The newcomer was obviously looking for someone. His eyes swept the room quickly, passing over Halt without noticing the shadowy figure at the rear of the room, then finally lighting on Horace. The brows tightened fractionally and he nodded, almost imperceptibly, to himself. The boy, enthralled by the music, had barely taken note of the knight's arrival and now paid no attention to the intense study to which he was subjected. There were others in the room who did. Halt saw the heightened awareness of the innkeeper and his wife as they watched and waited for events to unfold. And several of the townspeople were showing signs of anxiety, signs that they might prefer to be somewhere else.

Halt's hand reached under the table for his quiver. As ever, his weapons were within easy reach, even when he was dining, and the longbow leaning against the wall behind him was already strung. Now he eased an arrow from the quiver and laid it on the table before him as the tune came to an end.

This time, there was no chorus of applause from the people in the room. Only Horace clapped enthusiastically, then, realizing he was the only one doing so, he stopped, confused, a flush of embarrassment rising to his cheeks. Now he too became aware of the armed man in the room, standing half a dozen paces away from him, staring at him with an intensity that bordered on aggression.

The boy recovered his composure and nodded a greeting to the newcomer. Halt was pleased to notice that Horace had the presence of mind not to look in his direction. He had sensed that something unpleasant might be about to happen and understood the advantage that would come from Halt's not being noticed.

Finally, the newcomer spoke, his voice deep and gravelly. He was a tall man, as tall as Horace, and heavily built. This was no roadside warrior, Halt decided. This man was dangerous.

"You are the oakleaf chevalier?" he asked, with a hint of derision. He spoke the Araluen language well, but with a distinct Gallic accent.

"I believe I have been called that," Horace replied, after a moment's pause. The knight seemed to consider the answer, nodding to himself, his lip curled in a half sneer.

"You believe so?" he said. "But can you, yourself, be believed? Or are you a lying Araluen dog who barks in the gutters?"

Horace frowned, puzzled. It was a clumsy attempt to insult him.

The other man was trying to provoke a fight for some reason. And that, to Horace, was sufficient reason not to be provoked.

"If you like," he replied calmly, his face a mask of indifference.

But Halt had noticed how his left hand had touched lightly, and almost instinctively, to his left hip, where his sword normally hung ready.

Now, of course, it hung behind the door of their room upstairs. Horace was armed with only a dagger.

The knight had noticed the involuntary movement as well. He smiled now, his lips curling in a cruel arc. And he moved a pace closer to the muscular young apprentice. He took stock of the young man now.

Wide shoulders, slim at the waist and obviously well muscled. And he moved well, with a natural grace and balance that was the mark of an expert warrior.

But the face was young and absolutely without guile. This was not an opponent who had fought men to the death repeatedly. This was not a warrior who had learned the darker skills in the unforgiving school of mortal combat. The boy had barely begun to shave. He was undoubtedly a trained fighter, and one to be respected.

But not feared.

Having made his assessment, the older man moved a pace closer, yet again.

"I am Deparnieux," he said. Obviously, he expected the name to mean something. Horace merely shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly.

"Good for you," he replied. And those black brows contracted once more.

"I am no roadside yokel for you to defeat by trickery and knavish behavior. You will not catch me unprepared with your cowardly tactics, as you have so many of my compatriots."

He paused to see if the insulting words were having the desired effect. Horace, however, was canny enough not to take exception. He shrugged once more.

"I'll definitely bear that in mind," he replied mildly.

One more pace and the heavily built knight was within arm's reach.

His face suffused with rage at Horace's answer, and the boy's refusal to be insulted.

"I am warlord of this province!" he shouted. "A warrior who has despatched more foreign interlopers, more Araluen cowards, than any other knight in this land. Ask them if this is not so!" And he swept an arm around at the people sitting tensely at tables around the fire.

For a moment, there was no reply, then he turned his fierce gaze on them, daring them to disagree with him.

As one, their eyes dropped and they mumbled a grudging acknowledgment of his claim. Then his gaze came back to challenge Horace once more. The boy returned it impassively, but a shade of red was beginning to color his cheeks.

"As I said," he replied carefully, "I will bear it in mind."

Deparnieux's eyes glittered at the boy. "And I call you a coward and a thief who has killed Gallic warriors by subterfuge and deceit and stolen their armor and horses and belongings!" he concluded, his voice rising to a crescendo.

There was a long silence in the room. Finally, Horace replied.

"I think you are mistaken," he said, in the same mild tone he had maintained throughout the confrontation. There was a collective intake of breath throughout the room. And now Deparnieux reared back in fury.

"You say I am a liar?" he demanded.

Horace shook his head. "Not at all. I say you are mistaken.

Somebody has apparently misinformed you."

Deparnieux spread his hands and addressed the room at large.

"You have heard this! He calls me a liar to my face! This is insupportable!"

And, just as he had planned, in the same movement with which he had spread his hands, he had plucked one of his leather gauntlets from where it had been secured under his belt, and now, before anyone in the room could react, had drawn it back to slap it across Horace's face in a challenge that could not be ignored.

Feeling a sense of exultation, he began the forward sweep of his hand to bring the glove swiping across the boy's face.

Only to have it plucked from his grip by an invisible hand, and hurled across the room, where it came to a quivering halt, skewered to one of the upright oak beams that supported the ceiling.

S O THEY WERE TO BE SEPARATED AFTER ALL, W ILL THOUGHT. Evanlyn was led away, stumbling as she turned to look back over her shoulder at him, a stricken expression on her face. He forced a grin of encouragement and waved to her, making the gesture casual and lighthearted, as if they would be seeing each other shortly.

His attempt at raising her spirits was cut short by a solid backhander to his head. He staggered a few feet, his ears ringing.

"Get moving, slave!" snarled Tirak, the Skandian supervisor of the yard. "We'll see how much you have to smile about."

The answer to that was precious little, Will soon discovered.

Of all the Skandians' captives, yard slaves had the hardest, most unpleasant assignment. House slaves-those who worked in the kitchens and dining rooms-at least had the comfort of working, and sleeping, in a warm area. They might fall into their blankets exhausted at the end of a day, but the blankets were warm.

Yard slaves, on the other hand, were required to look after all the arduous, unpleasant outdoor tasks that needed doing-cutting firewood, clearing snow from the paths, emptying the privies and disposing of the result, feeding and watering the animals, cleaning stables. They were all jobs that had to be done in the bitter cold.