s.trated by a saint? How is that wrong?"

He stepped toward her. "Don't cry," he said.

"I'm angry," she snapped. "Sometimes I cry when I'm angry. Do not mistake these tears. I'm offering you something, something-you aren't afraid, are you?"

"Afraid?"

"Of the faneway. Afraid you might die?"

One of his eyebrows lifted. "You're calling me a coward?"

"Ten of my Craftsmen are walking it as we speak. Three of them are already dead."

"That's terrible."

"They just weren't worthy, Cazio. You are. By the saints, if anyone was ever worthy of the blessing of Mamres, it is you."

"Who has died, Majesty?"

"I told you. Some of my Craftsmen."