Wynter thought of Albi, of his generous, loving nature, of his adoration of Razi, and she tried to dovetail it with the images of the assassins-the knife thrown across the banquet hall, the murderous arrow through the poor guard's head. How could her sunny, laughing friend have been behind them? Then she thought of Razi, standing by while that poor man was tortured so awfully, and she realised that time and circumstance could change anyone.

"Girly?" insisted Christopher. "I am in the dark here."

She sighed. Razi would be back from the river soon. In the short time left, how could she let Christopher know what Razi meant to Alberon and herself? How much he had done for them, and how unthinkable it was that Albi would ever want to hurt him. "Did you know that Albi and I were born on the same day, Christopher?"

He shook his head, puzzled by the direction the conversation had taken.

"We were not meant to be, but Albi came very late and I came much too early." Wynter glanced in the direction of the river. Marni had been the one to tell her this, and she was never too sure that Razi would want her to know it.

She looked back to Christopher. "Princess Sophia... Albi's mother?... had the most appalling labour. My mother and Sophia had been in their confinement together... you know about my father, of course?" Christopher shook his head, and Wynter spread her hands in frustration and glanced towards the river again. "Father was still on the run with Rory at the time, Jonathon's father being determined to see them both dead."

She held her hand up to deflect Christopher's shocked questions. "Another time," she said. "It is irrelevant to this story. Anyway, my mother was under Jonathon's most steadfast protection, and so she had been sharing the Princess's quarters. But the sounds of Sophia's awful torment terrified my poor mother, who was already mortally afraid of the prospect of labour, so Mamma fled the palace, seeking the tranquillity of the home she had shared with... with my dad."

Wynter faltered; somehow putting everything into words like this was very difficult. It brought everything sharply into focus for her. Most awfully, the fact that she, squirming and kicking in her mother's womb, had been the reason for that good woman's death and for the barrenness of her father's remaining years. She stared at her hands for a moment, then blinked and carried on.

"Razi was most devoted to my mother. He must have followed her from the palace. Marni thinks that he must have found her very soon after she fell. It had been raining, the ground must have been..." Wynter paused again, the image of her seventeen-year-old mother, giving birth alone and frightened in a wet field, was much too vivid in her mind. "Razi turned up in the kitchens hours later, covered in blood and carrying me wrapped in his tunic. I was tiny, apparently, and blue with cold. Marni swaddled me and put me in a box of hay like a kitten. By the time they found my mother, she had already bled to death."

Christopher shifted slightly, but did not speak or reach for her. She rubbed her forehead and continued.

"Albi was born that night. Princess Sophia lingered till morning, and then she too died. No one really knows why, though Razi has his suspicions." Wynter raised her eyes to Christopher. "He blames her death on the same thing that kept Jonathon's next two wives from carrying children, the same thing that led to their deaths. Poison..."

Christopher sat up a little straighter. "Oh," he said.

"Two days later, Razi turned up in the kitchens again. This time he was carrying the royal prince under his arm, a weighty, great dumpling of a baby, apparently. It's amazing that a four-year-old could have carried him so far."

"Why did he do it?" asked Christopher quietly.

Wynter glanced towards the river again. "Have you met Razi's mother, Christopher?"

"Aye."

"What think you of her?"

Christopher gave it some thought. "I think ..." he said carefully, "that she is a woman who has managed to make her way in a world dominated by men. There is much to be admired in her."

This so stunned Wynter that she was speechless for a moment. Christopher was the first person she had ever met with anything positive to say about Umm-Razi Hadil bint-Omar. "My father calls Hadil 'The Hidden Dagger'," she said.

Christopher's amused dimples blossomed into a grin. "That is also apt. Why was it that Razi brought his brother to the kitchens, girly?"

Wynter flicked a glance towards the river. Razi's curly head was just coming into sight as he made his way up the slope towards them, and she continued in a whispered rush, "According to Marni, Razi would say nothing but 'my mother is looking at him'. No matter how many times they returned Albi to his chambers, he would eventually be found in the kitchen, sleeping in the box of hay by my side, Razi sitting on the floor at our feet."

Christopher turned his head at the sound of Razi's footsteps approaching through the dry leaves.

"Razi has protected us our whole lives, Christopher. He has been our rock. Albi would never hurt him. I can't believe that Albi would ever hurt him."

Razi came trudging into camp, his long body curling forward with the weight of the waterskins and his own heavy thoughts. He sighed and glanced up as he began to make his way down the slope, then paused to see the two of them sitting cross-legged and deep in conversation.

"You God-cursed laggards!" he exclaimed. "You've done naught since the time I left!"

"Hmm... ten days," mused Razi. They were packed and ready to go, the three of them hunched over Wynter's map. The sun was just up, the heat already a curse and flies had already begun to swarm. Wynter blinked sweat from her eyes as Razi traced the journey from the Indirie Valley all the way down the map to the spot where they were camped. "Ten days," he said again, and tapped the parchment thoughtfully.

"It's a long way to go without knowing the situation at home," said Wynter. "We need to know for whom the black pennants fly, Razi."

He lifted his eyes to meet hers and they both looked away almost immediately. There was a moment of strained silence in which they stared blindly at the map.

"We could stop at an inn," suggested Christopher quietly. "No better place for news and gossip."

Wynter raised her eyebrows. Not a bad idea. "The closest inn is... here," she indicated the Wherry Tavern, a ferry house and traveller's rest located at the ferry ford. "It is only five days from here, and on our route."

Razi leant forward to see.

"No, there's another one," said Christopher.

"Do you mean the Orange Cow?" Wynter traced her finger up the river to show the crossroads inn. "That's seven days from here. Better to-"

"No," he insisted, gently brushing her hand aside and turning the map to face him. "I'm certain I saw ..."

"Christopher," she said patiently, "I've been over this map many times, there are only two inns."

"Wait, wait," he held his hand up, scanning the page. "What kind of map is this?"

"It's a merchant map, a silver guild's merchant map."

"Ahh!" Christopher raised his eyes in excitement and traded a grin with Razi. "Ours ain't so refined, lass!" He went and fetched the map case from his horse. "Look!" he said, spreading another map out to cover Wynter's. "Here." He jabbed his finger down to show Wynter a tiny dot in the heart of the deep forest, less than a day's ride away. He tapped the map for emphasis and Wynter tore her eyes from his awful scars and forced herself to concentrate on the area he indicated. "See, this is a tarman's map, girly. Details all the local places merchants wouldn't be caught dead in."

"That will take us less than two days out of our way," murmured Razi. "I think it is well worth it."

"Aye," said Wynter, eyeing the nondescript spot. "I wonder if they'll have a bathhouse. After seven days without a proper wash, I'm starting to stink like a Northlander." She blushed immediately, appalled at herself. "Oh, Chris! I am so sorry!"

The dimples flashed wryly as he continued to study the map. "No offence taken, girly," he said. "You Southlanders are insane about your soap and water. You're almost as bad as his lot." He jerked his thumb at Razi.

"I am a Southlander," said Razi mildly, and it was Christopher's turn to redden and mutter an apology. Razi just glanced affectionately at him, and went back to chewing the beanstalk he'd found in his breakfast. "A bath does sound good," he mused, scrubbing his jaw. There was a good seven days of growth on it, the beginnings of an admirably thick and curly beard. "Yes," he said softly. "I wouldn't mind that at all."

"It is fierce habit forming," admitted Christopher grudgingly. He squirmed and tried to scratch his back. "Once you've got the routine of it, you can't seem to do without."

"All right," said Razi, reaching over and scratching Christopher between the shoulder blades. "Put the map away, friend, and we will go have our baths."

Christopher crossed to tie the map cases to his saddle and Wynter began folding away her own map. She was so sunk into her thoughts that she jumped when Razi gripped her wrist.

"Wynter," he said, his deep voice quiet. "I want you to ask Christopher to take you home." At her frown, he bore down hard with his hand. "He cares for you, sis. He will go if you ask."

She held his eye and purposely removed his hand from her wrist. "Do not insult us again," she said. "We will not tolerate it." He crumbled before her, his desperation palpable, and she couldn't help but love him for his concern. "Razi," she said gently, "I am staying, and that is an end to it."

"Oh, Wyn," he said.

Affectionately, she scrubbed her hand through his beard. It was surprisingly soft. "I like this," she murmured, smiling. "It suits you."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm sure! I probably look like a crusty old imam."

Wynter traced the white scar where his father's punch had split his lip, then pressed her finger to the tip of his nose. "I like it. It makes you look piratical!"

Then she patted his knee and left him sitting looking at his hands, while she joined Christopher in his final check of the horses.

The Tarman's Inn.

"Jesu help us, but this is remote."

"I cannot imagine," sighed Razi, "that we shall be seeing our bathhouse, sis. It's more likely that this 'inn' will be a tent with a barrel and a couple of tree stumps for stools."

"I cannot imagine we shall get any information!" Wynter exclaimed. "What kind of custom could a place this isolated get? Bears? Foxes maybe? Badgers?"

They had been following a rutted donkey track through the deep and cavernous pines for most of the day. There wasn't room to ride three abreast, so Christopher was slightly ahead of Wynter on the trail, Razi bringing up the rear.

Christopher was very quiet, perhaps feeling guilty for having suggested this in the first place. Wynter watched him forge doggedly ahead, slouched in the saddle, a haze of black insects all around him. Flies swarmed on his shoulders and knapsack, crawled drowsily across his back. His horse's tail swatted the bedroll on its rump and thwacked irritably against the saddlebags. Wynter knew she was probably in the same state and her shoulder blades twitched at the thought. Christopher shifted slightly in the saddle, his travel belt settling around his hips, and he adjusted his knife to a more comfortable position.

Wynter tilted her head. Huh, she thought, I didn't notice that before.

"It just struck me, gentlemen," she said aloud, "you're both travelling very light compared to when you left the palace. Where are all your possessions?"

Christopher squinted back at her. "I left all my things with that al-Attar fellow from town," he said. "He met me in the forest and took them from me. Razi? He will take care of them, won't he? He won't leave my father's trunk in the damp or aught?" Razi must have gestured reassuringly because Christopher lifted his chin in an unconvinced response, and turned forward again.

"What Attar fellow?" asked Wynter. "Jahm? Does he mean Jahm al-Attar?" She twisted back to look at Razi who nodded and swiped at the flies that swarmed his half-covered face.

"Aye," he said.

Wynter frowned uncertainly. Jahm al-Attar was the palace apothecary. He had been a great friend to Razi's mentor, St James, and both Lorcan and Razi considered him a noble fellow. Still, she was surprised that Razi had trusted anyone enough to let them in on his plan.

"Meanwhile," continued Razi, a mischievous gleam in his eye. "Shuqayr ibn-Jahm is making sure that my blue robes get to Padua without too many rips or stains."

It took a moment for Wynter to understand, then she jerked her horse to a halt and turned to stare her friend in the face. Grinning, Razi brought his horse to a dancing stop. Wynter heard Christopher sigh as he halted on the track ahead.

Shuqayr! The apothecary's eldest son! Now that Wynter came to think of it, Razi's age, Razi's equal in height, Razi's lanky build.

"Oh, Razi," she said, appalled at the risks everyone was taking. "You were not even on your horse that day, were you? It was Shuqayr, wearing your clothes."

Razi nodded his head, laughing. "I walked out the palace gates on my own two feet with Umm-Shuqayr Muhayya, her daughters and other sons. I used Shuqayr's papers, then just strolled into the forest without a care in the world." Razi's eyes lost their joy, his delight stolen from him by worry. "I hope that Simon keeps him safe," he said quietly. "It is a long journey. What if...?"

"Razi, how in God's holy name do you expect Shuqayr to fool Simon all the way to-? Oh," she said, as cold understanding dawned. "Simon knows."

Razi nodded again and Wynter was suddenly irritated at how many people he had trusted with this plan, while leaving herself and Lorcan in the dark. "Simon, Razi?" she exclaimed. "You trusted Simon De Rochelle, yet you did not trust...?"

She bit her lip and looked up into the sky for a moment. No. She would not begin that argument. There were far too many fingers that could be pointed at her in return. She took a deep breath and counted slowly backwards from ten. Razi's deep voice cut across her attempts at self-restraint, and he at least had the decency to sound ashamed of himself.

"I know he seems an unlikely ally, sis. But I assure you, Simon no more wants the Kingdom in chaos than you or I." Razi wryly spread his hands. "After all, it is not to his economic or political advantage."

Wynter tutted bitterly, but she had to admit, it was a brilliant ruse. Once outside the palace environs, any tall, brown man could easily pass for Razi, particularly with a cadre of knights bowing and calling him My Lord. As far as anyone was now concerned, His Highness, the Royal Prince Razi-poisoner, usurper and black-hearted pretender to the throne-was wending his way to Padua and safely out of the picture for the next month or more. Palace life had at least a chance of getting back to normal, and Razi himself was free to slip around behind the scenes and try to find out the truth about the terrible rift between his father and the real heir to his throne.

Christopher chuckled. "He's a devious fellow, our Raz, ain't he? No wonder I can't beat him in a game of chess." Wynter turned to him and they traded a smile through the cloud of flies that danced between them.

Razi's horse neighed suddenly and the man himself gave a loud growl of frustration. "Oh Good God!" he yelled. "Let us get away from these God-cursed insects before they suck us dry!"

They worked their way up through the trees, the donkey track getting rougher and the flies more invasive with each mile. Wynter was just wondering if they'd ever get there, when Christopher came to a crest in the hill and pulled his horse to a halt.

Dwarfed by the massive pines on either side of the road, he was silhouetted sharply against the open sky at the curve of the road, and Wynter saw him look down as though into a valley.

"Good Frith," he said, pulling the scarf from his face. "That is unexpected."

Wynter and Razi brought their horses crowding up to join him. As soon as they crested the hill, they felt the refreshing effects of a breeze that swept up from the valley, and the flies disappeared like a conjurer's trick. They removed their scarves and wiped the sweat from their faces as they took in the landscape. Wynter whistled in surprise.

A wide area of cleared land spread out before them, at least forty acres, neatly divided into paddocks and fields, a bright ribbon of stream running straight through the middle. At the very heart of the farm land, nestled into a couple of acres of mixed orchard, sat a large, neatly maintained complex of outhouses and stables, fronted by a handsome log building that must be the inn.

The smell of wood smoke and cooking came up to them on the breeze, and Wynter heard the men's stomachs growl just before hers did.

"Hot mutton and gravy," groaned Christopher.

"A bath," sighed Wynter.

There was a moment's silence from Razi as he surveyed the complex of buildings. "Stay sharp, you two," he said finally. "And keep your knives handy. This place is mighty rich looking for a peasants' haunt." Then he clucked his horse forward and led the way down the steep slope into the heart of the valley.

"Shall we unsaddle the horses?" Wynter asked as they approached the inn. They were still elevated and could see down into the yard. A long line of mules stood patiently at the hitch, all weighed down with full barrels of tar. Two saddled horses were also at the hitch, and a small goods-cart, fully laden, stood against the yard wall. Dogs were getting to their feet and padding to the gate, looking up the hill towards them.

Razi scanned the area uncertainly. "Not at first," he said, "we'll carry everything of value in with us; get the lay of the land inside. If we feel comfortable, we can order a lad to tend the horses."

The dogs began to bark, advancing and retreating and milling around each other in their excitement. A man came to the front porch, wiping his hands on a cloth. He yelled at the dogs to settle down, then looked up the hill and raised his hand in casual greeting. Christopher raised his in return, and the man went back into the inn, leaving the door open. Two more men came to the door, peered curiously up at them and went back in.

Wynter shifted nervously in the saddle and wondered what the three of them would do if this turned out to be a nest of bandits.

A man and a boy came out from what looked like the stables, and stood watching them as they rode into the yard. They were Arabs, unmistakably father and son, but when the man spoke, it was with a broad local accent. "Would ye like us ter take the horses?"

"Not yet, thank you," said Christopher, dismounting and stretching his saddle-weary body as he looked around him.

Wynter dismounted and bent to vigorously rub the cramp from her calves.

"Perhaps you could supply them with water and a feedbag each?" suggested Razi. "And we can call on you to rub them down should we decide to stay."

The man nodded suspiciously, thrown by Razi's well-bred accent. His eyes swept to take in the abundance of well-made weaponry, the saddle-bags, the heavily loaded travel belts. He turned to appraise Wynter, realised that she was a woman, and respectfully averted his gaze, but not before he checked her finger for a wedding band.

"Perhaps," said Christopher, tucking his hands casually behind his back. "I could examine the feed?"

The man nodded and Christopher followed him into the stables while Wynter and Razi took the saddlebags and weaponry from the horses. Christopher soon returned, apparently satisfied with the quality of oats and grain on offer. He took his saddlebag from Razi, slung his crossbow over the rucksack on his back and the three of them headed into the unknown territory of the inn.

It was a dim room, low ceilinged, smelling of wood-smoke, roasted meat and tobacco. A big fireplace dominated the wall to their right, and the wall directly ahead of them was entirely given over to a rough serving counter. Two greasy looking women were eyeing them from the kitchen, which was visible through an arched doorway behind the serving counter. All the occupants of the room seemed to have been waiting for their entrance and they were silently taken stock of as they crossed the threshold.