“Yes, my duke. But what of the goblins-they have retired to the mountains then?” asked Martha, her pretty brow wrinkling.
“I’m quite sure I don’t know,” said the duke. “They probably have taken Luinstat by now. I had to order the place evacuated, since Solanthus absolutely refused-refused, I tell you! — to stand before it.”
“But… that’s way over by the Garnet Mountains! Why did you bring the army back here?” the lady pressed.
“Damn it, woman! It’s not the whole army-just my personal guard and my own wagons! The army is posted by the Kingsbridge, ready to move when need be. I have bigger problems than that! I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since I took to the field, and if this problem is going to get solved, I’ll have to get some rest! Now, have my servants draw me a bath!”
“But… what about the goblins?” Lady Martha wasn’t the smartest duchess ever to don a tiara, but she knew that something about her lord’s grand strategy didn’t sound quite right.
“If they create more problems, Joli knows one of those tiresome fools will let me know about it. As for now, I’m hungry as well as tired. Go tell the chefs that I would like something fresh for dinner as soon as I am done with my bath. I have been on the plains for too long-have them make something from the sea!”
The Nightmaster stood on a high tower alongside the bulk of Castle Caergoth. His temple was far below here, but he borrowed this lookout whenever he wanted to look at the night sky. No one had ever spotted him here-at least, no one who had lived to tell of their discovery.
From here the priest had watched the Ducal Guard return to the city, saw the knights stabling their horses, going to the houses of their wives and mistresses. This meant that Caergoth’s army was inactive, no doubt gone into bivouac somewhere on the plains.
The cleric of Hiddukel knew that his god should be pleased with his labors. In truth, many of his plans had worked out as he desired. His goblin agent, sequestered in the dungeon below the castle, had been able to reach the mind of the Princess of Palanthas, had ensured that she would return across the plains instead of by ship. His crystal visions had revealed to the dark priest that the detour was working exactly as he and his master wished. The auguries were right-indeed, she had stumbled upon the Assassin!
If only the Assassin had been killed. Instead, the fugitive was captured! The dark priest felt a shiver creep along his spine, for this was not what his immortal master desired. The Prince of Lies needed his most dramatic deceit to remain undiscovered, and that required that the man called the Assassin must die.
That interfering bitch of a princess had seen to it that the man would live, for several more weeks at least. Each passing day was too long.
It was necessary to prod events along, which he could do with the whisper of a dream that would carry through the evening’s dusk…
The Lord Regent’s palace was dark, save for the torches at the front doors and the lanterns carried by the watchmen who patrolled the outer wall and the upper parapets. Bakkard Du Chagne looked out from the lonely bedroom on the upper floor-his wife had long ago been banished to her own chamber on the far end of the royal wing-watching not the lights but the darkness. It was near morning, but he had been unable to sleep since a terrifying dream had roused him before midnight. In the wake of that nightmare, he had sent a secret message into the darker quarter of his city. Now he watched and waited.
A memory, unbidden, provoked a shiver of terror. He recalled the empty-looking vault, all his vast treasure treacherously concealed by the White Witch. How dare she? And how could he force her to remove her spell. That, unfortunately, was not a problem he could solve tonight.
There! He saw a shadow moving along the base of the wall, staying well concealed from the guards. The shadow followed a zig zag course through the garden, avoiding the hounds and even the servants’ quarters. When the shadow came to the base of the palace, it started up a trellis, climbing silently. This trellis was usually lit by several bright lanterns, but tonight the Lord Regent, claiming difficulty in sleeping, had ordered them extinguished.
When the shadowy figure reached the top of the trellis, he slipped over the railing, crossed the balcony and entered the door that was being held open by Lord Regent Bakkard Du Chagne.
“Excellency,” said the man, kneeling, “I await your order.”
“Yes, of course,” said the regent. “Show your face.”
The visitor pulled back the cowl of his dark hood. His visage was that of a Knight of Solamnia, right down to the bushy, but carefully trimmed, mustache.
“Good, yes, that disguise will work.”
“What are your orders, my lord?”
“There is a file of knights approaching the city from the plains. They are led by Captain Powell, chief of my palace guard. A good man. Loyal, and true to the Oath and the Measure.”
The man nodded, as the noble continued.
“They will be entering the pass of the High Clerist within the week. They are bringing a prisoner with them, a notorious assassin they recently captured. I wish you to meet this party-I will send some message for you to convey, some missive for Powell to explain your trip. Call yourself… Sir Dupuy.”
“It shall be as you command, my lord,” pledged the man. He bowed tentatively, sensing there was more to come.
“Your payment… I cannot pay you in gold, not this time.”
“No gold, my lord?” The man had the audacity to sound disappointed.
“No, but here is a bag of good steel coins,” snapped du Chagne. “Convert them to gold yourself if you desire! You know where the moneychangers are! First, do this job for me.”
“Of course, my lord. As to the job…?”
“You will ride with the column of knights as they return to the city,” the regent said. “You will locate the captive. And, Sir Dupuy?”
“Excellency?”
“It is my express wish that this prisoner should not reach the city alive.”
CHAPTER TWENTY — ONE
For long days Jaymes was chained to the saddle, his ankles shackled beneath the belly of the old, swaybacked mare. The mare’s reins were held securely in the fist of a knight riding just ahead of him. Two or more knights, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords, were never more than an arm’s length away.
Captain Powell was taking no chances. Even so, while he and his men treated the prisoner with stiff contempt, they did not display any outright cruelty. They paid him scant attention, actually, except to make sure he was securely bound. He was fed indifferently, usually after the rest of the party ate, but not starved.
As to the princess, she ignored her prize utterly. Despite her earlier apparent fascination with him, now she seemed content to ride along with the knights and wait for justice to run its course. Though Captain Powell switched from the head to the tail of the column at will, Selinda du Chagne always rode among the first rank. So far as Jaymes could see, she never even cast a backward glance at the outlaw she had contrived to snare.
The knights made good time on their journey. The terrain was smooth, the midsummer weather tolerable, though it rained a lot. Within ten days, a fortnight at the most, they would arrive in Palanthas.
Where the gallows awaited.
The dwarf slogged along well behind the knights, pulling his shawl tightly around his shoulders, cursing the rain that soaked his beard, trailed down his chest, chilled him through his garments and his armor, down to his very bones. He cast a look back at the two gnomes, for Sulfie and Carbo always plodded behind him, every bit as sodden and weary and miserable as himself.