Oath of Gold

10

By the start of the third watch that night, the stronghold was in a very different mood. The servants Venner had hired over the years were huddled in one of the third floor storage rooms, guarded by Dorrin’s soldiers. They were clearly confused and frightened. Paks, on the pretext of bringing Dorrin messages from the Duke, had wandered among them. None triggered her warnings of evil, and the Duke now believed them to be innocent. But he was taking no chances, and they remained under guard for the next day and a half. Kessim’s shrouded body lay in state in one of the reception rooms, with an honor guard from all three cohorts.

Arcolin and the oldest veterans prowled the stronghold, looking for any signs of hidden weakness. Some they had already found, in the Duke’s quarters. “I didn’t build it this way,” muttered an old carpenter, as he pried a board loose in the back of a closet in the Duke’s sleeping room. “Look—you can see where these boards are newer, and stained dark. ’Tis easy to open this—like a door—and come through or listen. It’d take a week to do such a job. Who? Not me, is all I say. But that Venner, now, he’d bring folks up from Vérella—my wife saw them, time and again, on the road, but we thought it was your will, my lord—” In the Duke’s study, again, a hidden panel swung out giving access to the next room, where files had been stored.

On the walls, the doubled watch peered through the night. They knew from their sergeants’ faces that this was no night to gossip when they met at the corners or ask questions at the change of watch. Many had seen the blanket-wrapped bundles carried out the watch-gate: they didn’t know who, but they knew trouble had already come.

The Duke seemed to be everywhere, with Paks at his side. He walked the walls himself, midway of the second watch, and strolled through each of the barracks. In the infirmary, he paused by each bed, until the sick had seen and recognized him. He paused to speak to sentries and guards at each post. Gradually the Company settled into watchfulness. The Duke was alive, and obviously well, and very obviously in command. Some of them looked sideways at Paks and wondered why she carried a longsword, but they did not ask.

Midway of the third watch, Arcolin had found nothing amiss in the front court. “It will take days to search everything, my lord,” he reported. “But Siger and I think we’ve covered the most obvious places for trouble. I’d expect a passage outside, for instance, but there isn’t one. We thought of the jacks pit, but the gratings are still locked in. But in here—”

“Yes.” The Duke looked tired; he sat heavily in the chair in his study. “We’ve found so many things already. Mostly ways of spying on me, or on you captains. I daresay we’ve hardly said a word, these last years, that he did not know. I think I know now how the regency council found out about that last campaign in Aarenis.”

“Did you—could you hear what he said as he and Paks fought?”

“No. After the dagger, I heard and saw nothing.”

“He did more than that, Kieri. He—”

“Later. I suspect more. But for now—did he have a way outside, and are we going to be attacked? And when?”

“More when than if, I think. Has Dorrin checked the lower levels?”

“Not yet. There’s so much up here—”

“Did he ask permission for any construction, and changes, in the past year or so?”

“I don’t—gods above, Jandelir, he did! The new wine cellar—remember?” Arcolin nodded. “He said he wanted to enlarge, if we were all staying here—and I told him to stay within the walls, but—”

“Let’s go.” Arcolin stood, and stretched his arms. He yawned widely. “Why that rascal couldn’t have started this after I’d had a good night’s sleep—”

The Duke was no longer sure which cellar had been extended. He, Paks, Arcolin, and a squad from Dorrin’s cohort began the search at the kitchen stairs. A passage ran north, the length of the building. Doors opened off it at intervals. But they found nothing in any of the outside rooms, and no signs of new construction.

“Would one of the servants know?” asked Paks.

“They might.” The Duke rubbed his eyes. “Tir’s gut, but I’m tired. It must be near dawn. Let’s go up and see.”

The cooks knew at once which cellar was meant. “Sir, it’s the third on the right, the last on that side before the corner. He said ’twas to give room, so’s not to run into the well, there in the court. Can you tell us, sir, what’s wrong? Is Venner angry with us? We done nothing, sir, I swear it—”

“It’s all right. The third on the right?”

“Yes, sir, it—” But they went back out, into a cold dawn, and crossed the courtyard again.

“An inside cellar,” said Arcolin. “What was he up to?”

“No good,” said the Duke shortly. His shoulders were hunched against the cold. The sentries—four, now—at the door, saluted smartly. One of Dorrin’s squad, following, stumbled on the steps. The Duke frowned. Dorrin waited inside.

“My lord, I brought food from the Company kitchens.”

“I don’t need—” He stopped abruptly, and looked at the others. “Maybe I do, indeed. Thank you. I’d forgotten I have the cooks locked up.”

Sometime during the night, Dorrin had cleared away the mess in the dining hall. A steaming pitcher of sib and a kettle of porridge centered the big table. Bowls and mugs were stacked to one side. Paks sat with the others, unconcerned about order and seniority. After a bowl of porridge and several mugs of sib, she felt more awake. The Duke’s face was less pinched. Dorrin had had a fresh squad ready inside, and sent the first one off to breakfast with the rest of the Company.

“Well, now,” said the Duke, over his third mug of sib. “We’ll see about that cellar, and then—barring immediate trouble—we’ll get some sleep.”

“Agreed.” Arcolin stretched and yawned. “Is Pont back, Dorrin?”

“Yes. I sent him on to sleep when he came; he’s up again and ready to take the day watches. Nothing’s happened outside. Oh yes—my lord, I took the liberty of sending word to the villages—”

“I should have thought of that. Good for you.”

“As of this morning, nothing’s happened there, either. The Councils will meet with you at your convenience; they’ve alerted all the veterans. Piter has a list of all the travelers in the Red Fox, and they won’t be going anywhere today.”

“Oh?”

“Something’s happened to their horses—or their wagons—and it seems a thief went through last night and stole left shoes.”

The Duke laughed, and the others joined in. “That Piter! It’s a good thing he’s on my side.” He pushed his chair back. “Let’s get to that cellar, then, and hope to find nothing we need worry about until after rest.”

The cellar door in question yielded to none of the keys on the ring. Dorrin had searched Venner’s quarters, and had found another ring in a hollow carved into his bedpost. She handed it over. These keys were thinner and newer than the others. One of them slipped into the lock and turned it.

Inside, it looked like any wine cellar: rows of racks with slender green bottles on one side, and barrels, raised off the floor on chocks, on the other. The new extension, clearly visible, made it almost twice as large as before. Along the far wall were more racks for bottles: most of these were empty. They prowled around the cellar, tapping on walls. All seemed solid. Paks stayed near the Duke. It seemed to her that the room could have held many more racks if they had been arranged differently. Racks and barrels both sat well out from the walls. She asked the Duke about it.

“I don’t know—” he said, looking surprised. “I suppose—perhaps the air is supposed to move around them—or it’s easier to clean.”

It was very clean, as if it had been swept recently. Paks bent to look under the racks. Surely there would be dust underneath—they couldn’t move all the racks and barrels every time. She saw something dark and heavy. It didn’t look like dust. She swiped at it with her hand, and teased it out into view. A dried lump of clay—the same sort of clay that clung to their boots in the field.

“What’s that?” asked Dorrin behind her.

“I don’t know—clay, I think. But why under there?” As she said it, she thought of mud from boots, falling off, being swept under—

“Hunh. Not exactly like our clay. Grayer.”

“Well, it’s dry—”

“Even so.” Dorrin flattened herself on the floor and looked under the rack. “Is that—can you see that different colored stone, there?”

Paks lay down and looked. One of the square paving blocks that floored the cellar looked a shade darker than the others, but it was under the rack, after all. She reached out to touch it. It was stone. Dorrin had gotten up. The Duke leaned over to look.

“We’ll move this rack,” he said. Paks and the others laid hands on it and shoved it aside. The stone in question was slightly darker gray. The space between it and the stones around it was filled tightly with earth.

“It can’t be a door,” said Arcolin. “Look how the crack’s filled.”

“The others aren’t.” Dorrin pointed. Between other stones a broom had swept out some of the earth, leaving little grooves. But on this one, the dirt looked unnaturally smooth, filling the crack to the brim. Dorrin drew her dagger and picked at it. It came out in long sections, exactly like dried mud. Beneath that surface of mud the crack was clean and empty.

They all stared at it a moment. “Let’s use sense,” the Duke said finally. “Without knowing what, who, and how many, we’re fools to open that now. Can we block it for a day?”

“We can guard it, certainly. As for blocking it, that depends on what’s coming through. But if it’s a mage of some kind, the guards could be overcome.”

“Two sets,” the Duke said. “Clear this room to the walls, and post some inside and some in the passage out there. I don’t want to open this until I have some idea what’s going on.”

While the room was being cleared, and guards set, the Duke went to his quarters for sleep, and ordered the others to do likewise. Paks had thought she would not sleep at all, but she was hardly in her bunk before sleep took her, dreamless and deep.

Stammel woke her in the afternoon; heavy clouds darkened the day, and lamps had been lit already. Paks yawned and shook her head to clear it. Stammel looked around the empty barracks before speaking again.

“The story is that you healed the Duke.” He paused, and Paks tried to think how to say what she must say. He went on. “You remember, we talked once, a long time ago, about you maybe being a paladin someday. I never forgot what you said about Canna, that time. I suppose you did heal her. And then the Duke came back—he never said anything to us, but we heard you’d had some trouble in Fin Panir.” He stopped again, and looked away, then back at her. “I want you to know that I never did believe all I heard. The Duke, now—I’ve been in his Company since I left home, and never found a better man to follow. When you left, I had my doubts—but if this is what you came back to do, well—it’s good enough.” His face relaxed slightly. “But you could have told me, I think, what you could do. We could save the pay of a surgeon, at least.”

Paks shook her head, smiling. “I’m still finding out what I can do.”

“You mean you didn’t know you could heal? What about that other? Glowing light and all?”

“Who told that? No, I knew some of it. It’s come slowly. But I still don’t know what I can do until I try. That’s the second time I’ve made light; the first time it scared me half to death.”

“I suppose it would.” Stammel sounded thoughtful. “Was that in Kolobia?”

“No. A month or so ago, in Brewersbridge. With a Kuakgan.”

“Kolya’s friend?”

“Yes. Anyway, last night—when the darkness came, from Venner, I just—asked for light, I suppose.”

“And the healing. You’d healed before—Canna—”

“And one other, in Lyonya. A ranger. But I’m still learning. The elves said healing was a hard art to learn. It isn’t power alone, like light, but knowledge, as well. The Duke’s wound was a simple stab . . . I’d be afraid to try something like a broken bone.”

“Well—we’re all glad you did it. I don’t suppose you’ll be here long, now—?”

Paks shrugged. “Why not? I don’t have any plan to leave. Nothing’s called me.”

“You had a call to come here, though, didn’t you?” She nodded. “I thought so. I thought it was more than bringing the Duke back his ring. Well, then. Are you a paladin, Paks? Gird’s paladin?”

She had been waiting for this. “I’m not sure what I am. I have some gifts paladins have. I am a Girdsman. But Gird himself followed the High Lord, and I have had a—” She could not think how to describe her experience at the Kuakgan’s that last night. Vision? Miracle? She stopped, paused, and started again. “I have had a call, which I feel bound to follow. It brought me here, with a feeling that the Duke needed me. I will stay until it takes me somewhere else. The Kuakgan and the elves told me that the gods used to call paladins directly. Perhaps I am one, but it’s not what I expected.”

“A long way from Three Firs,” said Stammel soberly. “You were—” He shook his head. “You were such a young recruit. I could see the dream in your eyes: songs, magic swords, flying horses I daresay—and yet so practical, too. And the Company wasn’t what you expected either, was it?”

Paks laughed. “No. Cleaning, repairing walls, mending uniforms—we all hated that at first.”

“But you stuck it out. And now you’ve saved the Duke’s life—again. I don’t forget what happened in Aarenis. Well, I’ve talked long enough. Too long, it may be. The Duke wants you in conference before dinner tonight.”

The Duke looked much better; rested and alert, he leaned over the maps spread on the table. The captains were all there but Cracolnya, who had the watch. As Paks came in, they looked up. The Duke smiled and waved her over to the table.

“We’re trying to remember, Paks, the details of something that happened when I first took over this stronghold. You’ve never been to the Lairs, I think. When I first came, we drove the orcs out of there—we hoped for good—and explored some of their tunneling. Unhealthy sport: we lost several men to cave-ins, and I finally forbade any more of it. But Jandelir thinks he remembers one tunnel that led off southwest—toward us.”

“I’m sure of it,” said Arcolin. “I remember because it was straighter than the rest, and wider. It wasn’t all that long—” He pointed out the spot on the map. “Couldn’t have come past here. You know that swampy area where the springs are? It ended there, in a cave-in. Those stupid orcs had tried to burrow mud. We thought they’d intended to get close enough for a surprise attack. Those old rubble walls weren’t worth much—”

“The first stronghold,” Dorrin put in. “Built by someone from Vérella.”

“But now we wonder if that tunnel’s been repaired and brought on in,” said the Duke. “If it ends, for instance, in that wine cellar—”

“They’ll have a surprise,” said Dorrin grimly.

“Bad place to fight,” said Pont. “Cramped. The way orcs fight, we’ll have to count on losing some.” He paused for a sip of water. “Better than fighting in their tunnel, though. If they have polearms, that’d be suicide.”

“Surely we can trap them.” Dorrin rested both elbows on the table. “If we clear the room, we can have archers ready to pop the first ones through. That hole isn’t big enough to let more than two out at once.”

“If we knew what they’re planning—” began Arcolin. The Duke interrupted.

“Exactly. Paksenarrion, you have more experience in this than we have. You recognized the lady as an agent of Achrya, and you have dealt with her agents and clerics before. What can we expect?”

For an instant, as they all watched her, Paks could say nothing. She was the youngest there, the lowest rank—how could she advise them?

“My lord, I am not sure what you already know—”

“Don’t worry about that. Start at the beginning.”

“Well, then—Achrya, the webmistress, is not high in the citadels of evil, according to my teachers in Fin Panir, but she involves herself directly with men and elves, and is therefore more familiar. She delights in intricate plots, and ensnares men to evil deeds by slow sorceries of years. Where Liart—the Master of Torments—prefers direct assault and torture, Achrya spins web within web, and likes the struggles of the victim as much as the final meal, so they say.” Paks paused for a breath. She hated speaking directly of Achrya or Liart either one. “She hates the elves most, it is said, because they see clearly, and her arts cannot fool them—and Girdsmen and Falkians, because they will not compromise with evil for any immediate good. Her plots cannot prosper in peaceful, well-kept lands, so she is always brewing plots and treacheries. Just so might a normal spider encourage clutter in a house, to make its webspinning easier, if it could keep the housewife from sweeping.”

“But what of that shape-changing?”

“I’m coming to that. Some of her clerics have the power to change shape, both from one human form to another, and from human form to that of her icon: the appearance of a giant spider. I saw that in Kolobia, and heard of it at Fin Panir.”

“Are all her clerics human, then? I thought you had seen kuaknom in Kolobia—”

“Yes, that’s true. The elves that turned from the High Lord—some say when the first of the Kuakkganni sang to the First Tree—worship her.”

“But what will she do here?” asked Dorrin. “Will she know her cleric’s been killed? And Venner?”

“It depends. I don’t know how her clerics contact her. I was taught that Achrya, unlike more powerful deities, does not know all that occurs by her own powers. She depends on her agents for information. If that’s true, and Venner and his sister were her only agents here, then she might not. But she might know when her cleric was killed—I can’t say. What she will do, when she finds out, depends on what resources she has near here. The orcs, yes—but even for her they are undisciplined and careless fighters. And we still don’t know why she influenced Venner here—at least I don’t. How long had he been steward?”

“Since the old steward was killed—at the same time as Tamarrion,” said the Duke. “He had been injured, as a recruit, and became assistant steward. He was so for several years, as I recall, and then after the massacre—well, he knew the job.”

“From what he said last night,” said Arcolin, “that was his doing as well.”

The Duke nodded, his face grim. “I expect so. I wonder if he was her agent from the beginning.”

“Surely not. The Marshal wouldn’t have missed that.”

The Duke looked at Paks, a clear question. She answered. “No, my lord, he wouldn’t have missed it if Venner had been committed to her then. But Achrya gains adherents in subtle ways. At first he may not have realized what he was doing—”

The Duke flushed. “Arranging a massacre? How could he not?”

“I didn’t mean that, my lord. Earlier. We don’t know—perhaps he had cheated someone, or told a minor lie: I have heard that she makes much of that. Or he may have been told lies, about you, that justified him to himself, in the beginning. By the time he realized whose service he had joined, it would have been too late.”

“Are you saying it was not his fault?”

“No, my lord. Unless he was spelled the entire time, he was responsible for his decisions. I meant that he may not have intended any evil when he joined the Company . . . may in fact have slipped into evil bit by bit. Perhaps the massacre that killed your wife was the first overt act of evil. The Marshal was killed, too: could it be that the Marshal was beginning to suspect something? That the attack was aimed as much at him as at her?”

“No!” The Duke stiffened, then sat back. “It couldn’t be. Yet—”

“She might have noticed, too, my lord,” said Dorrin. “Being as she was. And she would be more in the steward’s way than the Marshal.”

“But we still don’t know why Achrya spends her strength here,” Paks went on.

“The northern border—it was always important—” But Arcolin did not sound convinced.

“So long a time,” the Duke mused. “If Venner was in truth part of a long-laid plan—by Tir, that’s more than sixteen years she’s been plotting. Against me? Against this holding? We know that she supported Siniava in Aarenis.”

Cracolnya shifted in his seat. “If it’s to clear this holding for another invasion from the north, why didn’t she strike while you were in Aarenis with the whole company?”

“That’s when the orc trouble began—”

“Yes, but not enough to wipe us out. Just enough to discredit you. I’d like to know who Venner knew in Vérella. And why you, my lord? I’m not saying you’re no threat to evil in this realm, but I’d not have thought you that important, begging your pardon.”

“Nor I,” said the Duke with a smile. “By the gods, captains, I admit I’ve been trying to strengthen my position in this kingdom, but I wouldn’t have thought I’d succeeded well enough to flurry a demon. Or, for that matter, that my deeds were so good.”

“Why didn’t Venner simply stab you one night?” Cracolnya went on. “Or is that my nomad heritage showing? It should have been easy enough, with all the hidden passages we’ve found.”

“That’s not Achrya’s way,” said Paks. “She prefers to spoil rather than destroy utterly. Her minions could have killed me in Kolobia, easily enough, but they wanted to make a spoiled paladin, or a useless coward, rather than kill me.” She was surprised to find she could speak of this easily. “Whatever her plans here, they will be devious and intricate—the cleric’s stab was desperation, not the original intent, I would say.”

“Mmph. I wonder. The witch kept me from paying enough attention to the orcs. I should have been thinking why they would come, and why they acted as they do. I’ve fought orcs before, and they never behaved like this. If she sought to distract me long enough for them to burrow into the stronghold, what then? Death, I expect.” He looked around the table. “We need not understand all her motives, I think, to know we are opposed. But how can we foresee what she will do? Will we be attacked by orcs, or by other monsters of her will?”

“My lord, she will not risk herself against a ready foe: Achrya sends others to do her fighting. Orcs we can expect. If she has men or kuaknom nearby, they may attack as well, or she may withdraw, and try to plan other coils. Most importantly, she may have other agents within the stronghold or nearby. Those we must find, and quickly.”

“You found none among the servants—”

“No, Captain,” said Paks to Arcolin. “But I am not sure enough yet that I would. Great evil, yes, but—”

“That brings up another point,” said the Duke. “How did you happen to turn up here just when you were needed? And what are you? Can you tell me that you came merely to bring back my ring?”

“No, my lord.” Paks looked at him soberly. “While with the rangers in Lyonya, I had a sudden feeling—a call, it seemed—that you had need of me. I did not know why, but I knew I must come.”

“And did you know you had these powers? Making light, finding evil, healing?”

“Yes. But I am not sure how to use them all yet, my lord.”

“Are you a paladin, then, Paks?” asked Dorrin, fingering her Falkian pin.

“Both the rangers I was with and the Kuakgan in Brewersbridge think so,” said Paks slowly. “I have no other explanation for the powers. They must come from the gods—from the High Lord, I believe. But the limits of the gifts I do not know. I think, my lord,” she said, turning to the Duke, “that you should call a Marshal or paladin from Vérella or Fin Panir—someone who knows how to use these things—and be sure your Company is free of traitors.”

“You do not trust your own gifts?”

Paks tried to think how to explain her reserve. “My lord, I trust the gifts, but not yet my mastery of them. You would be wise to make use of another’s experience, as well.”

“I see.” The Duke looked around the table. Arcolin was frowning, rumpling a bit of cloth in his hand. Dorrin sat still, hands out of sight. Pont leaned back in his chair, looking half-asleep. Cracolnya glanced from the Duke to Paks and back. The Duke looked at Paks. “You may not know, but I refused to have a Gird’s Marshal in the stronghold after my wife was killed. I have always blamed them for her death—for hiring me and most of the Company away, so that she was left without enough guard, for the Marshal’s weakness that day, that he did not save her. It has seemed to me that they claim to protect the weak and helpless, but in fact do not.”

“My lord, having lost your wife and children, such bitterness is understandable.”

“Mayhap. You do not know all I said to the Marshal-General when I found out about you. For that, too, I blamed them. But you do not, I think?”

“No, my lord. As any Girdsman is the natural enemy of Achrya’s plots, I went into that peril knowingly. Certainly Girdsmen—the Marshal-General included—can make mistakes, but those I have known were honorable, if sometimes narrow.”

“But they did not heal you. They sent you out alone and helpless—”

Paks laughed. “My lord, you remember they would have sheltered me. I insisted on leaving when I did, despite the Marshal-General’s plea. True, they did not heal everything. They did, however, heal the worst of the evil, though it left scars. And—look now. What have I lost? You’ve watched me fight. If there is wisdom outside the grange as well as within, the Marshals have never claimed differently.”

“And you—having suffered under them—would ask me to call them in? Knowing what you do of my past?”

“I know little, my lord, but what you have said here. I cannot imagine them asking you to take the Company elsewhere if they had known of your lady’s peril. I cannot imagine the Marshal here doing aught but fighting to the death to save her and your children. Your anger I can understand, and your bitterness—in all honesty, my lord, during those terrible months last winter, I was bitter myself. But it seems now that you—and the Girdsmen—and your family—were all victims of a long-laid plot. A plot so cleverly hidden that not until last night did anyone—even you—recognize the traitor within. I daresay Achrya was pleased when you barred Marshals and paladins from your gates.”

The Duke had one hand before his face, and his voice was muffled. “By the gods, I never thought of that. I never thought—but—that she was dead, and I had not been here to ward. And the little ones—”

“And then,” mused Dorrin, covering his confusion, “in all the years her influence could act to corrupt the Company. With no one here who could detect evil directly, we could slip, bit by bit, into her ways.”

“But that didn’t happen,” put in Paks. “This Company is honorable—”

“Not as it was,” said the Duke, looking up now. His eyes glittered with unshed tears. “Not as it was, Paksenarrion; you never knew it before. When Tamarrion was alive, and a Marshal lived here—” He stopped and drew a long breath. “Well,” he said finally. “I have been wrong. I have made as big a mistake in this as any I ever made. It was not the fault of Gird or Gird’s followers, and I was blinded by my rage.” He looked around the table again. “Do you agree, captains?”

They responded to the new timbre of his voice, straightening in their chairs and nodding. Arcolin spoke first. “My lord Duke, we have followed you in all things—but I confess I was long uneasy with your quarrel with Gird, and I would be pleased to have a Marshal here again.”

“I also,” said Dorrin quickly, her face alight. “Even as a Falkian.”

“I wonder if they’ll come,” said the Duke. “After what I said to the Marshal-General, she may let us stew awhile—”

“I doubt that,” said Cracolnya, grinning. “She’ll be too glad to be proved right.”

The Duke shook his head. “It will be some while, after these years, before I can learn to think anew. But our enemy now is Achrya, not Gird, and at least we know it. Paksenarrion, you have saved more than one life here. And, with your powers, you must see that you won’t do as a corporal. I want you with me—as squire, perhaps?—until this knot is untangled.”

“That’s right,” grumbled Arcolin with a grin. “Just let me get her trained as a good corporal, and then take her away. What am I supposed to do now, conjure one out of thin air?”

“You have plenty of good soldiers. Until a Marshal or paladin comes, she’s the only one who might be able to detect another of Achrya’s agents.” The Duke turned to her. “Paksenarrion, will you accept this?”

“My lord, I came to serve you in whatever need I found. I will do whatever you ask until the gods call me away.”

“Good, then. Stay by me. Have you any idea where the nearest Marshal of Gird might be?”

“No, my lord. The nearest grange, as you know, is at Burningmeed, two days south of here. But when I came through, that Marshal had gone on a journey; I don’t know when she’d be back. It might be quicker to send a messenger straight to Vérella.”

“I dislike such an open move—if Achrya’s agents are watching, they’ll surely know something has happened.”

“I suspect Achrya knows,” said Cracolnya. “That one would have spies everywhere, despite our care. ’Tis almost a full day’s turn gone, since her cleric was killed. She’ll either strike, or vanish to plan again.”