He fixed his one good eye on Marla, his voice hardening as he relived the nightmare. "I almost gave myself away, cheering for his assassins as they struck the killing blow. Ronan Dell was a monster, your highness. He made your brother's worst obsessions seem almost harmless by comparison. He had all these instruments, you see . . . scores of them . . . from all over the world. He collected them like other men collect insects or precious stones . . . And he used them, every chance he got; sometimes on his court'esa, sometimes on a random slave unfortunate enough to enter the room carrying a tray of drinks when Ronan was showing off to his friends."

"Friends like my brother, you mean?" the princess asked frostily.

"Yes, my lady, the High Prince was a regular visitor to Ronan Dell's palace," he agreed, knowing there was little about Lernen that would shock Marla after all these years. And this was a time for absolute truth. Trying to gild over the unpleasant parts of his story would defeat his purpose. "His favourite toy, and the worst of them all, was a carved bull's horn wrapped in jagged wire . . ." Elezaar hesitated, not sure if he had the words to describe what he had seen, or how it had made him feel.

Marla could see he was distressed. Although obviously still angry with him, her face creased with concern. "Oh gods, Elezaar! Surely, he didn't make you . . . ?"

The court'esa shook his head and forced himself to go on. "I used to wish he had. Then I would have bled to death, too, after a while, and the torment would have stopped. But I was there to watch. I was there to play my instrument while he had his fun with his toys, because the sick bastard liked to do it to music. Keep playing, Fool! he'd shout, if I began to falter. He killed them in time to the tempo I set."

Tears filled Elezaar's eyes, blinding him to everything but the memories. "It was up to me, you see . . . if I played fast, then they died at that speed, and if I slowed down, then the torment just went on for longer."

Elezaar pulled at his own silver slave collar as his breathing became more ragged. He wasn't sure if it was reliving his time with Ronan Dell that made him short of breath. He thought he might be rambling and knew he should try to stick to the point. His time was running out. "Did I mention that he had a particular fondness for virgins? He used to buy them from the slave markets. Really young, sometimes only twelve or thirteen. That way he was certain they were pure."

Elezaar wiped his eyes, ashamed by his weakness. He'd never shed a tear about it before today.

To have appeared even a tiny bit moved by what he was witnessing would have amused Ronan too much and urged him on to greater feats of torment. The dwarf fixed his gaze on Marla and attempted to pull himself together. "I didn't have to suffer Ronan Dell's particular brand of perverse pleasure just once, your highness. I got to suffer it night after night after night."

Disturbed as she was by his story, Marla was clearly puzzled by his sudden need to unburden himself. "Why are you telling me this now, Elezaar?"

"Because Ronan Dell was murdered, your highness. He was betrayed and murdered. By my brother." He's not in any danger from the assassins. Crysander is one of them. "When I accused him of betraying our master, he told me he'd been faithful to his real master all along. He told me he'd always belonged to the House of Eaglespike."

Marla sagged back against the cushions in shock. "Alija had Ronan Dell killed?"

The look on the princess's face tore Elezaar apart. It was as if he could see her trust, her belief in him, evaporating before his very eyes. And it was only going to get worse. His betrayal went far deeper than mere silence.

"And all this time you could bear witness to this crime, Elezaar? And you never uttered a word?"

"I told nobody what I witnessed, your highness. The day you found me at Venira's Slave Emporium, I was hiding from Alija. When you walked in with her, I was certain my life was over. And then I realised you were the High Prince's sister and that under your protection, I might escape her . . ."

"So you set out to make yourself indispensable to me," Marla concluded, making no attempt to hide her bitter disappointment.

"I wanted to make certain you were strong enough to defy her if she ever demanded you hand me over to her." He hung his head in shame. "There was nothing selfless in my willingness to help you, your highness. In the beginning, I kept what I knew to myself because I thought I might need it as insurance some day. And then . . . well, after you came to rely on me and listen to my counsel, I was terrified of losing your trust. I knew how you'd react if you learned I'd known about this and not told you. And now I've just made things worse."

Marla seemed too dumbstruck to be angry with him. She would find her voice soon, he figured.

Elezaar had confessed much, but he'd yet to reveal his worst, and most recent, crime.

"I saw my brother fall in Ronan Dell's palace," he continued while he still had the strength. "I saw them take his body away. I believed my brother was dead. For twenty-five years I had no reason to think otherwise."

"Are you telling me you think he might not be dead after all?"

"I got a message a few days ago. Venira's doorman came to the house. He told me they had a slave called Crysander. I arranged to meet him."

"And never came back," Marla reminded him.

He couldn't answer that accusation so he just kept on talking, feeling the heat from the poison infuse his body, warning him his time was growing short. "We arranged to meet at the Lucky Harlot.

When I got there, Bekan was waiting for me. With my brother. And Tarkyn Lye."

Marla rose to her feet and began to pace the room, back and forth. She didn't need to be told what Tarkyn Lye's presence meant. It seemed as if she was trying to walk off her fury. After a while, the princess stopped pacing and turned to look at him.

"What exactly have you done, Elezaar?"

"They had my brother, your highness, and Ronan Dell's favourite toy." His eyes filled with tears again and he could no longer stop them falling. "Please, your highness . . . understand . . . I . . . I couldn't watch it happen again. It almost destroyed me once before, standing by helplessly . . . I couldn't let them do the same to my brother. Not when I had it in my power to stop it."

For a moment, a glimmer of sympathy flickered across the princess's face. "What did you tell Tarkyn Lye, Elezaar?"

"Everything."

Marla stared at him in shock. "What do you mean, everything?"

"Exactly what I said, your highness. I told him everything. I told him about Wrayan Lightfinger.

About the mind shields. About how you'd known Alija and your second husband were lovers since before Lord Hawksword died. I even told him how you found out Luciena's mind had been tampered with and why you'd kept the discovery a secret. By the time I was done, I was looking for things to tell him." Elezaar no longer noticed his tears. He looked up at his beloved princess and shook his head sorrowfully. "I'm so sorry, your highness. I know you deserve better than this, but I had to do something . . ."

Marla was stunned into speechlessness.

"In the end, for the secret about Rorin's magical ability and the reason you'd allowed Kalan to join the Sorcerers' Collective, they gave me a moment alone with Crysander." The tears coursed freely down his face as he forced himself to finish his tale. It was an effort to sit upright now and it wasn't just the veil of tears that made his vision blur. "It was too late by then to undo the damage I'd done to you, my lady. But I was able to ensure they would never use Crysander against me again."

"Elezaar-"

"It was quick, my lady," he assured her. "I'm small, I know, but I'm stronger than I look. He didn't feel any pain."

She stared at him, the pain of his betrayal replaced, momentarily, with the shock of this latest confession. "Are you saying you killed your own brother?"

"I made sure they couldn't use him against me. Not again."

Unable to hold himself upright, he toppled sideways, feeling the spittle on his chin he no longer had the ability to contain. He heard Marla cry out as she realised something was terribly wrong, something far more serious than guilt or treachery. Dizzy and holding on to consciousness with the very last of his will, Elezaar felt the princess's cool hand on his burning forehead. It made the pain worse, because he knew he didn't deserve such consideration from the woman he had betrayed so heinously.

"By the gods, Elezaar . . ." She sounded desperate, rather than angry. "What have you done to yourself? What have you taken?"

His vision had all but gone, fading into dimness. With his one good eye, he tried to focus on Marla's face. He wanted his last memory to be of her.

"I am my own judge, your highness," he whispered, lacking the strength to speak any louder.

"And my own executioner."

With the darkness closing in around him, Elezaar felt Marla gather him into her arms and hold him, rocking him like a small child. He was foaming at the mouth, his muscles twitching uncontrollably.

She must realise by now that he'd poisoned himself. Marla wasn't a fool. She would know, just by looking at his pallid, clammy skin, that he was on the brink of death. And he knew she must despise him for his treachery.

In spite of that, she held him against her body, as if her shock, her disappointment and even her anger were unimportant matters she was willing to put aside simply because Elezaar the Fool was dying.

"Oh, Elezaar," Marla murmured softly.

Strange, but she sounds like she's crying. He lost himself in her last embrace, his head resting on her breast, thinking that for this one tender moment, it had almost been worth it.

"Why try to face this alone, you little fool? Why didn't you come to me?"

He wanted to tell Marla that he was a coward. He'd been afraid. Afraid of losing her protection.

Afraid of being cast back into the pit. Afraid of being sold by one highborn house after another, until he was worthless. Afraid he'd wind up as bear-bait when he was past his prime.

And he wanted to remind Marla he'd tried to warn her, time and again, not to place her trust in him. It was the Fourth Rule of Gaining and Wielding Power. Trust only yourself.

Most of all, Elezaar wanted to tell his beloved princess that he was afraid of never seeing her again. But he could feel his tongue swelling, making it impossible to speak.

Don't leave me, little man, he imagined he could hear her sobbing. What will I ever do without you?

Elezaar knew her words were merely his own wishful thinking. He understood what he had done and knew he was beyond redemption. Beyond forgiveness. But it was nice to dream. It was nice to think he would draw his last breath with her forgiveness on his lips.

With death so close he could reach out and touch it, the dwarf felt cool lips pressing on his forehead and wondered if he was dreaming again. Then he felt a soft cheek pressing against his face and tasted salty tears on his swollen tongue.

And then, when the effort to hold on became too much for him, he willingly let go. Wrapped in the embrace of the only woman he had ever loved, Elezaar let the darkness take him.

Chapter 72.

Wrayan Lightfinger and Kalan Hawksword worked through the night on Starros, but as dawn broke over Krakandar City, Wrayan still wasn't certain they'd be able to save him. The young man had been beaten more savagely than anything Wrayan had ever encountered before, and he was astonished that Starros was still able to draw breath.

Wrayan wished, not for the first time, that his magical ability included more healing. He knew a little. The Harshini had shown him a few things during his years with them, but having the knowledge of how to fix something and having the power to make it happen were two entirely different things.

Starros was probably still alive because Wrayan had used what little power he wielded to keep him that way. To heal him completely, however, would take somebody with Brak's formidable power or the active cooperation of the gods, a step Wrayan was extremely reluctant to take unless it was their only option.

The last time Wrayan had begged a god for help, it had cost him his soul.

The door opened behind him and Kalan slipped into the dim room, holding a steaming mug of tea. She closed the door and handed it to Wrayan, then looked down at Starros's unconscious body with a frown.

"How is he?"

"Unchanged," Wrayan told her, sipping the tea appreciatively. "Any word yet about how much longer before Rorin gets here?"

"No."

He glanced out of the dusty window and noticed it was lighter outside. He'd been up all night, watching over Starros. Kalan had stayed with him for much of the time and he was surprised by how much he'd enjoyed her company as they worked to use what skills they had-Kalan's quite-substantial medical knowledge ( they have to teach us something at the Collective, you know) and Wrayan's limited Harshini healing skills-to keep Starros alive.

Wrayan had always had a soft spot for Kalan, and in between tending their wounded friend, they'd spent a lot of the night catching up. She kept him entertained with tales of her life in Greenharbour and her apprenticeship at the Sorcerers' Collective-an institution that seemed quite different and far more structured than the haphazard organisation Wrayan remembered.

He was amazed at how grown up Kalan seemed, how mature and in control of herself she was.

He supposed he shouldn't really have been surprised. Princess Marla's youngest daughter was twenty-two years old now and had always been the brightest of the bunch. More like her mother than either Damin or Narvell-well-educated, a little cynical and accustomed to the viper-pit politics of Greenharbour-Kalan Hawksword was far removed from the child Wrayan remembered.

He stretched his shoulders to ease the stiffness a little, leaned forward, pinched out the candle stub beside the bed, and then glanced up at her. She looked remarkably fresh and alert for someone who'd been awake the better part of the night. She'd even had time to brush out her long fair hair and braid it loosely down her back. Only her rumpled green silk gown betrayed the fact that she'd not come straight from the palace.

"Shouldn't you be getting back home?"

"Not until I know he's going to be all right," she said, looking down at Starros with concern. His breathing was shallow and laboured, but it was steadier than it had been when Kalan first brought him to the Beggars' Quarter last night. "Did you want to get some sleep? I can sit with him for a while."

He shook his head. "I don't need sleep as often as-"

"Us poor humans?" she finished for him with a smile. "Rorin says the same thing."

Wrayan looked up at her. "I wasn't going to say it quite like that, but yes, one advantage of having even a little bit of Harshini blood in your veins seems to be the ability to go for a long time without sleep. How about you?"

"I got a few hours. Fyora made up a pallet in the other room for me."

The safe house where they had brought Starros was a couple of streets away from the Pickpocket's Retreat. Wrayan used it sometimes, when he wanted to be alone, or when he had business to conduct that he didn't want witnessed by the patrons of the Pickpocket's Retreat. Only Fyora, Luc North and a few other trusted lieutenants knew about it and he was certain they would never betray either Starros or the location of the house.

Kalan sat on the edge of the bed and took Starros's swollen hand in her own, stroking the splinted bandages gently. Two of his fingers were broken, and quite a few of the bones in his hand, as if Mahkas had deliberately laid his hands out and smashed them with his iron bar. "He's not getting any better, is he?"

Wrayan shrugged, unable to answer her question. "It's hard to tell. I think he's going to live.

Unless he's bleeding internally. Rorin will be able to tell better than me."

"And then what?"

"What do you mean?"

"Look at him, Wrayan. We've managed to keep him alive, but even with Rorin's help, some of these injuries are never going to heal properly. He'll be crippled, at the very least." Kalan fell silent, but Wrayan got the impression she wanted to say something else.

"And . . .?"

"I was just wondering . . . isn't there something else you and Rorin can do?"

"You mean magically, I suppose?"

She nodded.

"I've done everything I know how to, Kalan. Rorin should be able to do more. His power is more inclined towards healing than mine."

"But he's not as strong as you."

"But the Harshini taught him," Wrayan reminded her. "Shananara gave him the knowledge he needed to use his power. I know it included some healing. I'm just not sure how much."

"I remember once, not long after we got to Greenharbour, we sneaked out of the Sorcerers'

Collective during the Festival of Jashia to watch the fireworks. I slipped off the wall and hurt my ankle.

Rorin fixed it without even knowing how he did it." She smiled in remembrance. "It drove him mad for weeks afterwards, trying to recall what he'd done. He said he just knew what he had to do, but afterwards he couldn't say what it was."

"Then let's hope that when he gets here, he can help Starros, because the only other alternative is to ask the gods for help."