"I'm sure there are, Milord," Vaijon agreed, and smiled. "When do we leave?"

"You mean to what? " Charrow looked at Bahzell with the expression of a man who devoutly hoped he'd misheard.

"I've dallied long enough," Bahzell told the knight-captain with unwonted seriousness. He stood in the library, his back to the fire, and Vaijon stood quietly in one corner. The master of the Belhadan Chapter had been careful to take no note of the way the young knight-probationer's finery had mutated into an echo of Bahzell's utilitarian style. Nor had he drawn attention to Vaijon's new modesty of manner by praising it, although the smile he'd given his long-recalcitrant protégé had carried its own measure of approval. But Bahzell's abrupt announcement of his impending departure had snapped Charrow's attention away from Vaijon in a heartbeat.

"But... but it's high winter!" he protested. "And you've been here less than three weeks! There's so much we still have to tell you—and that you still have to tell us! And—"

"Hisht, now!" Bahzell rumbled with a crooked grin. "It's in my mind that himself already has what he was wanting out of my time here. This fine young lordling—" he jerked his head at Vaijon and winked at the younger man "—was after getting a mite out of hand, so himself had me spank him for you."

Something suspiciously like a chuckle emerged from Vaijon's corner. Under other circumstances, Charrow would have been astonished to hear it; now he scarcely noticed.

"As for the rest of your chapter," Bahzell went on more thoughtfully, "I'm thinking it was Yorhus and Adiskael and their crew himself wanted seen to." His crooked smile became something very like a grin as Charrow frowned at him. "Well, no one's ever called hradani smart, Sir Charrow, but I'd've been a right idiot not to see how the wind set with those two. But if they're after having the makings of good religious fanatics, I've a shrewd notion himself's little visit has, um, redirected their attention, hasn't it now?"

"Well, yes," Charrow admitted. In fact, he found the two knights-commander's newfound, humble piety almost more worrisome than their earlier zealotry. Charrow had seen too many people in whom humility and extremism seesawed back and forth. But at least now he realized the potential problem was there so that he could keep an eye on it, and Bahzell was right. It was the hradani's presence—and, of course, Tomanāk's manifestation—which had not only shaken them out of their previous attitude but pushed Charrow himself into seeing a problem to which familiarity had blinded him.

"Well, then," Bahzell said, holding out his right hand, palm up. "I'm thinking that was what needed doing here, and now I've other matters to see to."

"But what in Tomanāk's name is so important it can't wait until spring?" Strictly speaking, Charrow had no right to demand that information, for champions were the sole judges of where the God most needed them. He knew that, but he was also no stranger to the rigors of winter campaigning and travel.

"As to that," Bahzell said slowly, turning to stare down into the fire, "I'm not so very certain. Not as to the whole of it. But I've something to teach my folk—something himself was after going out of his way to be certain I knew, and..." He paused and looked up at Charrow, then glanced at Vaijon, as if measuring their probable reactions, before he continued. "The Dark Gods are meddling amongst my folk, Sir Charrow," he said quietly, "and I've no idea how deep the rot has spread."

"You're certain of that, Milord?" Charrow's question came out like the crack of a whip, and Vaijon stiffened in matching concern.

"Aye, that I am," Bahzell said. He grinned again, sourly this time. "I've no doubt the two of you have been ill-fortuned enough to've heard that curst song of Brandark's? The one about 'Bahzell Bloody-Hand'?" Charrow nodded slowly, and Bahzell shrugged. "Well, that bit in it about the prince with the cursed sword is after being true enough. Mind, the japester who wrote it saw fit to dress things up a bit—aye, and left out the tiny little fact that he was after facing four of the prince's guardsmen by himself at the time, and them all in the grip of the Rage—but it happened."

"Cursed how, Milord Champion?" Charrow's voice was crisp, now, with the authority of his rank, and Bahzell shrugged again.

"As to that, I'd no experience with such before himself took it into his head to be recruiting me, but he was there, as well, and when I asked him what it was, he said as how it was forged as a 'gate' to Sharnā's realm." Both Charrow and Vaijon hissed at that name. "He said old Demonspawn meant it as a way to strike at me through Harnak, and there's no way in all the world Harnak could have been laying hands on such if the Dark Gods weren't meddling."

"This Harnak was heir to the Navahkan throne?" Charrow's tone made the question a statement, and Bahzell nodded. "Then 'meddling' is too weak a word, Milord," the knight-captain said grimly. "It's a classic pattern. One of the Dark Gods gets his—or her—hooks into a ruler's heir, then... disposes of the ruler so that the throne falls into his hand like a ripe plum. And of them all, Sharnā is best at that maneuver. Too many people in love with power are likely to employ the Assassins Guild, never realizing the dog brothers are always as much Sharnā's tool as that of whoever pays them." Charrow snorted bitterly. "For that matter, I suspect many of the dog brothers fail to realize they are. They're not among the most devout adherents of any god, and no doubt they see their relationship to Sharnā's church primarily as a business opportunity. But his priesthood has always coordinated the guild's activities, and the guild has always found it convenient to have the support structure the church offers. Which means that anyone who deals with the one must also deal with the other, whether he knows it or not. And once that door is opened—"

Charrow broke off with a twitch of his shoulders, and Bahzell nodded heavily.

"Aye, I was thinking the same," he admitted. "I'm hoping they were after banking on Harnak and not working on one of his brothers at the same time. If that was their plan, then I'm thinking killing him must've set their efforts back. And from what I know of his father, they'd not have wanted to spread their net too wide, lest he realize they were about. Mind you, Churnazh of Navahk's soul is blacker than Krashnark's riding boots, and he's no giant when it comes to thinking things through. But he's not after being a complete idiot, and he'd not have lasted as long as he has without a certain cunning. I'm thinking he'd've ripped Harnak's heart out with his own hands, son or no, had he ever guessed what Harnak was about, for he knows how his allies would react to word of it."

"How would they react?" Charrow asked softly, and Bahzell turned to face him fully, brown eyes hardening as he straightened his spine.

"As to that, how would your folk be reacting?" he challenged harshly. For just a moment, his gaze and the knight-captain's locked across the office, and then Charrow raised a hand in a small gesture of apology. Bahzell glared at him for another second or two, and then his nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply.

"That's the reason I wasn't so very eager to be babbling all about it to everyone I meet," he admitted, turning to stare moodily back down into the fire. "Even now, there's too many folk too ready to believe hradani chose to serve the Dark in Kontovar, and the truth is that we did serve. Not because we'd chosen to, but because their curst wizards gave us no choice. Few enough hradani have any use for any god, Light or Dark, Sir Charrow, but there's no one in all the world has more cause to hate the Dark than my folk. Yet let a whisper of even a single hradani's having dealings with the Dark slip out, and all the old hate comes back to life against all of us, and I'll not add to that."

"No," Charrow said softly. "No, I can see that, and I ask you to forgive me. It seems that I, too, have more of the old prejudices than I'd guessed."

"Bah!" Bahzell made a sweeping, dismissive gesture and shrugged. "How many hradani had you met before Brandark and I were after washing up at your door?"

"Well... none," Charrow admitted.

"Then you'd naught to measure the stories against, now had you?"

"That's a reason for my blindness, Milord—not an excuse. But you're right, I suppose. And you're right about how most people would react to your news. Yet it's the Order's business to deal with such threats when they arise."

"And so the Order will," Bahzell reassured him. "You were the one as was telling me all champions are part of the Order, whether we like it or no, weren't you?" Charrow nodded. "Well, that being so, I'd say it's after being up to me and young Vaijon here to be dealing with it."

"Just the two of you?" Charrow couldn't quite keep his skepticism from showing, and Bahzell laughed.

"Well, the two of us, and Brandark... and forty or fifty thousand Horse Stealers."

"I thought a truce existed between your people and the Bloody Swords."

"So it does—or did before Harnak and I were after having our little disagreement. I've had no letters from my father since Brandark and I left, and it's possible the truce holds still, but I've a shrewd notion Father wasn't any too pleased when Harnak raped a girl under his father's protection and laid the blame for it on me. And even if he was minded to let that pass, there's those among his captains would never let it stand. Oh, I'll not say it's all because of me, but no one but a fool ever thought that truce would last forever, and one thing Father isn't is a fool. I'm thinking he must have had most of his preparations in place before ever Harnak and I crossed swords. And even if I'm wrong, he'll move quick enough when he hears who Harnak had dealings with."

"So he doesn't know yet," Charrow mused.

"No. I'd meant to write him, for we've no magi for the mage relays to pass word to him through, but it's likely enough I can get there as fast as any letter. And while it's happy I'll be to have his backing, you've the right of it. This is the sort of job himself had in mind for the likes of you and me, and I'll not leave my clan to fight my battles for me."

"No. No, I can see that," Charrow agreed. He lowered himself into a chair and leaned back, stretching his legs out before him while he plucked at his lower lip in thought. The slow, steady ticking of the clock on the mantel and the soft crackle of flames from the hearth were the only sounds as he pondered Bahzell's words, and then he gave a sharp nod and inhaled deeply.