Harp of Winds

15 The Refuge

“I know Remana is worried about the girl, Yanis, but I don’t much like the notion of risking our ships so close to Nexis,” Idris grumbled.

Yanis looked across at Fional, and grimaced. The young leader of the Night-runners had never liked the pinch-faced, ill-tempered old captain, and it had been inevitable that Idris would be the one who tried to spike his plans to return to Nexis in secret and look for Zanna—and her father.

Yanis clenched his fists on the scrubbed, knife-scarred wood of the council table, which, being in the great kitchen cavern of the Nightrunners’ lair, was normally used for much less exalted purposes. The glowing cavern, with its row of great fires, was the warmest place in the smugglers’ hideout, and the meeting was being held there for the benefit of Fional, who was still trying to thaw out. The archer had come staggering, half frozen, out of a howling blizzard that morning, with the grim news that after all this time, neither Vannor nor Hargorn had returned to the Valley. Yanis glared at the bristling Idris. “Our ships?” the leader of the Nightrunners demanded. “Since when were they your ships, Idris?”

The wizened captain leapt to his feet and struck the table with his fist. “Don’t give me that, you young cur! I sailed with your father—aye, and your grandfather, tool Fine men, both of them, and they knew this was a community! Just because you’re your father’s son, it don’t mean you can’t be replaced—”

“Oh, and can he, now?” Remana spoke softly, but there was poisoned steel beneath her tones. Idris caught her eye and shut his mouth abruptly, before sinking back into his chair. No one, among the Nightrunners, would cross Remana—and the old captain knew it. To Yanis’s surprise, his mother winked at him, before turning back to the bowmen. “Fional,” she asked, “have you any idea what the situation is in Nexis now?”

Fional shook his head, and poured more taillin from the pot on the table. He took an appreciative sip of the steaming beverage before continuing. “It took me ages to get back here from the Valley, what with all the snow—and we were isolated for some time before that. I thought that your information would be more recent than ours.”

“I don’t think so,” Yanis demurred. “After the Archmage took control, I pulled my agents out of there. It was just too bloody dangerous to risk good men. Mark you,” he added, “I’ve been having second thoughts lately. This winter-in-summer and the storms at sea have almost put an end to trade, and we’re just about at the end of our resources. We’ll have to do something soon.”

“That bad, eh?” Fional said sympathetically. “You know, if you run short, you could always send a messenger to Dulsina in the Valley. We’ve enough and to spare.”

Remana shook her head. “I don’t understand. You’ve told us that the winter seems not to extend to the Valley—but how can that be?”

“Dulsina thinks we’re being protected somehow—by the Lady Eilin, presumably’ Fional replied with a shrug, “but we can’t work out why she won’t show herself. According to Vannor, Aurian always said her mother was a very solitary sort, but all the same, it seems strange to me.”

“Well, whatever the reason, I’m glad it’s so,” Remana said, “but this brings us no closer to helping Vannor and Zanna.”

A frown crossed her broad face. “I feel so responsible! If only I had kept a closer eye on the wretched girl—”

Yanis reached out to lay a comforting hand on her arm. “Don’t go blaming yourself, Mam. It was my fault that Zanna left, and we all know it. If only I had agreed to her schemes for using our ships to help Vannor, instead of listening to Gevan, and Idris here . . .” He scowled at the old captain, “The least we can do now is help find her—and that is not a matter open to debate.” He paused, and looked round at the assembled faces. “The question is: without our agents in Nexis, how do we go about it?”

Idris still looked unhappy. “Very well. If we must, we must—if only so we don’t lose the partnership with Vannor that has served us so well. But is there no way of managing it without putting our own folk in danger?”

Yanis shook his head. “I don’t see how—”

“I know!” Remana, who had been deep in thought, suddenly interrupted him. “We need a contact who is already in Nexis, and I know the very man—your father’s old friend Jarvas, who runs a refuge for the poor folk of the city.” She looked at all of them, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “His place is right down by the river, so we can sneak in easily, after dark, and—•”

“Now just hold on there!” Yanis shouted. “What do you mean, we? If you think I’m taking you into the dangers of bloody Nexis, you’d better think again!”

Remana smiled sweetly. “But Yanis—Jarvas doesn’t know you. He would never trust a stranger, especially with things the way they are now.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “He does, however, know me . . .”

Across the table, Fional was grinning. “Did you know, Remana, that you’re just like your sister?”

Yanis put his face into his hands, and groaned.

The journey through the slushy alleys was swift and furtive. Even with Jarvas taking the stranger’s weight—Tilda had done little more than carry his sword and bedroll, retrieved from the wrecked taproom, and keep his cloak from trailing in the muck—the whore had difficulty keeping up with the swift pace that the big man set. By the Gods, she would be glad when they reached safe haven! The shock of her folly in the tavern was beginning to hit her now. “What have I done?” she moaned to herself. “Why did I do it?” Some of the guards had only been wounded, but some were certainly dead—and once Pendral circulated her description, and that of Jarvas, they couldn’t expect to elude arrest for long.

Tilda cursed under her breath. Being a streetwalker wasn’t much of a life, but it was better than being a fugitive! In the last hour, her life had fallen apart. Her face set in grim and bitter lines, she trudged behind Jarvas through the labyrinth of alleys that led to his home.

The sturdy fence of the stockade towered above Tilda’s head, and in spite of her growing dismay, she could not help but be impressed. She had never been here before—she could look after herself, thank you, and took pride in doing so—but of course she had heard of the place. Jarvas and his good deeds! she thought. And where has it got him? When they reached the heavy gate, the big man whistled a complicated trill, and there was a hollow scraping sound as heavy wooden bars were lifted out of their sockets on the other side. The gate swung open to a blaze of haloed torchlight that made Tilda’s eyes water, as a cloaked and hooded figure materialized out of the fog.

“You’re back early!” Then the woman’s voice faltered at the sight of Jarvas’s burden. “Dear Gods, what’s happened?” Tilda saw her small, shrouded figure straighten as she collected herself. “I’ll fetch Benziorn at once,” she said briskly, and turned to go.

“Good lass,” Jarvas yelled after her. “Tell him there’s a wound needs stitching.”

“All right.” The woman vanished into the swirling fog.

Jarvas carried the wounded stranger into the nearer of the warehouses. Tilda, following, gasped as she slipped through the narrow gap in the massive door. The fog made it difficult to gauge the building’s size from the outside, but inside, the ground floor was an echoing vault, with shadows dancing on its walls from the torches attached to the eight supporting stone columns that marched, two by two, down the length of the hall. Tilda’s first impression was one of warmth and light. Lamps and candles burned on ledges and niches in the rough walls of lime-washed stone, and campfires burned at intervals down both sides of the spacious chamber. Woodsmoke rose in sluggish whirls, filling the room with a choking haze that stung Tilda’s eyes and stabbed at her throat, setting off her cough again. She caught a brief impression of people crowding around and a buzz of questioning voices, but her eyes were watering so hard that it was impossible to see clearly through the smoky haze.

“Out of the way—I’ve an injured man here!” Jarvas roared. “May the Gods have mercy! Which lackwit closed the windows? Hey, you there!” He caught the eye of a skinny, smudge-faced urchin who came pelting through the haze of smoke. “Lad, can you climb?”

“ ’Course I can!” The scruffy brat nodded enthusiastically.

“Good. Over by the wall you’ll find a ladder. Climb up to one of the high windows and open the shutters—and when you’ve done that, do the same with the window opposite. A good cross-draft will clear this smoke in no time!”

“All right, Jarvas!” The child raced off, calling for his friends to help him.

“And don’t go mucking about with that ladder!.” Jarvas turned to the whore with a rueful grin. “I’m wasting my breath, telling that to a lad his age!. Are you all right?”

“Smoke!” Tilda managed to wheeze.

“Sorry about that—we’ll soon get it cleared . . . Somebody boil some water—and scrounge up some clean rags from somewhere!” he bellowed to the room at large.

Jarvas went to the far end of the room, with Tilda clutching blindly at his cloak-hem, and set the wounded man down on a pallet near one of the fires, “Benziorn had better hurry,” he muttered, as Tilda covered the injured stranger with a blanket. “He’s losing a lot of blood,”

Tilda heard the squeak and thump of the ladder going up, and shrill squabbling in childish voices. Their cursing didn’t bother her—she had grown up with such coarseness on the streets. After a few minutes her throat was soothed by welcome fresh air. The smoke was clearing, but the windows were so high—about the height of three tall men—that they kept the worst of the cold from getting into the room,

“All right—what have I got to patch up this time?” The voice was deep and smooth as velvet, but the tone was querulous, and ragged with fatigue, “Some idiot victim of yet another drunken brawl?”

Tilda looked up to see a man of medium height and indeterminate years, his fair hair threaded with brighter strands of silver. His expressive face, though drawn and haggard with weariness, was lean and well proportioned/: and pleasing to the eye, but his light blue eyes were snapping with irritation. Without waiting for an answer, he snatched aside the blanket that covered the stranger and cursed. “Melisanda have mercy—what a ghastly mess! Are you dimwits so impossibly dense that you; can’t contrive a simple bandage? You might as well have left the poor bastard to bleed to death, and allowed me a decent night’s sleep for once. It would have come to the same thing in the end! At least he’s unconscious, so I won’t be plagued by the sound of his screams!”

All the while he had been talking, Benziorn was unpacking a bag that he carried with him, and handing his instruments to the girl who had gone to fetch him, who emerged from her voluminous cloak as a delicate pale-haired waif with a ruthless streak of efficiency. She immersed the instruments and bandages in boiling water while the physician cleaned the stranger’s wounds, all the while keeping up a continuous peevish grumble.

“His chest is no problem—the wound’s a slice across his ribs, not a stab, and his jerkin protected him . . . He’s in shock from blood loss, though—couldn’t you idiots have kept him warmer? Nasty head wound . . . If we move fast and we’re lucky, we might be able to save the ear . , . What’s keeping you, Emmie?” he demanded.

The blond girl simply responded with a smile. “Ready now, Benziorn!

“You! Whoever you are,” the physician snapped. “Fetch me more lights! Candles, lamps, whatever! Hurry!”

Tilda jerked upright as she realized that he was addressing her. Jolted into action by his peremptory tone, she scurried off to do his bidding. When she returned to place her handful of garnered candles, as instructed, around the head of the stranger, Benziorn was already stitching .with deft, economical motions. As she came close to him, Tilda noticed a familiar smell on his breath, and realized, with a shock, that the physician had been drinking, Dear Gods, she thought—what kind of place have I come to?

Jarvas surveyed his little kingdom, looking around at the scenes of squalor and poverty. Some three dozen families were camped within the hall, dividing the space with sagging partitions of blankets, sacks, or whatever came to hand. Children slept together like puppies in tangled nests of blankets, while mothers tended stewpots and sewed hopelessly at clothing whose original fabric was indistinguishable beneath rainbow layers of patchwork* Old folk, wrapped in cloaks and shawls, snored in corners or competed with steaming laundry for space at the fires, while groups of men sat cross-legged in the lamplight, gambling for pebbles with knucklebones. The topaz eyes of several cats blinked and gleamed in the firelight. Somewhere in the shadows, a baby cried. Every face was scarred and haggard with hunger and hardship.

Jarvas felt a presence beside him. Tilda was looking at his people with horror and pity on her face. “At least they aren’t starving now!” There was a defensive edge to his voice. “At least they aren’t freezing in the streets tonight!”

“There are so many of them,” Tilda murmured. Compressing her lips, she looked away. “Your precious physician is drunk she added in scandalized tones,

Jarvas nodded. “He usually is. Once, he was the best physician in Nexis. He made a comfortable living treating the merchants and such—until the night those hideous monsters struck.” He sighed, “Benziorn was away from home, attending a sickbed, when one of the creatures got into his house and slaughtered his wife and children. Ever since then, he’s been drinking—it cost him his house and his livelihood, and he was a stinking, starving wreck when I took him off the streets,” Jarvas shrugged. “We’re lucky to have him, though. Drunk or sober—he’s still the best!”

“I’m glad to hear it,” There was a bitter edge to Tilda’s voice. “I’d hate to think we risked our necks for some stranger, only to have him finished off by a drunken physician! Why did we do it? We must have been mad!” There was a note of shrill desperation in her voice.

Jarvas shook his head. “I’m blessed if I know!” At the time, it had seemed the only thing to do, but helping that one man had probably spelled the end of this refuge for all these others! “It might take a day or two for Pendral to find out who I am,” he went on grimly, “but after that, they’ll be coming here, for sure.” He sighed. “Get some rest now, Tilda. First thing tomorrow, I’ll send Emmie to fetch your son—then we need to start thinking about getting out of here!”

Tilda’s home was in the mare’s nest of squalid alleys, upcurrent from the great white bridge that leapt the river beside the Academy promontory. Having been sent by Jarvas to collect the streetwalker’s son, Emmie walked quickly through the baffling maze, shivering in the chill of a damp gray dawn. Today, the stout stick that she always carried for protection was being put to the use for which it had been originally intended, for her sturdily shod feet kept slipping in the deep layer of freezing, slushy muck that slicked the cobbles. The alleyways stank of rot and mildew and decay, of human filth and human waste. Emmie knew it well—the stench of utter poverty.

The dark hulks of damp, half-derelict buildings with boarded windows towered over her on either side, cutting off most of the leaden morning light and turning the narrow ginnels into threatening tunnels of gloom. On each side of her were doorways; some had cracked and rotting doors that hung drunkenly askew from a single rusting hinge; others were merely dark and gaping holes that might have concealed any amount of dangers.

Emmie hurried past these, her nerves strung tight, cursing Jarvas under her breath for sending her on such an errand. This was the safest time to visit these poverty-stricken haunts, for most of the inhabitants would be sleeping after their desperate deeds of the previous night, but Emmie felt uneasy. Though the alleys were deserted, she imagined hostile eyes in every gaping doorway. Glancing around warily and checking the knife at her belt, she drew her concealing hood more snugly over her tangle of pale gold curls, and walked on, repeating Tilda’s instructions to herself, over and over again. Gods preserve us! she thought. What an appalling place to raise a child! Suddenly, Emmie heard a bloodcurdling snarl. One of the tilting doors in front of her burst open, to reveal a huge and shaggy white shape, its lips wrinkling back to reveal savage yellowed fangs and drooling jaws, its eyes kindling with a menacing fire. Never taking those glaring red eyes from her, the dog slunk out into the street, plainly nervous but determined. Blocking her way forward, it broke into a torrent of guttural barking.

Emmie froze in her tracks, her heart hammering wildly, and took a firmer grip on her stick. Time seemed to stretch as she noted the knobs and ridges of bone that stuck out through the creature’s dirty, matted white fur—and the row of swollen dugs that hung from its hollow belly. Despite the danger, she felt her heart contract with pity for this poor starveling mother with a hungry litter to feed.

Emmie understood a mother’s instinct. She’d had a little one of her own, and another on the way, when her husband, Devral, a young storyteller, had been snatched by the Archmage’s soldiers and vanished forever from her life. The shock and grief of his loss had made her lose the baby too, and in the hardship that followed, her little daughter had died of a fever. Suddenly she was swamped by a wave of fellow feeling for the wretched creature before her. For all its size, the dog was young—full young to be a mother, Emmie thought, noting its gawky appearance and the huge paws that seemed to promise further growth. This was probably its first litter. Despite its skeletal, filthy appearance, its eyes were clear and its matted coat thick. There was no sign of mange or madness. In the pouch at Emmie’s belt was food—bread, cheese, and meat—intended for Tilda’s son. No doubt the animal had scented her provisions, and desperation had driven it to attack.

“You poor thing,” Emmie murmured. Well, she was sure that Tilda’s brat could wait to eat until she got him back to the refuge. Stealthily, her free hand crept toward the pouch at her belt—but the movement was injudicious. A swelling snarl burst from the animal’s throat, as it leapt to the attack—followed by an agonized yelp as Emmie’s stick whacked into its ribs with a hollow thud. Cowed and whining, the bitch slunk back toward her doorway, glancing back frequently over her shoulder as if trying to pluck up the courage to attack again.

“Oh turds!” Emmie muttered. She was shaking, and sick with an irrational guilt. Swiftly, she fumbled in her pouch, and drew out the package of food, ripping away the cloth that wrapped it. “Here, girl!” she called, and tossed her provisions to the starving animal. The dog pounced on them, drooling—and suddenly looked up with bright eyes at her benefactor. The ragged, white-plumed tail wagged once, as if in thanks—and then the dog snatched up the food and was gone. From within the building came a shrill chorus of high-pitched whines, as the mother returned to her litter.

Inwardly mocking her own softheartedness, Emmie went on her way, pausing to wipe her eyes, which had unaccountably filled with tears, on a fold of her cloak. “You idiot!” she told herself. “Haven’t you seen enough human suffering, that you have to get in a stew about a starving animal?” She could imagine what Jarvas would say, if he ever found out she’d given scarce and valuable supplies to a bloody dog! Nonetheless, her heart had been warmed by the dog’s seeming gratitude—and Emmie knew that if she could live the encounter over again, she’d do exactly the same thing.

“Grince? Grince—are you in there? Your mother sent me to fetch you!” Emmie rapped hard on the flimsy door, wincing inwardly as she called the poor child’s unfortunate name. (“I called him after his dad,” Tilda had said defensively. “At least—I’m almost sure that was his dad!”) Emmie shook her head resignedly, and knocked again.

She had been hammering for some minutes on the unyielding door, when there was a grating noise, as if some heavy object were being dragged back from the other side. The door opened a crack and a dark, suspicious eye peeped out.

“My ma said don’t open the bloody door for no body”

The young woman was just in time to get her into the door before it slammed shut again. Such a stream of curses came from the ten-year-old child within, even though she had thought herself inured to the language of the gutter, Emmie winced. For all his talk, she could sense that the child was very much afraid—and not without reason, when his mother had failed to come home.

“Don’t be daft’ she said crisply. “Tilda ran into a bit of trouble last night, and that’s why she didn’t come back. But don’t worry, she’s safe, among friends. My name is Emmie—she sent me to fetch you, so that you could be safe, too.”

With that, she forced the door open. “Go away!” the child howled. “I’m not going with you, I want my ma!” He was cowering in the farthest corner of the single room, in a nest of verminous rags that obviously passed for his bed, his dark eyes scowling up at her from behind a ragged fringe of black hair,

“Come on, Grince,” Emmie wheedled. “Look—we don’t have time to waste. Your mother is worried about you.” She looked down with pity at the small and skinny boy, and silently cursed Tilda. Why, the child looked as neglected, wild, and undernourished as that poor stray dog!.

She approached his bedside and knelt down—and froze in horror as she saw the wicked glint of a knife in the small boy’s hand.

“Bog off!” the boy shrilled. “Don’t come no closer, or I’ll gut you!”

He meant it—that was certain. Emmie shuddered. What sort of life could do this to a child? Her mind was racing. If she could only get him to trust her! Fleetingly, she regretted giving her food to the starving dog… The dog! Of course! Emmie gave the boy her brightest of smiles. “Oh, never mind old Tilda, then. She can wait! Would you like to see some puppies, instead?” she asked disarmingly.

Grince’s face lit up like a beacon. “Puppies? Really? Are they yours? Can I have one?” Then the scowl returned. “But my ma won’t let me,” he added sullenly. Emmie grinned, adopting the boy’s own language. “Stuff your ma,” she said briskly. “If you’ll put down that knife and come with me, you can have the whole bloody lot!”

At first, Emmie was afraid that the dog would be gone when she approached the building with the excited child in tow, she told Grince to wait outside, and crept into the hovel with great trepidation. She need not have worried. The white dog was delighted to see her—probably, Emmie thought, in the hopes that she might have more food.

“Good dog,” she said softly, and put out a hand to scratch the soft white ears. She was rewarded by a whine, and much tail-wagging, as the dog pressed close to her and licked her hand. A good-natured creature at heart, the young woman thought, delighted that her assessment of the animal had been right. Once, this dog had had a kindly owner—but what had happened to him or her? A quick search of the room gave her the answer, The owner had died within the hovel—of age or sickness, most likely—and the dog had been living on the corpse ever since.

“Well?” Emmie asked herself, “What was she supposed to do, with pups to feed?” Nonetheless, she found it hard to suppress her retching, as she took an old blanket and covered the well-gnawed heap of bones, before calling the child into the room.

Grince went into raptures over the pups—a motley lot, with one white beast like its mother, and the others splotched with black. When Emmie reached down to take the little creatures, the bitch, weak with hunger, reacted with a trust that touched her to the core. As they left the hovel, Grince danced around her, unable to contain his excitement. “Are they mine?” he asked her, wide-eyed. “Can I have them all?”

“ Of course you can,” Emmie told him recklessly, She laid her free hand on the broad white head of the bitch who paced at her side, and smiled, “But the dog is mine,” she added firmly. Suddenly, she felt lighter of heart and more at ease than she had done since Devral had died.

It was nearing noon when Emmie trudged wearily back to the refuge, encumbered by her burden of five squirming pups, their eyes not yet open, tied up loosely in a rough bag that she’d made from her petticoat. Grince who had been hugely impressed by her resourcefulness—and the fact that she had kept her promise—clung lightly to her free hand, and the big white dog followed trustingly at her heels. Dear Gods, Emmie thought, imagining the whore’s reaction on being presented with not one, but five puppies—Tilda is in for a shock! And what on earth is Jarvas going to say when he sees this menagerie?

“What the thundering blazes is that?” The horrified expression on Jarvas’s face at the sight of the white dog was not encouraging.

Grince shrank nervously behind Emmie’s skirts. She squeezed his hand and tilted her chin in defiance, but the boy could feel her trembling. “It’s only a dog, for goodness’ sake!” she protested.

“Dog? It’s more like a bloody horse!” Jarvas snorted. “Emmie, you should have more sense than to bring that creature here! Haven’t we enough to worry about, after my idiocy last night? Aren’t we in enough trouble? And how in the name of all the Gods do you expect to feed the wretched beast? We’ve little enough to go round as it is!”

But my puppies! thought Grince. He swallowed against a tightness in his throat. Never in his short life had he possessed anything that really belonged to him—and never had he wanted anything more than those tiny scraps of life. Above his head, the argument continued.

“I’ll feed her from my rations,” Emmie said firmly.

“And that you bloody won’t!” Jarvas spluttered. As it is, you don’t eat near enough, without giving it away to some mangy dog! I’m telling you, Emmie—I won’t have it!

Grince saw his newfound friend took down into the trusting eyes of the dog. She took a shaky breath, “Very well,” she said tightly, “if we aren’t welcome here we’ll go”

“no!” the howl of protest came from Grince. You can’t go away! What about my puppies?” Before Emmie could react, he had dived out, kicked Jarvas hard in the shins, and dodged behind her again. “Leave her alone, you rotten old pig!.” he shrilled. “It’s her dog, and they’re my puppies—and we’re keeping them, so there!”

A long arm shot out, and the big man dragged Grince out from behind Emmie’s skirts. Much as the boy wriggled and cursed, he could not escape from the bruising grip of those strong fingers. Jarvas’s eyes were glinting with anger.

“It’s all right, son.” The smooth, deep voice was firm and reassuring. “Jarvas—is this really necessary?”

Jarvas let go of the boy and turned to confront the man with silver-gold hair who had walked up behind him, his booted feet silent in the snowy earth of the stockade. “You have no right, Benziorn—” the big man began angrily—

-but the other took him by the arm and dragged him out of earshot.

Grince looked up at Emmie. To his astonishment, her lips were crooked in a smile. “Benziorn is a good physician,” she told the boy, “and we need him here. If anyone can persuade Jarvas to change his mind, he can.”

Grince watched the two men talking, their heads close together, and bit his lip anxiously. Glad as he’d been of Benziorn’s intervention, he only hoped that the physician would be able to sway Jarvas in favor of his puppies. It looked as though Emmie was thinking the same. Kneeling, she put her arms around the thick-ruffed neck of the white dog. “It’s all right,” the boy heard her mutter to the animal, “You’ll have a home with me whatever Jarvas says!”

After what seemed an age to Grince, Jarvas stamped off across the stockade, grumbling, while Benziorn returned to the waiting pair with a wry shake of his head

“At least I still retain some powers of persuasion! Really, if you weren’t such a good assistant . . .” the physician said to Emmie in mock scolding tones

“Benizorn, how can I thank you?” Emmie replied gratefully. ” I had expected Jarvas to be awkward but….”

Don’t blame him too harshly, Emmie.” The physician sighed. ” Jarvas has too many other worries today, to be concerned about one stray dog. He—”

“It’s not just one stray dog!” Grince piped up indignantly. “What about my bloody puppies?”

“Grince!.” Emmie scolded. “We’re going to have to do something about your language!”

“What language?” the boy replied innocently.

Benziorn squatted beside him, frowning. “I think you know what bloody language, you little wretch! Well, Jarvas doesn’t allow swearing here—especially not in front of ladies like Emmie. So you’d better apologize to her—or she might just decide to take those puppies back!”

He looked so ferocious that Grince gulped nervously. “I—I’m sorry, Emmie,” he said in a small and subdued voice.

“That’s better!” Benziorn smiled and ruffled his hair. “Now, let’s go and get those pups of yours settled. While we still have time.” He said the last words in such a quiet, worried voice that the excited boy barely heard them. Leaving Emmie—after all, it was her fault—to cope with Tilda’s hysterics on being presented with the five puppies, Jarvas crossed the echoing warehouse and looked broodingly down at the injured trooper who had caused so much trouble.

“You know, our mysterious stranger’s head wound may be more serious than I had thought. He should have regained consciousness by now.”

“Is this your day for sneaking up on me?” Jarvas snapped—but his irritation was dampened by the sight of the physician’s haggard face and worried frown. For the first time since the big man had known him, Benziorn was sober.

“Is it really so serious?” Jarvas asked, feeling suddenly cold. “By all the Gods, if I’ve gone and put everyone into danger to save him, and then he dies on us . . .”

The physician knelt by his patient. “His pulse seems a little stronger,” he said hopefully. “Maybe it’s just his age, and blood loss—not to mention being hauled about outside in that raw cold!” Scrambling to his feet, he put a hand on Jarvas’s arm. “Can I help?” he said quietly.

“Help? How?” The big man’s voice was raw with bitterness. “I’ve bollixed things up good and proper, Benziorn! Just look at this lot! What’s going to happen to them, when the soldiers come? So far, we’ve escaped much official attention—what do we have, that anyone should want to bother us? But now?” His arm swept out to encompass his ragged little band of destitute Nexians, “It’s only a matter of time before Pendral’s troopers find out who I am! A face like mine is pretty recognizable!”

“And it’s a short step from there, for them to treat this place as a hive of dissension—and we know what that means!”

Benziorn gave Jarvas a very straight look, “My friend, I think we should prepare to evacuate.”

The big man flinched from Benziom’s words. “But ...” His protest subsided as the physician raised an eyebrow,

“You’re right, I know we should,” Jarvas sighed, “I’m not that daft! But to see the ruination of it all . . .” He looked again across the noisy, crowded, smoky hall—at the huddled old folk, enjoying the first food and shelter and security that they had known in a long time; at the little ones who played between the fires; their present freedom from filth, starvation, and disease giving them the energy to get under everyone’s feet with their riotous games. Would this be the end of Vannor’s dream, and his own? Not while Jarvas had a breath left in his body! Determined now, he turned back to Benziorn, “There is,” he said quietly, “another alternative, I could give myself up,”

“No, you fool! You can’t do that!” Benziorn, his eyes wide with alarm, caught Jarvas’s arm as though to detain him by main force. “What about Tilda? What about the stranger you took such risks to save? Pendral must know you weren’t alone in what you did!” His fingers pressed painfully into the big man’s arm. “Jarvas—they’ll torture you to find out the whereabouts of the others—and in the end, you’ll have no alternative but to betray them. Believe me, what you’re suggesting solves nothing!”

“Curse it—what can I do, then?” Jarvas shouted.

“Folk can’t leave Nexis without permission these days—shall I just cast my people back out into the slums?”

“They may be safer there than here, for the time being,” Benziorn reminded him gently. “Once this trouble has died down, it may be possible for them to return—but I think you must tell them to start packing up their belongings now. If the need should arise, they must be ready to leave. I would also look to the fortification of your stockade, and send the more sensible youngsters out into the surrounding streets, to give us early warning of the approach of soldiers. Then, after dark tonight, it may be wise to start moving your people out of here.”

Jarvas knew the physician was right. But never, since his childhood, had he been so close to weeping. It was not long, however, before Benziorn’s precautions turned out to be needed. By nightfall, there were soldiers at the gate.

Guards, dressed in the achingly familiar livery of the Garrison, dragged Vannor up the spiral tower staircase, their booted feet striking harsh echoes from the cold, hard marble. But even the stairwell was so much warmer than the chill outside . . . The merchant felt himself sinking into a drowsy oblivion, and fought to clear his mind, to stay alert, to struggle—but his limbs were bound, and too numb, in any case, to obey him. He was utterly helpless—and back in Miathan’s power.

Vannor was taken to Miathan’s chambers and forced down to his knees on the rich crimson carpet. Waving the guards aside, the Archmage stood in silence, looking down at the merchant with the glittering, expressionless gems that were his eyes. Vannor shuddered. Miathan’s face had altered—the harsh hauteur of his former days had been recarved into deeper lines of bitterness and cruelty. The skin on his masklike face was waxen and unhealthy, and twisted into livid scars around his gutted eyes. Only his clawlike hands, rubbing and writhing against one another, betrayed his glee. The merchant knew fear, the like of which he had never before experienced, not even the Wraith that had slain Forral had filled him with such terror, which mocked at hope and drained his courage as though the lifeblood were being leeched from his very veins.

“So,” Miathan whispered. “I have you at last.”

“You won’t have me long, you bastard!” Vannor spat at the Archmage’s feet.

“Vannor, you would be amusing, were you not pitiful,” the Archmage mocked him. “You are correct, however; your presence will not plague me long. In your case, the end will come much sooner than you think—for who will help you now?” He smiled coldly. “Here we are, back where we started—but there is no Forral to help you this time, and no Aurian to interfere! Your friends from the Garrison are scattered or dead. You have no one, Vannor. No one but me. And before I am done, you will beg for death a thousand times. But first, I shall require some answers—such as the names of your companions, and where they are hiding.”

The hissing voice, the glittering, malevolent eyes, struck chills through Vannor. The merchant gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, but he could not shut out Miathan’s insidious, gloating voice that turned him sick to his soul with loathing. The worst of his horror was not for his own fate—that (he promised himself, and tried hard to believe it) he could stand. But he knew that sooner or later, he would tell the Archmage everything he wanted to know. Vannor shuddered. Blinded by his love for his daughter, he had betrayed his friends. Mortal men he could deal with, but this monster wielded powers that went far beyond Vannor’s worst imaginings. A wave of nausea overwhelmed him as he remembered the hideous creature that had slain his old friend Forral, and only the stubborn core of courage that had supported him throughout a rough, hard life kept his limbs from trembling. Saving a miracle, his life could be measured in days, at most. And Vannor knew that those few days would be very bad, indeed.

Nonetheless, he intended to go down fighting. Scowling, he looked up into Miathan’s expressionless eyes. “Why?” he grated. “You’re the bloody Archmage! You know full well that you could pick whatever information you wanted out of my mind as easily as picking up a piece of fruit from that bowl over there. In fact ...” Another shudder convulsed him.

“In fact, you may have already done it.” Was it true? Was it? Taking a ragged breath, he tried to control his racing thoughts. “So why are you threatening me with torture?”

“For revenge.” Miathan’s smile reminded Vannor of the snarling wolf that he had seen so long ago in the Valley.

“Revenge for all those years of being balked, hindered, and opposed on the Council. And your suffering will be far greater when you hear the words that betray your companions coming from your own lips—and know that you have failed them,”

Again, the wolfish grin. “But there is more to it than revenge, my dear Vannor, Consider the sources of magical power. Abandoning the Mages’ Code has brought me certain… opportunities. Bear in mind, when you are dying in torment, that your terror, your agony and anguish, will all be serving to fuel my magic and increase my power.”

With that, he lifted his hand. Every nerve and muscle in Vannor’s body went into spasm as a bolt of agony consumed the merchant’s spine like white fire. Vannor toppled like a falling tree, writhing on the crimson carpet as his spine arced backward like a tensioned bow. Though he bit his tongue to keep from crying out, the last thing he heard, as his senses left him, were his own agonized cries.