'That's for him to tell you,' muttered Masrick. 'Now where can I lodge these prisoners? Do you have no rooms with locks?'
'Sadly, no. I suggest you bring them in here. Then at least you can watch them until you leave.'
'Until we leave,' corrected Masrick.
Asmidir rose and approached the officer. The black man was at least a foot taller. 'At the moment, my dear Masrick, I am putting aside your bad manners on the grounds that the blow to your face, and the subsequent pain, has made you forget your breeding. Understand, however, that my patience is not limitless. Try to remember that you are an insignificant second cousin to the Baron, whereas I am a friend to the King. Now get out and fetch your prisoners. I wish to speak with the Finder.'
Masrick's mouth dropped open, and his eyes narrowed. Asmidir read the fury there. The black man leaned in close. 'Think carefully before you react, moron. It is considered deeply unlucky to be struck twice in the face on the same day.' Masrick swallowed hard and backed away. Asmidir swung away from him and crossed the room to where Kollarin waited. For a moment only Masrick hesitated, then he marched from the hall.
'You did not need the cloak spell,' said Kollarin softly. 'I refused to hunt the woman.'
'Very wise,' Asmidir told him, keeping his voice low. 'When you return to Citadel town I will see that one hundred silver pieces are delivered to you.'
'Very kind.' Kollarin's green eyes held Asmidir's gaze. 'But I shall not be returning to Citadel.'
'Neither shall I,' said Asmidir, with a wry smile.
Masrick returned to the hall and two soldiers led in the prisoners, ordering them to sit by the far wall. The officer marched up to Asmidir. 'I fear you were right, Lord Asmidir,' said Masrick.
'The events of the day shortened my temper. I ask your forgiveness for my ... abrupt manner.' The anger was still present in his eyes, but Asmidir merely smiled.
'We will say no more about it, my dear Masrick. Are your men being fed?'
'Yes. Thank you. How soon will you be ready to leave?'
Asmidir did not answer, but strolled across the hall and stood before the prisoners. 'I know you,' he said, addressing Obrin. 'You were in the fist-fighting tourney last winter. You lost in the final -stumbled and went down with an overhand right.'
'You have a good memory for faces,' Obrin told him. 'Now if I'd managed to hit the Cleatian with the same power that I used on goat-face there, I would have won.'
Masrick ran forward and aimed a savage kick which thundered against Obrin's shoulder. 'Be silent, wretch!' he shouted.
'Even kicks like a goat,' sneered Obrin.
Masrick drew his dagger. 'I'll cut your bastard tongue out!' he threatened.
Asmidir laid his hand on the officer's arm. 'Not here my friend,' he said. 'The rugs were expensive, shipped all the way from Kushir.
As Obrin's laughter sounded, Masrick paled, and his hand trembled. But he slammed the dagger back in its scabbard.
The servant returned, carrying a small enamelled pot. As he paused beside Masrick and bowed, the officer looked at the tall servant. 'Well, what do you want?'
Ari held out the pot. 'What is this?' Masrick asked Asmidir.
'A healing ointment. Apply it to the lips and you will see.'
Masrick took the pot and removed the lid. The ointment was cream-coloured. Dabbing a finger to it, he spread some on his injury. 'That is good,' he said. 'Soothing! Where did you obtain it?'
'My servants are a&Al-jiin,' said Asmidir. 'They are very skilled with potions.'
*
Kollarin was only half listening to the exchange, but the words Al-jiin cut through him like a sword of ice. Standing beside the hearth he stiffened, his green eyes flicking to Ari. The man was tall and slender, his skin the colour of age-polished oak; he had a prominent nose, not negroid like Asmidir, but curved and aquiline. In that moment Kollarin wondered how he could ever have been convinced the man was a servant. He glanced at his wine goblet. It was still almost full. How much had he drunk? One mouthful? Two?
Ari turned slowly, his deep dark stare pinning Kollarin. The servant seemed to glide across the room. 'Are you well, lord? asked Ari. 'You are looking pale.'
'I am well at this moment,' said Kollarin. Reaching out with his Talent, he touched the other man's mind... and recoiled as if he had thrust his hand into a fire.
'Perhaps you should sit down, lord,' offered Ari.
'Am I to die here?' pulsed Kollarin.
'If my Lord wills it so,' came the response. 'If you will excuse me,' he said aloud, 'I have duties to attend to.'
'By all means,' said Kollarin. Ari turned and left the hall and once more Kollarin reached out, seeking not the mind of the servant but choosing instead the soldiers who were waiting outside. He pictured the solid cavalryman, Klebb.
Nothing. One by one he sought out the others.
Still nothing. Were their thoughts being shielded, he wondered?
Sitting by the fire he closed his eyes and dropped his spirit to the second level, opening his mind to more general astral emanations. He felt the castle and its great age, and beyond it the forest and the heartbeat of eternity.
From here it was a simple matter to find the third level. Kollarin gasped. Moving through the castle he could see the restless, disembodied shapes of lost spirits, murdered men who did not yet know they had died.
His eyes snapped open.
All dead. Twenty-eight soldiers, drugged and then strangled. All that remained were the two guards in the room, and Masrick himself. Kollarin's mouth was dry and he reached out for his wine. What are you doing, fool? Leaving the goblet where it stood, he rose and rubbed his hand across his mouth. Am I under sentence? he wondered.
Asmidir crossed the hall. 'You seem preoccupied, my boy,' he said.
Kollarin looked up into the black man's face, seeing the power there, and the cruelty. 'YourAl-jiin have completed their work,' he said softly. 'Where does that leave me?'
'Where would you like to be left?' Asmidir asked.
'Alive would be pleasant.'
'What are you two whispering about?' asked Masrick, picking up Kollarin's goblet and draining it.
He belched and then sat down.
'We were talking about life and death, Masrick,' said Asmidir, 'and the slender thread that separates both.'
'Nothing slender about it,' said the officer. 'It is all a question of skill and courage.'
'What about luck?' asked Asmidir. 'Being in the wrong place at the wrong time?'
'A man makes his own luck,' replied Masrick.
'I'm not sure that's true,' said Asmidir. 'But let us put it to the test. Would it be lucky or unlucky were you to find the woman, Sigarni?'
'Lucky, of course,' answered Masrick. 'You know where she is?'
'Indeed I do.' Asmidir clapped his hands twice. A line of warriors filed silently into the room; tall men in black cloaks and helms, all carrying sabres of shining steel. They wore black mail-shirts which extended to their thighs, and black boots reinforced with strips of black steel.
Across their chests each wore a thick leather baldric, complete with three throwing knives in jet-black sheaths. Kollarin moved back against the wall as the warriors fanned out. He recognized the servant Ari, though the man now looked like a prince of legend.
Masrick was also watching them. 'What is the meaning of this?' he asked.
Asmidir chuckled and without turning his head he gave an order. 'Kill the guards,' he said, his voice even, almost regretful.
Kollarin watched as if in a dream. Two of the black-garbed warriors drew throwing knives from their sheaths and slowly turned. One of the guards, a man with a bruised and swollen nose, frantically tried to draw his sword; a knife-hilt appeared in his throat and he sank back against the wall. The second guard turned to run; a black knife slashed through the air taking him in the back of the neck and he fell forward, his face striking the edge of the table; the blow dislodged his helm which rolled across the table-top. The two dark-skinned warriors retrieved their blades and returned to stand in line with their comrades.