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THIRTY

We decided that we shouldn't let ourselves be separated, and that we'd keep our weapons with us at all times. He agreed there might not be any danger, but we'd play it safe. Then he called his men together. He didn't say anything about what we suspected; we didn't want any of them to get agitated and maybe do something foolish. Instead, he told them they'd become careless, reminding them that they were among strangers, and they were to stay together unless ordered otherwise. He also warned them not to get drunk at supper.

All in all it spoiled the afternoon. The servants came out again with dates and fig cakes and sweet drinks, and the weather was beautiful, but I couldn't really relax or take a nap. I felt impatient for something to happen, for Arno to come back and say it had been a false alarm. But it was unreasonable to expect him back before the next day.

Last night's supper had been something hustled together late for unexpected guests. This one was a production. Roland de Falaise, in his timber castle in Normandy, probably hadn't even imagined a meal like the one we sat down to. This time the entire Norman household ate with us. The baron and his wife sat at opposite ends of the short main table, while his knights sat among the Varangians at both main tables. His foot soldiers ate separately at two long tables nearby.

Gunnlag didn't look happy with the way we were seated-the knights and Varangians mixed like that- but he let it pass. All the knights, Gilbert included, wore their hauberks at the table, and so did the foot soldiers. And of course the Varangians did too.

I remembered how, in Normandy, I'd thought that the Normans must be real barbarians to wear hauberks at the table. Now I began to understand why: The danger of treachery and attack were always in the back of their minds.

But actually, everything seemed fine. A guy in what you might call civilian clothes played some kind of stringed instrument and sang for us while we ate. Pages waited on us. There was fowl of some kind, pickled fruits of several kinds, different kinds of meat… And the baron told dirty stories in Greek and Norman.

The only false note was that he never said anything or asked anything about Arno not being there. He had to be wondering about that, unless he'd already taken care of Amo.

That is, it was the only false note until a spiced hot drink was brought out that smelled marvelous. I had an instant suspicion of that drink. And when Gilbert proposed a toast-it was in Greek, but obviously a toast-I took only a tiny sip of it.

Within half a minute, Varangian bodies began to slump. Varangian sank to the table, and Tarel's, and Moise's. But not Gunnlag's; he'd only pretended to drink. His fierce blue eyes burned on Gilbert. The baron and his knights had obviously not drunk either. As for me, it had been a tiny sip too much. I felt a slowness, a creeping, growing numbness.

Gunnlag barked something in Norse, and a few Varangian heads raised weakly. Gilbert smiled and gave an order of his own in Norman French: "Kill only the Varangians!" Immediately, the knights were on their feet, knives in their hands, grabbing handfuls of Varangian hair, pulling heads back, cutting throats. Arterial blood sprayed scarlet. Gunnlag grabbed the knight beside him and they crashed together to the floor as I got slowly up. stunner in my hand.

But standing was too much for me. I began to fold, my knees giving way even as I started to swing the stunner, my finger on the stud. As I fell, I saw knights collapsing, and heard a woman scream-Gilbert's wife, who hadn't even squeaked at all the throat-cutting. Then I hit the stone floor, and that's all I remembered for a while.