Abruptly, noises of smashing wood, cries of alarm, and other sounds of violence carried upward. Selinda spied knights and gnomes running to and fro. A rank of archers raised their weapons, and sunlight reflected from the silvery darts as they arrowed down a narrow street. Overhanging roofs blocked the targets from the ladies’ line of sight, but Selinda saw a small party of fugitives break for a small alley-apparently the lethal arrows had missed their targets. Focusing in more tightly, she glimpsed a dwarf. The fellow was dirty, covered in soot and brown muck, but she got a very good look at his face when he turned around to shout some imprecation at his pursuers.
Beyond him a tall swordsman came into view, and Selinda felt a tingle of recognition as she glimpsed blue flames, quickly extinguished, flickering along the edge of that mighty blade.
“Giantsmiter!” she gasped. The man turned to confront his pursuers, his face taut. Yet from the glimpse she got of him, he showed no fear. In spite of the warm sunlight on the parapet, the princess shivered with unexpected terror and excitement.
“What’s that-by the gods, not a fire, I hope!” Lady Martha exclaimed, also sounding half alarmed, half titillated.
Selinda swung the glass and spotted a churning cloud of foggy vapor, swirling thickly in the middle of the street.
“White smoke,” the princess noted. “Not likely from a fire.”
But what was it? The cloud of mist spun and whirled, masking the fugitives. Knights closed in on the small alley from both directions, their hoarse battle cries echoing in the still, midday air. The Assassin and his accomplices were trapped, Selinda realized-there was nowhere for them to go.
Yet why were the knights milling around, now, in apparent confusion? The cloud slowly dissipated, and angry outbursts, accusatory shouts, rose from the tangled streets. Once again knights were dashing around everywhere, smashing down doors, pulling gnomes out into the street. The searching was frenzied, undisciplined. Many knights remounted, and three distinct columns-minus half their number, who remained behind to continue the search-started back up to the castle.
“Did they manage to kill him somehow?” Lady Martha asked breathlessly. “I couldn’t see! I don’t spot any captives!”
“I fear he may have escaped,” Selinda replied.
“But how? No, that’s impossible-they had him surrounded!”
“Shall we go down to the great hall and hear what happened?” suggested the princess.
The two ladies descended quickly from the lofty parapet and were waiting at the huge conference table as the doors to the hall burst open. Duke Rathskell and Jarrod were the first into the chamber, each followed by a dozen or more of his retinue.
“-your scouts must have been asleep at their posts!” snapped the thin, wiry Rathskell. “To let them slip by like that!”
“Pathetic lies!” roared Jarrod, flexing his huge arms. “It was your men who scattered at the first taste of steel!”
“Nay-they stood firm and drove the scoundrel into your line. Did your men grow faint at the sight of the blazing sword?” Rathskell demanded. His tone was quiet but menacing.
“Mine followed orders-I have one dead and three wounded to prove it!” answered Jarrod. “What blood did you spill?”
“What happened?” Lady Selinda asked, the calmness of her voice cutting through the bickering.
“We had him dead to rights, my Princess,” explained Rathskell with a bow to Selinda. “Until my ‘peer’ ”-he sneered at Jarrod of Thelgaard-“failed to perform his duty in the face of the enemy.”
“Lies, I tell you!” bellowed the Duke of the Crown. “He was long gone by the time we closed in.”
“My Lord, Lady Princess.” The speaker was Sir Marckus, interjecting quietly. The venerable knight’s calm tone seemed to soothe the level of tension in the room-at least, for the moment.
“Yes? What is it? Do you know something?” asked Caergoth eagerly.
“Not personally, Excellency, no, but I have heard whisperings among the men. One of them claims to have spotted the White Witch.”
“The White Witch! Could she be in league with the killer?” Duke Crawford wondered. “Her sorcery could help explain that miraculous escape.”
“If by the ‘White Witch’ you mean the Lady Coryn of Palanthas,” Selinda said sharply. “I have heard her called thus, but I will not stand for such inferences in my presence. She has done good work in the cause of Solamnia over the last few years. She could not possibly be involved-why would she help an assassin who slew one of our most noble and esteemed lords?”
“There is no accounting for the ways of wizards,” the Duke of Solanthus declared forcefully.
For the first time Selinda noticed one knight, ashen-faced and perspiring heavily, had been laid upon one of the banquet tables near the door. He held his right hand, wrapped in a bloody bandage, tightly to his chest. Two other knights were borne into the room by comrades, each of them obviously wounded in the leg.
“Duke Crawford!” the princess said at once. “Those men are injured. Surely this debate can wait. Have you not a cleric who can aid them?”
“What? Oh, of course,” said the duke, looking with exaggerated concern at the wounded knights. “Patriarch Issel-see first to that fellow, there. The one with all the blood.”
“My lord,” said the cleric, materializing from the group of people who had suddenly crowded into the great hall. He was wearing his formal golden robe and bowed apologetically. “Of course. That is, I would if I could, but I fear the rigors of preparing for this conference have kept me from my daily meditations. I confess I lack the power to perform the necessary spells at this time. However, there are sub-priests at my temple who may be capable of stanching the bleeding. They will not be able to save the damaged hand, but they can certainly save the lives of these noble knights. I will send word to my priests immediately.”
“Yes, please do so without further delay,” the princess commanded. She could not stop herself from adding, “In my father’s city, a high priest would attend to his meditations before worrying about the ceremonial requirements of a royal conference.”
The patriarch shot her a dark look that was noticed by everyone standing near. The dukes looked offended at her insult to the cleric’s authority. In point of fact, Selinda was not entirely sure what priorities should guide the time of a Palanthian priest. She kept her steely expression, even as she made a mental note to herself: Keep an eye on that high priest.
The two men with leg wounds were carried out, but the third man objected, shaking his head in despair.
“Leave me here,” the injured knight protested. “My hand is gone-I am no use to the Order of the Crown. Let me die!”
“Nonsense,” said the cleric, with a note of spite in his voice. “The Lady of Palanthas has decreed that your life be saved, and so it shall if at all possible. You men, offer him your shoulders. Bring him to my temple-it is just beyond the castle gate.”
“No!” cried the knight.
“Come!” demanded the cleric. Even across the great hall, Selinda felt the hush in the room that followed this angry shout. There was a magic in that word.
“Bah-the fool may as well die for his failure,” murmured Duke Rathskell, as the knight was helped from the hall. “He had the assassin before him, six swords to one.”
“I tell you, it was sorcery that aided his escape!” shouted Jarrod.
“All I’m hearing are pathetic excuses,” sneered Rathskell. “If your men were half as fast with their swords as you are with your ale, they would have had the killer in chains by now!”
“How dare you?” barked the hulking lord. “Why, if you handled troops anywhere nearly as well as you handle that wench you married, we would be planning a hanging right now! Instead, the assassin of Lord Lorimar runs free!” The bearlike Jarrod balled his great hand into a fist, and thrust it toward his counterpart.