"I won't keep you any longer, boy," he said. "You have my leave to go."

Flushing slightly at the ill-mannered tone, Horace glanced quickly at Halt and saw the Ranger's small nod. He rose, trying to retain his dignity, trying not to show the Gallic knight his confusion.

"Good night, Halt," he said quietly, and Halt nodded again.

"'Night, Horace," he said. The apprentice warrior drew himself up, looked Deparnieux in the eye and abruptly turned and left the room.

Two of the armed guards who had been standing by in the shadows instantly fell in behind him, escorting him up the stairs.

It was a small gesture, Horace thought as he climbed to his chambers, and it was probably a childish one. But ignoring the master of Chateau Montsombre as he left made him feel a little better.

Deparnieux waited until the sound of Horace's footsteps on the stone-flagged stairs had receded. Then, pushing his chair back from the table, he turned a calculating gaze on the Ranger.

"Well, Master Halt," he said quietly, "it's time we had a little chat."

Halt pursed his lips. "About what?" he asked. "I'm afraid I'm just no good at all with gossip."

The warlord smiled thinly. "I can tell you're going to be an amusing guest," he said. "Now tell me, exactly who are you?"

Halt shrugged carelessly. He toyed with a goblet that was sitting, almost empty, on the table in front of him, twirling it this way and that, watching the way the faceted glass caught the light from the fire in the corner.

"I'm an ordinary sort of person," he said. "My name's Halt. I'm from Araluen, traveling with Sir Horace. Nothing much more to tell, really."

The smile stayed fixed on Deparnieux's face as he continued to regard the bearded man sitting opposite him. He appeared nondescript enough, that was for sure. His clothes were simple-verging on drab, in fact. His beard and hair were badly cut. They looked as if he had cut them with a hunting knife, thought Deparnieux, unaware that he was only one of many people to have had that very same thought about Halt.

He was a small man too. His head barely came up to the warlord's shoulder. But he was muscular for all that, and in spite of the gray hairs in his beard and hair, he was in excellent physical condition.

But there was something about the eyes-dark and steady and calculating-that belied the claim of ordinariness that the man made now. Deparnieux prided himself that he knew the look of a man who was used to command, and this man had it, definitely.

Plus there was something about his equipment. It was unusual to see a man with this unmistakable air of command who was not armed as a knight. The bow was a commoner's weapon, in Deparnieux's eyes, and the double knife scabbard was something he had not encountered before. He had taken the opportunity to study the two knives. The larger one reminded him of the heavy saxe knives carried by the Skandians. The smaller knife, razor-sharp like its companion, was a perfectly balanced throwing knife. Unusual weapons indeed for a commander, Deparnieux thought.

The strange cloak fascinated him as well. It was patterned in irregular daubs of green and gray and he could see no reason for the colors or the pattern. The deep cowl served to hide the man's face when he pulled it up in place. Several times during their ride to Montsombre, the Gallic knight had noticed that the cloak seemed to shimmer and merge with the forest background, so that the small man almost disappeared from sight. Then the illusion would pass.

Deparnieux, like many of his countrymen, was more than a little superstitious. He suspected that the cloak's strange properties could be some form of sorcery.

It was this last thought that had led to his somewhat equivocal treatment of Halt. It didn't pay to antagonize sorcerers, the warlord knew. So he determined to play his cards carefully until he knew exactly what to expect of this mysterious little man. And, should it prove that Halt had no dark powers, there was always the possibility that he might be persuaded to turn his other talents to Deparnieux's own ends.

If not, then the warlord could always kill the two travelers as he pleased.

He realized now that he had been silent for some time following Halt's last statement. He took a sip of wine and shook his head at the sentiments Halt had expressed.

"Not ordinary in any way, I think," he said. "You interest me, Halt."

Again, the Ranger shrugged. "I can't see why," he replied mildly.

Deparnieux twirled his wine goblet between his fingers. There was a tentative knock at the door and his head steward entered apologetically and a little fearfully. He had learned by bitter experience that his master was a dangerous and unpredictable man.

"What is it?" Deparnieux said, angry at the intrusion.

"Your pardon, my lord, but I wondered would there be anything more?"

Deparnieux was about to dismiss him when a thought struck him. It would be an interesting experiment to provoke this strange Araluen, he thought. To see which way he jumped.

"Yes," he said. "Send for the cook."

The steward hesitated, puzzled.

"The cook, my lord?" he repeated. "Do you require more food?"

"I require the cook, you fool!" Deparnieux snarled at him. The man hastily backed away.

"At once, my lord," he said, backing nervously toward the door.

When he had gone, the Gallic warlord smiled at Halt.

"It's almost impossible to find good staff these days," he said.

Halt eyed him contemptuously.

"It must be a constant problem for you," he said evenly.

Deparnieux glanced keenly at him, trying to sense any sarcasm behind the words.

They sat in silence until there was a knock at the door and the steward returned. The cook followed a few paces behind him, wringing her hands in the hem of her apron. She was a middle-aged woman, and her face showed the strain that came from working in Deparnieux's household.

"The cook, my lord," the steward announced.

Deparnieux said nothing. He stared at the woman the way a snake stares at a bird. Her wringing of the apron became more and more pronounced as the silence between them grew. Finally, she could bear it no longer.

"Is something wrong, my lord?" she began. "Was the meal not-"

" You do not speak!" Deparnieux shouted, rising from his chair and pointing angrily at her. "I am the master here! You do not speak before me! So remain silent, woman!"

Halt's eyes narrowed as he watched the unpleasant scene. He knew that this was all being done for his benefit. He sensed that Deparnieux wanted to see how he might react. Frustrating as it might be, there was nothing he could do to help the woman right now.

Deparnieux shot a quick glance at him, confirming his suspicions, seeing that the smaller man was as calm as ever. Then he resumed his seat, turning back to the unfortunate cook. "The vegetables were cold," he said finally.

The woman's expression was equal parts fear and puzzlement.

"Surely not, my lord? The vegetables were-"

"Cold, I tell you!" Deparnieux interrupted. He turned to Halt.

"They were cold, were they not?" he challenged. Halt shrugged.

"The vegetables were fine," he said evenly. No matter what happened, he must keep any sense of anger or outrage out of his voice.

Deparnieux smiled thinly. He looked back at the cook.

"Now see what you have done?" he said. "Not only have you shamed me in front of a guest, you have made that guest lie on your behalf."

"My lord, really, I didn't-"

Deparnieux cut her off with an imperious wave of the hand.

"You have disappointed me and you must be punished," he said. The woman's face grew gray with fear. In this castle, punishment was no light matter.

"Please, my lord. Please, I will try harder. I promise," she babbled, hoping to forestall his pronouncement of her punishment. She looked appealingly to Halt.