Shaking, Jenessee hugged Iome briefly, then did as told.

A physic knelt over Dreys. Yet the physic seemed in no hurry. He merely studied the soldier. When he saw Iome, saw her questioning look, the physic just shook his head. He could do nothing "Where is the herbalist, Binnesman?" Iome asked, for the wizard was this physic's superior in every way.

"He's gone-to the meadows, gathering costmary. He won't be back until tonight."

Iome shook her head in dismay. It was a terrible time for her master physic to be out hunting for herbs to drive spiders from the castle. Yet she should have known. The nights were growing colder, and she herself had complained to Binnesman yesterday about spiders seeking warmth in her rooms.

"I fear there is nothing I can do," the physic said. "I dare not move him more, for he bleeds too badly. I cannot sew the wounds, but dare not leave them open."

"I could give him an endowment," Chemoise whispered. "I could give him my stamina." It was an offer made in pure love.

As such, Iome would have wanted to honor it.

"And if you did, would he thank you for it?" the physic asked. "Should you die next time the fever season comes around, he'd rue the bargain."

It was true. Chemoise was a sweet girl, but she showed no sign of having more stamina than anyone else. She got fevers in winter, bruised easily. If she gave her stamina to Sergeant Dreys, she'd be weak thereafter, more susceptible to plagues and ills.

She'd never be able to bear him a child, carry it full-term.

"It's only his endowments of stamina that have kept him alive this long," Chemoise mused. "A little more--and he might live."

The physic shook his head. "Taking an endowment, even an endowment of stamina, gives some shock to the system. I wouldn't dare try. We can only wait and see if he strengthens..."

Chemoise nodded. She knelt, cleaned the blood bubbling from the corner of Drey's lips with the corner of her gray skirt.

Dreys breathed hard, filling his lungs with air as if each breath would be his last.

Iome marveled. "Has he been gasping like this long?"

The physic shook his head, almost imperceptibly, so that Chemoise would not see him answer. Dreys was dying.

They watched over him thus for a long hour, with Dreys gasping more fiercely for each failing breath, until, finally, he opened his eyes. He looked up as if waking from a troubled sleep.

"Where?" he gasped, gazing into Chemoise's face.

"Where is the book?" one of the Castle Guard asked. "We got it--gave it to the King."

Iome wondered what the guard was speaking about. Then blood gurgled from Dreys' mouth, and he arched his back, reaching toward Chemoise, grasping her hand.

His breathing stopped altogether.

Chemoise grabbed the sergeant's head roughly, bent low and whispered fiercely, "I wanted to come. I wanted to see you this morning..."

Then Chemoise burst into tears. The guards and physic all moved away, leaving her a few moments to speak some final words of love, in case his spirit had not yet fled the dying body. When she finished, she stood.

Only Corporal Clewes still waited at her back. He drew his battle-axe, saluted smartly, touching the cross formed by the11 blades to the bill of his iron cap. He did not salute to Iome, but to Chemoise.

He sheathed his axe and said softly, repeating his earlier tale, "He called for you as he fell, Chemoise."

Chemoise startled at a thought, looked up at Corporal Clewes and said, "A small miracle--that. Most men, when so struck, only manage to gasp once before they piddle on themselves."

She wielded the truth like an open palm, striking back at the man who had brought her the bad news. Then she added more mildly, "But thank you, Corporal Clewes, for a kind fantasy to ease a lady's pain."

The corporal blinked twice, turned away, heading toward the Guards' Keep.

Iome put her hand on Chemoise's back. "We'll get some rags, clean him for burial."

Chemoise stared up at her, eyes going wide, as if she'd just remembered something important. "No!" she said. "Let someone else clean him. It doesn't matter. He's--his spirit isn't in there. Come on, I know where it is!"

Chemoise raced down the street toward the King's Gate.

She led Iome and her Days downhill through the markets, then past the Outer Gate to the moat. The fields beyond the moat were already filling with traders come for the fair, Southerners in their bright silk tents of cardinal, emerald, and saffron. The Pavilions sat arrayed on the south hill, up against the edge of the forest, where thousands of mules and horses from the caravans were tethered.

Past the moat, Chemoise turned left and followed an overgrown trail beside the water to a copse on the east side of the castle.

A channel had been dug from the River Wye to fill the moat; this copse sat between the channel and river.

From this little rise, one could see upstream the four remaining arches of the old stone bridge, spanning a river that glinted like beaten silver. Beyond the old bridge stood the new bridge--one whose stonework was in far better shape, but which lacked the beautiful statuary that adorned the older bridge, images of Heredon's Runelords of old, fighting great battles.

Iome had often wondered why her father did not destroy the old bridge, have the statues placed on the new bridge. But looking at it now, she understood. The old statues were rotting, the stone pitted by years of exposure to ice and sun, eaten by the lichens that stained the statues in vermilion and canary and dull green. There was something picturesque, something venerable about those ancient stones.

The place where Chemoise led Iome to look for Sergeant Dreys' spirit was very quiet. The waters in the channel flowed as slowly as honey, as was the custom in late summer.

The high castle walls loomed some eighty feet above the copse, casting blue shadows, bruising the waters of the moat. There was no burbling or tinkle. Pink water lilies bloomed placidly in the shadows. No wind stirred the air.

The grass here grew lush. A hoary oak had once spread its branches over the river, but lightning had blasted it, and the sun had bleached it white as bone. Beneath the oak, an ancient autumn rose made its bower, its trunk as thick as a blacksmith's wrist, its old thorns as sharp as nails.

The rose climbed the oak some thirty feet, creating a natural bower. Roses of purest white hung above Chemoise, like enormous stars in a dark-green sky.

Chemoise took a place on the grass beneath the rose bower. The lush grass here was bent. Iome imagined that it had been used as a bed for lovers.

Iome glanced over her shoulder at her Days. The thin woman stood atop the copse, some forty feet back, arms folded, head bowed. Listening.

Then Chemoise did an odd thing in the privacy afforded by the rosebush: she lay on the grass and hiked her skirts up a little higher on her hips, and just lay, with legs spread. It was a shocking pose, and Iome felt embarrassed to see such a thing.

Chemoise looked for all the world as if she waited for a lover to take her.

On the banks of the river, frogs chirped. A dragonfly as blue as if it had been dipped in indigo flew near Chemoise's knee, hovered, flew away.

The air was so still, so silent. It was so beautiful, Iome imagined that Sergeant Dreys' spirit really might come.

All through the walk here, Chemoise had remained calm, but suddenly tears spilled over her long lashes, ran in rivulets down her face.

Iome lay beside the girl, put an arm over her chest, held her, the way that he must have.

"You've been here before, with him?" Iome asked.

Chemoise nodded. "Many times. We were supposed to meet here this morning." At first, Iome wondered how--how did they get outside the city gates at night? But of course Dreys was a sergeant, in the King's Guard.

The notion was scandalous. As Iome's Maid of Honor, it was Chemoise's duty to see that her mistress remained pure and undefiled. When Iome became betrothed Chemoise would have to swear to Iome's virtue.

Chemoise's lip began trembling. She whispered low so that the Days could not hear: "He filled me with child, I think, six weeks ago." At the confession, Chemoise reached up and bit her own knuckle, punishing herself. By carrying this child, Chemoise brought dishonor to Iome.

Who would believe any oath that Chemoise swore, if one could see that she herself had been defiled?

Iome's Days might know that Iome was virtuous, but the Days was sworn to silence by her own vows. She would never reveal any detail so long as Iome lived. Only when Iome died would the Days publish the chronicles of her life.

Iome shook her head in dismay. Ten days. In ten days Chemoise was to have been married, and then no one would have been able to prove that she'd been unchaste. But with her betrothed dead, the whole city would soon find out.

"We can send you away," Iome said. "We can send you to my uncle's estate in Welkshire. We'll tell everyone that you're a newlywed, newly widowed. No one will know."

'No!" Chemoise blurted. "It's not my reputation I worry about. It's yours! Who will swear for you, when you become betrothed? I won't be able to!"

Plenty of women at court can serve in that capacity," Iome lied. If she sent Chemoise away, it could still tarnish Iome's reputation. Some people might think that Iome had disposed of her Maid of Honor in order to hide her own indiscretion.

But Iome couldn't worry about such things now, couldn't consider her own reputation when her friend hurt so.12 "Maybe, maybe you could marry soon?" Chemoise said. At nearly seventeen, Iome was certainly old enough. "The Prince of Internook wants you. And then--I've heard--King Orden is bringing his son for Hostenfest..."

Iome drew a sharp breath. King Sylvarresta had spoken to Iome several times during the past winter, hinting that the time would soon come for her to marry. Now her father's oldest friend was finally bringing his son to Heredon. Iome knew full well what that meant--and she felt shocked that she'd not been forewarned. "When did you hear this?"

"Two days ago," Chemoise said. "King Orden sent word. Your father didn't want you to know. He...didn't want you to be in an excitable humor."

Iome bit her lip. She had no desire to become allied with King Orden's spawn--would never have considered it for a moment.

But if Iome accepted Prince Orden's proposal, then Chemoise could still fulfill her obligation as Maid of Honor. So long as no one knew that Chemoise carried a child, then her sworn statement of Iome's fidelity would not be challenged.

Iome bristled at the thought. It seemed unfair. She wouldn't consent to a hasty marriage just to save her reputation.

As the anger flared in her, Iome stood. "Come on," she said. "We're going to see my father."

"Why?" Chemoise asked.

"We'll make this Indhopalese assassin pay for his murder!" Iome hadn't realized what she intended to do. But she was angry now, angry with her father for not telling her about the impending proposal, angry with Chemoise for her embarrassing lack of scruples, angry that Raj Ahten's assassins could murder Heredon's guards--and that the city's merchants would then beg their king for clemency.

Well, Iome could do something about this mess.

Chemoise looked up. "Please, I need to stay here."

Then Iome understood. An old wives' tale said that if a man died while his lover carried his child, the woman could capture her lover's spirit in the unformed child, so that he would be born again. Chemoise only needed to be present at sunset in the place where she'd first conceived, so that the father's ghost might find her.

Iome couldn't believe Chemoise would put credence in that old fable, yet she dared not deny the girl such a boon. Letting her sleep under the rose bower could do no harm, would only cause Chemoise to love her babe more fiercely.

"I'll see that you come back before sunset," Iome said. "And you can stay an hour after. If Dreys can come to you, he'll do so then. But for now, I must speak to the King."

Before speaking to the King, Iome took her Maid of Honor to look upon Dreys' murderer, while the silent but omnipresent Days followed at Iome's heel.

They found the spice merchant chained in the dungeon beneath the Soldiers' Keep, the sole occupant of that dreadful place.

Iron shackles and cages hung from the stone walls, and the whole dungeon carried the scent of ancient death. Huge beetles scurried about. In one far corner of the dungeon was a great hole, the oubliette, where prisoners could be kept. The sides of the hole were stained from urine and feces, for those condemned to that awful hole lived in the muck that guards threw down from above.

Dreys' murderer was chained hand and foot to a post. He was a young man, perhaps twenty-two.

His eyes were dark, as dark as Iome's, but his skin was more brown. He smelled strongly of anise, curry, garlic and olive oil, as did the rest his countrymen. The murderer had been stripped to nothing but a breechcloth. Both his legs were broken. A ring had been ripped from his nose. His jaw was swollen. Fresh welts covered his face and ribs. Someone had bitten a chunk out of his shoulder. He'd live.

On his thin ribs, one could see runes of power branded into the flesh, white scars each about an inch to the side. Five runes of brawn, three of grace, one of stamina, one of wit, one of metabolism, one of hearing, two of sight.

No merchant in Heredon wore so many runes of power. This man was a soldier, an assassin. Iome felt certain.

But mere feelings were not proof. In the South, where blood metal was mined, merchants could purchase the precious metals used to make forcibles more easily, then purchase endowments from the poor.

Though Iome doubted that this man was a merchant, his overabundance of endowments alone could not convict him.

Chemoise stared deep into the prisoner's eyes, then slapped his face, just once.

Afterward, the two young women went to the King's Keep. King Sylvarresta was in the informal audience chamber on the first story. He sat on a bench in the corner, talking softly with Iome's mother, a rather somber Chancellor Rodderman, and a terrified Guildmaster Hollicks.

Fresh rushes had been strewn over the floorboards, mixed with balm and pennyroyal. Three hounds sat before the empty hearth. A cleaning girl was polishing the unused tongs and pokers, Iome's Days immediately crossed the room, went to stand out of the way with the King's Days, and the Queen's.

As Iome entered the hall, her father glanced up expectantly. Sylvarresta was not a vain man. He wore no crown, and his only ring was a signet, which he kept chained to his neck. He preferred to be called "Lord" rather than King. But one could see he was a king when one looked into his gray eyes.

Guildmaster Hollicks, though, was another matter. He wore gaudy clothes--a shirt with false sleeves, parti-colored pants, a vest and half cape with cowl, in a rainbow of complementary colors. He was Master of the Dyers' Guild; his clothes advertised his wares. Beyond this penchant for gaudy attire, Hollicks was not a bad man. He showed uncommonly good sense, and would have been likable, if not for the way his unsightly black nose hairs formed half his mustache.

"Ah," King Sylvarresta said on seeing Iome, "I'd thought you might be someone else. Have you seen any of the foresters this morning? Were they in the bailey?"

"No, milord," Iome answered.

The King nodded thoughtfully at this news, then said softly to Chemoise, "My condolences. It is a sad day for us all. Your betrothed was admired--a promising soldier."

Chemoise nodded, her face suddenly pale again. She curtsied. "Thank you, milord."

"You won't let this assassin get away with murder, will you?" Iome asked. "You should have killed him by now!"

"You see," Hollicks blurted in his high voice, "you're all leaping to conclusions. You have no proof that this was anything13 other than an unfortunate, drunken brawl!"

King Sylvarresta strode to the door to the hall, looked into the courtyard a moment, then closed the door, shutting them all in.

The room suddenly became dark, shadowed, for only two small windows with wooden shutters stood open.

King Sylvarresta strode across the room, head bent in thought. "Despite Your pleas for leniency, Master Hollicks, I know this man is a spy."

Hollicks feigned an expression of incredulity. "You have proof?" he asked, as if he held serious doubts.

"While you were off entertaining your whining cronies," King Sylvarresta said, "I had Captain Derrow track the man's scent.

One of my far-seers spotted this same man yesterday just after dawn. He'd been on a roof in town, and we feared he'd been counting guards to the Dedicates' Keep. We tried to catch him then, but lost him in the market.

"Now he shows up again today. It is no coincidence. Derrow said the man had not been within a hostel all night. Instead, he followed Dreys from outside the gates by climbing the Outer Wall. He killed Dreys because he was searching for this..."

Sylvarresta pulled out a slim tome bound in tan-colored lambskin. "It's a book, a very strange book."