Dead Man's Token

Robin Hardy Online

Dead Man's Token: Book Five of the Latter Annals of Lystra
from the back cover:

Someone has broken open the long-sealed secret passage in the palace of Westford. While Surchatain Ares is investigating the breach, an intruder uses this same passage to kidnap his young wife Nicole from her bed. And Ares discovers the kidnapper to be someone they had long assumed to be dead.

Recovering Nicole is only half the battle, for Ares must find out who paid a dead man to kidnap the Surchataine of Lystra, and what he intended to do with her. The palace becomes a battleground of wits as the Lystrans uncover more secrets in its ancient chambers—and a close friend turns treacherous.

Chapter One

"I feel my weakness," Ares whispered. "I feel my strength slipping away by the day."

The priest shifted sympathetically. "You are not as young as you once were, my child."

No, he was not. Ares did not know his age, but he was 42 this year. It had been eight years since he had gained the throne of Lystra, the heritage of his great-great-grandfather, Roman, that had been stripped away by treachery and murder. It had been eight years and a few months since he had taken the beautiful peasant girl, Nicole, as wife. She was now Surchataine beside him, and mother of his twin daughters.

Ares shook his head heavily. "It is more than that. It is the weight of the burden. I feel . . . inadequate to carry the weight. That, in part, is why I began coming to confession some weeks ago." In his disquiet, Ares did not notice that the priest's compassionate smile had taken on the barest tinge of satisfaction. Almost gloating, he studied the Surchatain's lined face, cleft by the deep, ugly scar. The brown hair was sprinkled with gray, especially at the temples, and the hand that stroked the weary brow trembled slightly.

"I am forced to see, again, that I cannot rely on my own strength. Flesh will fail me. Only the hand of God can sustain me," Ares said, grappling with this most unrelenting truth in its latest incarnation.

The priest quoted, "'As for man, his days are like grass, for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more.'" Ares raised his face to regard him, and the priest returned a gaze of kind concern.

A sentry appeared at the chapel door, saluting. "Pardon, Surchatain. You had asked to be informed of the apportionment council's decisions. They are ready to report to you."

Breathing something between a groan and a sigh, Ares stood. The priest stood to bow very low, and Ares regarded him again. As he exited the chapel with the sentry, Ares paused yet a third time to glance back at the cassocked figure.

"Surchatain?" the sentry queried.

"I had not spoken of passing away," Ares muttered.

"Sir?" the sentry asked.

"Nothing." Ares turned to trot up the broad, curving stairway. On his way up, he glanced aside at the banner of the lion and the cross that Nicole had commissioned, patterned after that of Roman, and it suddenly dawned on him that there was a promise attached to that banner. Ares had not regained the throne by his own strength or cunning—he had simply struggled through one crisis after another as best he could, and the province fell into his lap. Nor had he defended Westford, or kept peace in Lystra, by his own ability. He had taken pains to do what lay within his power, but it was the Lord who wove Ares' efforts into an effective campaign. Ares knew this. Why was he doubting now? With a self-deprecatory snort at his own faithlessness, he turned his thoughts reluctantly toward percentages and census figures.

The moment the Surchatain and sentry were safely on the staircase, the priest gestured to a servant. "Tell him the time is ripe. Go!" With a bow, the servant hurried off.

For the next several hours, Ares sat in the council chambers on the third floor with his nobles and administrators reviewing their recommendations for revised taxes on the largest estates in Lystra, as well as the settlement of boundary or property disputes. This onerous task came around once every three years, like a recurring plague. The apportionment council meetings had grown especially cumbersome since the province had doubled in size shortly after Ares had become Surchatain. As much as he would love to delegate final approval of apportionments to Counselor Carmine or Counselor Vogelsong, the nobility clamored for the Surchatain's personal attention. And setting taxes for the next three years required the wisdom of Solomon, for while the lords hated paying, they hated more having their estates devalued in front of their peers. So the hedging and hair-splitting were almost enough to force any sane man to leap through the nearest leaded-glass window.

"Which brings us to the estate of Lord Davignon," Carmine said crisply, turning a leaf in a large ledger while the Steward, Giles, shifted importantly toward the lord in question, who straightened. "You've done admirably over the last three years, sir. Your sheep have quadrupled in number, and your investment in the Qarqarian copper mines has returned a stunning hundred-and-fifty percent return. Is that correct, Steward?" Squinting at the ledger, Carmine leaned over to Giles.

"Actually, Counselor, the figure is one hundred-fifty-five percent." Giles ticked off a row of computations with his quill pen, peering with satisfaction through his new gold-framed reading glasses. While Carmine and Giles dressed in competitive finery, Carmine's ego forbade the use of reading glasses even as Giles' ego demanded it. Younger and handsomer than Ares, Carmine did not wish to clutter his fine features with an old person's seeing aid. Giles, bald atop a fringe of wild brown hair, welcomed gold accessories anywhere on his person.

"Ah. Then that places your annual tax at five hundred seventy-five royals, Lord Davignon—quite a jump from your last apportionment, I fear, but—one must bear the burden of wealth, eh?" Carmine asked as one aristocrat to another.

"True." The lord raised his brows in refined resignation. Ares smiled wryly at Carmine's ability to wrest heavy taxes from the nobles without a murmur of complaint in return.

"Surchatain?" Carmine turned to Ares, who tiredly nodded his assent for the twenty-eighth time.

With a flourish of Carmine's pen, the deed was done. "Very good. We turn now to the dispute between—"

A trumpet alarm sounded and the council members sat up in startlement. The door to the room burst open, and a sentry gasped, "Surchatain—"

That is all he managed to say before he was thrust aside by Commander Thom. His boyish look of years past was all but obliterated by the hardness in the blue eyes, the close-cropped hair, and the short, stiff beard. He entered calmly, saluting. "Surchatain, pardon the intrusion. A contender for the throne has arrived to challenge you."

Ares blinked in disbelief. "What?"

Thom answered dryly, "He comes claiming that the Law of Roman permits his challenge on the grounds of your . . . weakness."

At that last word, steel began to form in Ares' bones, starting at his feet, causing him to stand deliberately. "And who is my challenger?" he asked softly.

"Athian, son of Lord Backvold," Thom said.

The whole council turned to stare at Backvold, who went pale to the point of translucence. Ares said, "According to the Law, my deposal hinges on the vote of the council. Does this council agree with Athian?"

A vigorous round of denials answered him. Ares looked at Backvold. "Does your son know that he forfeits his life with this action, as well as all of your property?"

"I beg your indulgence to—let me go reason with him, Surchatain," Backvold gasped, and Ares nodded.

As Lord Backvold flew from the room, Counselor Carmine stood to grasp Ares' elbow. "A word with you and your Commander, Surchatain." No other administrator could get away with grabbing the Surchatain by the arm like that, but as it was Carmine, Ares permitted himself to be herded outside into the corridor with Thom. When Giles hurried to the door to join them, Carmine shut it in his face.

"Ares." The Surchatain's old friend turned to him in dead earnest. "We all know that the Law does not require you to face this challenger. But I believe Thom will concur when I say that you must, given that it is a nobleman's son." Ares glanced at Thom, who nodded firmly. Then Ares looked back at Carmine as he continued, "If you rely on the Law alone to shield you, the rumor will take root and spread that you are weak. Then challengers will multiply like flies. Dispose of this threat personally, and the rumor is put to rest."

"Should I kill him?" Ares asked. The Law prescribed death for attempted usurpation, but Ares abhorred bloodshed.

"If he dies, it should be by your hand. Not the executioner," Thom said.

"Very well. I will meet him." Ares gestured to the sentry, who approached. "Summon the challenger to the pugiling field. I will be down shortly." The sentry ran off, and Ares commenced an unhurried walk down the corridor with his Counselor on one side and Commander on the other. Ares' manner seemed to indicate he welcomed any interruption of the apportionment meeting, even one so extreme.

"I remember Athian. I met him not long ago. I don't want to kill him; he's just a youth," Ares complained. "Who has put him up to this? Backvold?"

He looked to Carmine for an answer. The Counselor shrugged. "Who knows? It could be Athian's own wild-headed notion. Schemes germinate, grow and die overnight. It does seem rather bold—I don't recall a challenger since Lute, and he presumed to come only because he thought he had the throne in lock. I wonder what this Athian thinks he knows?"

"He specifically mentioned my weakness," Ares murmured. "Carmine . . . how long has the priest been in service at the palace?"

"Goodness! Forever and ever. From the beginning of time," Carmine elaborated.

"No. Old Father Fasoro died. The new priest is Haward. He's been in service for perhaps three months," Thom said.

"I knew that. Why had I forgotten that?" Carmine muttered, alarmed. He did not wish Ares to know that he had been negligent in attending services.

"Why do you ask, Surchatain?" Thom said.

"Who recommended him?" Ares asked. They rounded a corner and turned down the back steps toward the grounds. Out a window, Ares glimpsed a large crowd gathering. Perhaps the servants think they will get the day off if I am killed, he ruminated.

"I don't know who recommended the new priest." Thom's brows drew down, and his lips tightened under his beard.

Carmine paused. "Father Haward? I thought he was in the service of Lady Auer."

"Lord Backvold's sister," Ares said dismally.

"You offended her deeply when you removed her from the dinner guest list," Carmine noted.

Ares sighed, "That was our dear Chataine Renée's doing. She didn't like Lady Auer's dress." In a murmur, he added, "And for a dispute about tailors, I have to kill a boy."

They emerged onto the grounds, warm in the June sun, and Ares spotted his challenger standing defiantly in the center of the roped-off pugiling ring. Yes, it was Athian, but no longer the boy that Ares thought he remembered. Athian was a large, muscular young man, probably outweighing him by ten pounds. Athian's father, having evidently failed in his efforts to dissuade him, was nowhere to be seen.

As Ares removed his black brocade shortcoat, he told Thom and Carmine, "If he kills me, see that Nicole ascends the throne according to the Law."

"I will not allow him to kill you, Surchatain," Thom said while Carmine concurred, "Nonsense."

Rubbing dirt into his hands, Ares glanced up at the young contender. "Then . . . when I take him down, see that he is pronounced dead quickly, and taken to the infirmary."

Both subordinates frowned in disapproval and Carmine objected, "That is quite risky, Ares."

"It may render the whole proceedings useless," Thom pointed out. "Just kill him and be done with it."

"No, save his life if you can . . . for his father's sake," Ares uttered, bending to slip through the ropes.

Word had raced through the palace like a rabid dog that the Surchatain was meeting a challenger in hand-to-hand combat. Nicole was disbelieving until she hurried out to the rear balcony and spotted Ares preparing himself on the grounds below.

Faint, she sagged against a pillar. "Dear God . . . my Lord Jesus . . . strengthen and protect him . . . shield him with your love," she whispered. Then she seized a passing maid. "Find Bonnie and Sophie—they should be in their quarters—make sure they do not come out and see this!"

"Yes, Lady!"

The maid hurried away, and Nicole looked down again at the pugiling ring, surrounded by a tight crowd of soldiers, servants, and courtiers.

The maid found seven-year-old Bonnie with Renée, giggling over a new batch of makeup. It was undoubtedly Bonnie the maid saw, who aspired to emulate Renée in every detail of dress and mannerism, while her identical twin would have worn pants, were she allowed. Mistakenly believing both children to be in the company of their "aunt," the maid bowed out without disturbing them.

But the other seven-year-old, Sophie, was not with her sister. She had been in the kitchen corridor when the startling challenge had been aired in the great hall. From there, she had only to run outside, elude her guardian, shimmy up a post, and climb onto the east portico roof to command a clear view of the pugiling ring. The sentry who had been assigned to ward her today located her in time to station himself beneath her before the contest began.

Never seeing him, her eyes intently followed her adored father as he climbed through the ropes into the ring to face his opponent.

"Athian, what are you doing?" Ares asked quietly.

The young man shouted in reply, "You're spent and tired, old man! It's time for fresh blood to rule! Lystra needs strength!" He seemed to be making his case to the crowd, who watched in curious silence, neither booing nor cheering him.

"Athian—don't. I respect your father. I don't want to hurt him," Ares said. "Or you."

"Choose a judge, old man!" Athian said with a laugh.

Ares gestured. "Thom."

The Commander, who had been at ringside beside the Counselor, stepped in between the combatants. "Do you accept me as judge of this match, Athian?"

"As long as you agree not to call it until one of us is dead," Athian said with a toss of his curly head.

"Summon Doctor Savary," Thom instructed a soldier, add-ing to Athian, "He shall issue the final judgment." Then the Commander advised Ares, "As the challenged party, you shall choose weapons, Surchatain."

Ares evaluated his young challenger. A nobleman's son would certainly have been trained with the long sword, mace, and bow. But he was not in the army, which, in addition to these weapons, trained with poles, as so many of the mercenaries they met in battle used spears or javelins. "I choose pugiling sticks," Ares said.

"Those sticks with pads?" Athian asked in disbelief.

"Without the pads. Get us pugiling sticks with the pads removed," Ares instructed Thom, who nodded hesitantly even as he gestured to his soldiers. Neither Ares nor Athian wore any protective gear, and neither requested it, for whatever one was equipped with, the other was allowed as well.

The weapons were brought—six-foot oaken poles with dull ends. Athian hefted his experimentally. "'Twill be a slow and painful death, but I can kill you with this," he allowed.

Some of the more bloodthirsty in the crowd began voicing their encouragement to the pair. Nicole clutched the balcony pillar and Carmine's mind was racing to find a point of order on which to object. Thom was whispering instructions to his Seconds in Command, Rhode and Oswald. Of all the spectators, Sophie was the most composed—even detached. She had not the slightest fear for her father. He was the Surchatain.

"Are you ready?" Thom asked tensely. The two combatants faced each other about four feet apart. Athian crouched, gripping his pole lengthwise across his body. But Ares held his pole vertically by his left side, one end stuck in the ground. As a matter of fact, the way he was holding it—his left hand clutching it at shoulder level and his right gripping it waist-high—gave the impression that he was resting his weight on it, like a crutch. Athian jeered at him, and the crowd became more vocal.

Thom's eyes flicked to Oswald and Rhode, standing just outside the ropes at the very edge of the ring, ready for whatever might be required of them. "Begin!" Thom stepped back, slashing a hand in the signal to start.

Both combatants sprang at once. Athian swung the end of his stick toward Ares' face, but in such close quarters, had not adequately reckoned how much he would have to draw the long pole back in order to jab effectively with the end.

Ares, meanwhile, used his stick as a fulcrum to jump almost horizontal, knocking Athian's pole away and kicking him solidly in the throat. The young man fell with a thud, his stick dropping atop him. Ares swung around on the pole and landed on his feet. It all happened in the blink of an eye.

Thom threw himself over the young man. "He's dead!" he shouted. As howls of disbelief were raised from the crowd, Thom gestured to Carmine. Ares yanked his pole from the ground and held it ready.

"Finish him! Thrust him through!" someone shouted in disgust, but Ares ignored him.

Entering the ring hastily, Carmine also made a show of examining the body. "He is dead! Let the doctor through!" he ordered, his hand sweeping the crowd.

Thom was kneeling on the young man's left hand, holding his right, to immobilize them. "Be still! You're dead!" Thom hissed at him. In his agony, Athian quieted.

The crowd parted reluctantly for Doctor Savary, grim-faced, to make his way into the ring. Bending over the supine form while Carmine spoke in his ear, he concurred loudly, "The man is dead!" To Thom, he whispered, "Get your men to carry him quickly to the infirmary. Keep the people back!"

Thom had only to motion at his Seconds for them to rush into the ring and gently lift the young man. "Carry him face up while I hold his head," the doctor hissed at Oswald, who complied.

Meanwhile, Captain Yonge, carrying out the Commander's orders, had directed all soldiers in the area, including Sophie's guardian, to clear a path through the crowd so that no one got close enough to see the body. With the doctor on their heels, Oswald and Rhode carried Athian quickly across the grounds to the palace infirmary.

Still in the ring, Ares began twirling the pugiling stick expertly, as Nicole had seen him do countless times in practice, before Renée would dump a bucket of wash water on him. "Next!" he shouted.

The crowd stilled, refocusing their attention from the departing challenger to the Surchatain. "I am accepting challengers today because the apportionment council is meeting. We need new revenues. After you challenge me and you die, your estate goes to the palace treasury! Who is my next challenger?" he invited loudly, hoisting the stick.

The crowd was silent, with eyes downcast. There might have been a ripple of shame for their too-eager embrace of a challenge to their Surchatain. "No one?" Ares shouted, and no one replied. "Then you are dismissed." Tossing the stick to a soldier, he bent to climb through the ropes, and the crowd docilely dispersed—although the servants, embroiled in excited discussions about the match, took their time returning to their chores. Nicole, on the balcony, closed her eyes to breathe a grateful prayer. Sophie climbed down from the portico roof with thoughtful coolness.

Redonning his coat, Ares gestured to Thom and Carmine to accompany him while he entered the palace and turned down the side corridor toward the infirmary. Ares winced, placing a hand on a strained muscle in his back as he instructed a sentry, "Have Counselor Vogelsong prepare an order of banishment for Lady Auer." Then he told Thom, "You will deliver it to her today," and Thom nodded.

The three entered the infirmary and looked to a small side room where Lord Backvold could be seen beyond the partly closed door. Doctor Savary beckoned them into the room and shut the door after them. The five of them completely filled the room as they stood over the pallet on which a sixth man lay. Lord Backvold fell on his knees before Ares, who glanced at him before looking to the ashen, sweating man on the pallet.

"Will he live?" Ares asked the doctor.

"Possibly, but he must not be moved yet. His throat is crushed, and any movement obstructs his air," Doctor Savary replied.

Ares addressed the father, "Stand up, Lord Backvold." With bowed head and hands folded abjectly, Backvold stood. "I choose to believe that you had no knowledge of your son's treachery," Ares told him, "but I believe your sister, the Lady Auer, did. I am banishing her and conferring her estate to your keeping. Your son, whether he lives or dies, must also be removed from Lystra. You may keep him here until he recuperates enough to be moved, but if his presence is discovered and my victory called into question, he will be put to death. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Surchatain. God bless you," Backvold whispered.

"That is my hope," Ares murmured. He, Thom, and Carmine left the infirmary.

As Thom departed to clear the grounds and see that Lady Auer's order of banishment was executed, Carmine remained with Ares. The Counselor placed slender fingers contemplatively on his puckered lips, then noted, "Lord Backvold is highly regarded among the nobles of Crescent Hollow, some of whom were less than thrilled when you annexed Calle Valley. I should say that henceforth he will be one of your staunchest allies in the area. Well done, Surchatain."

Ares nodded vaguely. "I have one other minor matter to attend before we resume the apportionment hearings."

"We will await you." Carmine bowed before turning to the staircase. Ares went to the chapel alone.

When he emerged through the back door several minutes later, he calmly wiped his hands before instructing a sentry, "Summon Counselor Vogelsong to the door of the council meeting room. And take care of that." He jerked his head toward the open door of the chapel.

The sentry saluted, looking into the room, then gestured to a fellow guard. By the time Ares had mounted two flights of stairs to reach the door of the council room himself, Vogelsong was coming down the corridor to meet him.

Bowing, the young counselor glanced nervously at the meeting in progress. Having been given liberty from this function in order to see to other business, he was anxious that this privilege not be rescinded. "I have just sent Lady Auer's order of banishment down to the Commander. Is there another matter, Surchatain?"

"Yes. Counselor, we need a new priest. I wish you to interview candidates which Sister Agnes will recommend, and select one. He must be discreet and loyal and wise and learned in the Holy Canon."

"Certainly, Surchatain. What . . . happened to Father Haward?" Vogelsong asked.

"I believe he is being carried out," Ares replied, turning into the council chambers. Vogelsong gulped and began to sputter compliance, but the chamber door closed.

Moments after Vogelsong had departed, Nicole entered the corridor and paused before that door. She keenly wanted to blaze through it and throw herself on her husband, crying, "How could you? How could you entertain a challenger in combat?" For once, she wanted to throw a fit worthy of Renée. The sentry beside the door stood at attention, ready to open it at her command.

But she couldn't do it. She was never comfortable drawing stares in the way that was second nature to beautiful, self-assured Renée. Nicole would just have to wait until Ares was ready to explain it to her. But—she couldn't wait. She had to know why he would place his rulership and his life at the mercy of this unknown upstart. Who was this Athian, anyway? She had never heard of him. What made him think he was entitled to the throne? And what would happen when word got out that Lystra was up for grabs to the first challenger who could defeat an aging warrior in combat?

With a sharp exhalation, as though she had been struck in the stomach, Nicole sank back against the wall. Ares was getting older, and she could not bear to think of it.

Footsteps approached; she looked up at Henry coming down the corridor. Chatain Henry, now 15, was taller than she was—a sturdy, sunburnt Green recruit, proud of the fact that his former guardian, Ares, showed no favoritism in placing him in the army and allowing him to toil away at all the disagreeable duties lavished on the Greens. That Henry did his share promptly and without complaint was earning him reserved respect, even among those who remembered that he was the grandson of the usurper who had killed Ares' grandfather to take the throne.

"Is he in there?" Henry asked, nodding toward the closed door.

"Yes," Nicole said, lifting herself from the wall. Ten years older than Henry, she had still-youthful skin, clear green eyes, and thick chestnut hair that flowed down her back behind her cap.

First-time visitors to the court had to be warned that the lady who wore relatively modest, simple gowns, no makeup, and conducted herself quietly was the Surchataine, rather than the dazzling, opulently dressed blonde who commanded all eyes wherever she went. Those visitors who made the mistake of addressing Renée as Surchataine earned special attention from her, which was intoxicating until they discovered that this was the one social gaffe that Ares found unforgivable. He had been known to refuse audiences to such ill-informed and unmannerly guests. Part of the problem was that Nicole never could get used to being called Surchataine, preferring her old title of Lady. The tone Ares used in saying that word made her cling to it.

"Did you see it?" Henry whispered eagerly, throwing himself back against the wall beside her. "Did you see him dispatch Athian? Wasn't it great? Hoose and I are going to get him to teach us that move. Everyone agrees that Athian never saw it coming."

Nicole's heart rose in slight encouragement. "Everyone? What are the soldiers saying?"

Henry blinked at her. "About what?"

"About Ares!" she said, exasperated.

He looked blank. "I . . . haven't heard much. What do you mean?"

"What will happen with the next challenger? Or the next?" she asked, aggrieved.

"Ares will kill them, just like he did Athian," Henry said reproachfully. "What are you worried about? When Ares is old and bent, he will just beat them to death with his cane!"

Nicole exhaled a laugh, and Henry returned his attention to the closed door. Despite his eagerness, he knew better than to interrupt the meeting. Ares had a method of breaking in unruly Greens that provoked terror among them: he placed them under Merle (the head laundress) for a fortnight, to carry out her every command, regardless how inane. Following two weeks' domestication under her unceasing, rapierlike tongue, the recruits were grateful to return to grueling physical labor under their commanding officers.

After a few moments of silence, Nicole asked, "How is Melva coming along in her studies?"

Melva, 19, was the Chataine of Qarqar who remained at Westford until such time that Ares deemed her fit to assume rulership of her province. Henry and Melva were being tutored together in the Law of Roman, which was prerequisite to any courtly position in Lystra (or Qarqar, in Ares' thinking). But Melva, having come under Renée's spell, showed much less interest in the Law than in dancing, dresses, and jewelry.

Henry shrugged. "She keeps failing her preliminary tests, and Ares keeps asking Doudney about her progress, so he has started chewing his hair."

"What? Who?" she asked.

"Doudney. The new tutor," Henry explained.

"Another one?" she asked

"They never last very long," Henry allowed. "It's . . . frustrating. Why won't Ares go ahead and let me be examined for certification? I've been ready for a long time. I've even memorized tax rates," he vented. Steward Giles was notorious for tripping up examinants with questions about obscure numbers.

"I'm sure I don't know, Henry," she murmured, when she was fairly sure that Ares postponed Henry's certification hearing because he thought him too young. As for Nicole, she was still the only woman at the court of Westford to have been certified in the Law.

"He's not thinking I'll fall in love with Melva by having to take classes with her, is he?" Henry asked.

Nicole glanced at the sentry, who, as trained, behaved like a block of stone that could hear nothing but commands. She asked Henry carefully, "Why would you think that?"

"I know he wants Melva to marry someone he's sure will be loyal to him. Doesn't everything point to me as the most promising candidate?" he asked, confidant of his own attractiveness and political worth. Deliberating the wisest response, Nicole had yet to answer when Henry threw himself on her other side in restless eagerness. "What can I do to make Sophie like me?" he asked, making a transparent leap to the next logical point (in his mind).

"Oh, Henry. You will have to give her time. She does not have eyes for anyone but her father. Even I have trouble getting her attention," Nicole said, smiling.

The door to the council room suddenly opened, and Ares filled the doorway. He glanced from Nicole to Henry, then his eyes rested on his wife again as he exited. Giles squeezed out behind him, thrilled to finally have his ear and determined to hold it as he expounded on some pressing point regarding the computation of interest due on back taxes.

But the Steward was no match for Henry. Like his half-sister, Renée, he knew something about seizing the floor. "Ares! Hoose and a bunch of the others are waiting by the pugiling ring. We want you to show us how to do that move you used on Athian!" The volume of his voice drowned out Giles entirely.

Ares smiled slightly, watching his wife's reaction. "I am not the best one to teach you that, Henry—I executed it so poorly that I almost fell on my backside coming down. You should learn it from the one who taught it to me."

"Who is that?" Henry asked in wonder.

"Purdy," Ares answered.

"Purdy?" Henry repeated in disbelief. "The—the goatherd you brought back from Prie Mer?"

"The same," Ares said, glancing again at Nicole.

"But—he's not even a soldier—"

"No, but at times he had to defend his flocks from thieves, and so became very skilled at using his staff. I thought some of his tactics might prove effective with spears or javelins," Ares said.

Two years ago, after returning from Hornbound, Ares had given Purdy another aid in tending the vast flocks of sheep and goats at Westford: the short, stout canine, Puck. He disappeared from beside Ares' feet one morning to be found efficiently rounding up a wandering flock; ever after, he had belonged to Purdy.

Henry mulled over Ares' suggestion while Giles watched for an opening like a cougar waiting to pounce. "Purdy. All right, I'll summon him," Henry decided, moving away.

Giles stepped forward but Ares said in a low, threatening tone, "Henry." The boy looked back in alarm, and Ares reminded him, "Greens do not summon anyone, but they wait until they are dismissed and then they salute."

"Yes, Surchatain." Henry straightened, saluting crisply. The image of the laundress' sneer filled his heart with dread.

"You may go," Ares said, to Henry's great relief.

Giles, with the floor once again, took a long breath in preparation for pressing his point to a victorious conclusion—but again, he failed to reckon with the power of the modest lady with sultry green eyes. She looked at her husband and he said, "Excuse me, Giles," as he extended his arm to her. She took it, and they departed down the stairs toward the Surchatain's quarters.

Carmine paused by Giles' elbow while he stood staring forlornly at the escaping opportunity. Patting his shoulder, Carmine murmured, "It's much better to catch him after he leaves her, you know. Then he's always smiling." Reflecting on that, Giles brightened.

The Surchatain's quarters consisted of a spacious pair of rooms. The outer room, or the receiving room, was where Ares conducted business, received visitors, and wrote correspondence. All the maps and records that he or his officers required were housed in this room, although Giles, Carmine, Thom and Vogelsong kept their own records pertaining to their responsibilities. Ares had removed to the fourth-floor treasury most of the luxuries with which his predecessor had filled this room; the only decorative element that remained was the original, frayed, rat-gnawed banner of his ancestor, Roman, cleaned and repaired as much as possible for its age. Ares felt a great affinity for that weathered bit of history.

The inner room, the bedchamber, was where he and Nicole slept together. In deference to her, this large room was more comfortably appointed. It contained a garderobe equipped with running water from the rooftop cistern, as well as a sunken tub. A great fireplace, six feet tall, five feet wide, and four feet deep, was built into the wall next to the garderobe—although in summer, only small fires were lit at night.

When Ares and Nicole walked into this dim, windowless chamber, he turned to her, pensively awaiting whatever rebuke might be brewing under that lovely exterior. He knew that if she had not witnessed the match, she must have heard about it. With his attention secured, she parted her lips and whispered, "Well done, my lord," even as tears welled up in her eyes.

Letting out his breath, he gathered her up to him, kissing the tears that tracked down her face. Choosing not to waste time on explanations or apologies, he felt the back of her dress for the buttons that easily came away from their holdings. At times like this, he was appreciative for her simplicity of attire. As he laid her on the firm bed, she whispered, "How much time do you have?"

"I will make time, Lady," he muttered, bending to shuck off his dress blacks.

"Oh, Ares—I've missed you so," she breathed, running her hands over his taut abdomen. He did not allow his age to be an excuse for softening of his body—every day he could still be found on the grounds drilling the men. He had a special touch imparting the basics of soldiering to the very newest Green recruits. They held him in awe, and the allure of having the Surchatain's personal attention insured that the Green Regiment was always filled to capacity.

Given rare privacy now, he briefly regarded his young wife sprawled in the sheets before throwing himself atop her. There was one delicious moment of skin against skin—then a knocking was heard at the outer door. Nicole groaned in dismay and Ares clenched his teeth.

He shoved himself up from the bed. Passing into the receiving room, he grabbed a scarlet robe which he threw on before opening the door into the corridor.

Standing outside was the tutor, Doudney, twisting his fingers nervously in his thin hair. At any other time he might have fainted upon seeing the Surchatain dressed so, for no one ever saw him in anything other than his dress blacks, excepting the few times he went into battle.

"I trust this is urgent, Tutor," Ares breathed, with a black glance at the sentry who had given him access.

"Not urgent, Surchatain, I'm sure, only—knowing how my lord insists on regular class times for the Chataines, I beg my lord to instruct Chataine Sophie to come to the library for her lessons. Her sister is waiting," Doudney said, blinking rapidly.

Ares paused. "Of course. Where is Sophie?"

"She is not with my lord and lady . . . ?" Doudney asked, trailing off weakly.

"No," Ares said, his heart rate escalating.

"Well then—we—"

"You can't find her?" Ares asked tensely. Given Bonnie and Sophie's relationship to the most powerful man in Lystra, the girls were always under discreet guard.

The tutor began blathering helplessly. Ares cut him off with, "I will be out at once." To the sentry, he instructed, "Everyone is to turn out to search for her," then he shut the door.

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