As he talked, the Watcher nervously played with a small gold coin. It was a tick Frita no longer noticed. But the newcomer seemed mesmerized by the constant tumble of the gold piece.
In the end, He Who Laughs ran the elf-king down and slew him.
The ex-sailor from Itaskia said, "I don't understand. Why was the king afraid of him if he wasn't afraid of anybody else?"
For the first time the newcomer uttered more than a monosyllable. "The knight is a metaphor, my friend. He Who Laughs is one of the names of the male avatar, the hunter aspect,of Death. She sets that part of herself to stalk those who would evade her. The elves were supposed to have been immortal. The point of the story was that the king had grown so arrogant in his immortality that he dared challenge the Dark Lady, the Inevitable. Which is the grossest form of stupidity. Yet even today men persist in the folly of believing they can escape the inevitable."
"Oh."
All eyes were on the newcomer now. Especially that of the Watcher. The remark about the inevitable seemed to have touched his secret fears.
"Well then," said the innkeeper. "Which wins? The pirate? The dragon? Or the lesson of the elf-king?"
Half a dozen little ones clamored for the dragon.
"Wait," said the newcomer. His tone enforced instant silence. "I would like a turn."
"By all means," Frita nodded, eager to please. This man had begun to frighten him. Yet he was surprised. He hadn't expected this dour, spooky stranger to contribute.
"This is a true story. The most interesting usually are. It began just a year ago, and hasn't yet ended.
"There was a man, of no great stature or means, completely unimportant in the usual ways, who had the misfortune to be a friend of several powerful men. Now, it seems the enemies of those men thought they could attack them through him.
"They waylaid him one day as he was riding through the countryside...."
From beneath his hood the newcomer peered at the Watcher steadily. The one-eyed man tumbled his coin in a virtual blur.
"Just south of Vorgreberg...." the stranger said, almost too softly for any but the one-eyed man's ears.
The Watcher surged up, a whimper in his throat as he dragged out a dagger. He hurled himself at the stranger.
One finger protruded from the newcomer's sleeve. He said one word.
Smoke exploded from the Watcher's chest. He flew backward, slammed against a wall. Women and children screamed. Men ducked under the table.
The stranger rose calmly, bundled himself tightly, and vanished into the frigid night.
Frita peeked from beneath the table. "He's gone now." He joined his surviving guests beside the body.
"He was a sorcerer," the sailor muttered.
"Was that the man he was watching for?" Alowa asked. Her excitement was pure thrill.
"I think so. Yes. I think so." Frita opened the Watcher's shirt.
"Who was he?" the sailor asked.
"This here fellow's version of He Who Laughs, I reckon, the way he went on."
"Look at this," said the other man. He had recovered the coin the dead man had dropped when going for his knife. "You don't see many of these. From Hammad al Nakir."
"Uhm," Frita grunted. The silver coin the stranger had given him had been of the same source, but of an earlier mintage.
Bared, the dead man's chest appeared virtually uninjured. The only mark was a small crown branded over his heart.
"Hey," said the ex-sailor. "I've seen that mark before. It's got , something to do with the refugees from Hammad al Nakir, doesn't it?"
"Yes," Frita replied. "We shared our meal with a celebrity. With a king."
"Really?" Alowa's eyes were large. "I touched him...."
The sailor shuddered. "I hope I never see him again. Not that one. If he's who I think you mean. He's accursed. Death and war follow him wherever he goes...."
"Yes," Frita agreed. "I wonder what evil brought him to Trolledyngja?"
SIX: The Attack
Three men lurked in the shadows of the park. They appeared to be devotees of the Harish Cult of Hammad al Nakir. Dusky, hawk-nosed men, they watched with merciless eyes. They had been there for hours, studying the mansion across the lane. Occasionally, one had gone to make a careful circuit of the house. They were old hunters. They had patience.
"It's time," the leader finally murmured. He tapped a man's shoulder, stabbed a finger at the house. The man crossed the lane with no more noise than the approach of midnight. A dog woofed questioningly behind the hedges.
The man returned five minutes later. He nodded.
All three crossed the lane.
They had been studying and rehearsing for days. No one was out this time of night. There was little chance anyone would interfere.
Four mastiffs lay rigid on the mansion's lawn. The three dragged them out of sight. Poisoned darts had silenced them.
The leader spent several minutes examining the door for protective spells. Then he tried the latch.
The door opened.
It was too easy. They feared a trap. A Marshall should have guards, enchantments, locks and bolts protecting him.
These men didn't know Kavelin. They couldn't have comprehended the little kingdom's politics had they been interested. Here political difficulties were no longer settled with blades in darkness.
They searched the first floor carefully, smothering a maid, butler, and their child. They had orders to leave no one alive.
The first bedroom on the second floor belonged to Inger,
Ragnarson's four-year-old daughter. They paused there, again using a pillow.
The leader considered the still little form without remorse. His fingers caressed a dagger within his blouse, itching to strike with it. But that blade dared be wielded against but one man.
To the Harish Cult the assassin's dagger was sacred. It was consecrated to the soul of the man chosen to die. To pollute the weapon with another's blood was abomination. Deaths incidental to a consecrated assassination had to be managed by other means. Preferably bloodless, by smothering, drowning, garroting, poisoning, or defenestration.
The three slew a boy child, then came to a door with light showing beneath it. A murmur came through. Adult voices. This should be the master bedroom. The three decided to save that room for last. They would make sure of the sleeper on the third floor, Ragnarson's brother, before taking the Marshall himself, three to one.
The plans of mice and men generally are laid without considering the fbibles of fourteen-year-old boys who have been feuding with their brothers.
Every night Ragnar booby-trapped his door certain that some morning Gundar would again sneak in to steal his magic kit....
Water fell. A bucket crashed and rattled over an oaken floor. From the master bedroom a woman's frightened voice called, "Ragnar, what the hell are you up to?" Low, urgent discussion accompanied the rustle of hasty movement.
A sleepy, "What?" came from behind the booby-trapped door, then a frightened, "Ma!"
Ragnar didn't recognize the man in his doorway.
The intruder pawed the water from his eyes. His followers threw themselves toward the master bedroom. The door was locked, but flimsy. They broke through.
Inside, a man desperately tried to get into his pants. A woman clutched furs to her nakedness.
"Who the hell... ?" the man demanded.
An assassin flicked a bit of silken handkerchief. It wrapped the man's throat. A second later his neck broke. The other intruder rushed the woman.
They were skilled, these men. Professionals. Murder, swift and silent, was their art.
Their teachers had for years tried to school them to react tothe unexpected. But some things were beyond their teachers.