"You're looking good, Jonmarc," the caravan leader chuckled as he brought out a tray with a large decanter and two glasses. "Life on the road suits you."

"I'd have been dead a long time ago if it didn't," Vahanian replied, leaning back and propping up his boots on a trunk.

"Your 'contraband' are finally earning their keep," Linton continued, pouring the golden Margolian brandy and setting a glass in front of Vahanian. "Some day you'll have to tell me the full story. It's not like you to rescue the nobility."

Vahanian sipped his glass. "Times change," he said, staring at Linton and past him. "You'd be surprised."

"Probably not," Linton said, dropping heavily into his leather folding chair.

"Get to your point."

"My point, Jonmarc," Linton repeated, stopping long enough to take another sip of the brandy, "is that someone else has figured out as much."

"Who?"

Linton shrugged. "The names they gave, like their reasons, are fabricated, I'm sure. But earlier this evening, two men won a sizable amount at our gaming tables. Large enough to get the attention of the master gamer, and when he came to congratulate them on their winnings—and make sure they weren't cheating—they asked to see the caravan master.

"The gamesmaster brought them to me. They claimed to be rug merchants from the west and said they left their wares back at the inn where they were staying. They also said they'd just been through Margolan and what a pity it was that things weren't as they used to be."

"Do tell," Vahanian replied dryly, taking a long sip of his drink.

Linton leaned back, clomping his heavy boots up onto a sturdy trunk and finishing off his drink. "They went on to say that there was a new king in Margolan and that business wasn't good. New taxes. And there were rumors that not all of King Bricen's family were really dead," Linton said, watching Vahanian carefully.

Vahanian said nothing, but he took another drink of his brandy and met Linton's eyes steadily. "And?"

"And I got the feeling that my two visitors were probably going from one caravan to another, plus all the inns between Margolan and Dhasson, with the same story," Linton said.

"Why Dhasson?" Vahanian asked.

Linton shrugged. "It's well known that King Harrol was kin to Bricen. It's where I'd seek sanctuary if I were Martris Drayke," he added, staring pointedly at Vahanian. "I told them it was an interesting story," Linton continued. "And sent them on their way with a promise to look them up if we were ever in their province and needed rugs to trade."

"So why tell me about this," Vahanian asked, draining his glass.

"Because one of the men bore a striking resemblance to Vakkis," Linton replied, setting his drink aside. "All the way down to the knife crease you put in his cheek."

Now Linton had his full attention. Vahanian laid his empty goblet on Linton's counting table. "How sure are you?" he asked in a voice that could have etched glass.

"Very sure," Linton said. "My casino master tells me that the traveler was unusually skilled at contre dice and fond of Valiquestran whiskey and that he never, ever had his back to the door."

"That's Vakkis." Vahanian cursed. "Any hint that he was still looking for me?"

Linton shook his head. "He didn't mention anything. But he was dressed better than usual and either the bounty business has been good lately or he's on retainer to someone with a lot of money. He was spending Margolan gold."

"Damn."

"Jared Drayke may be a whore's son of a king," Linton said, leaning, forward, his voice dropping to a cautious rasp, "but he is a dangerous whore's son. And like as not, he has your number, Jonmarc."

"Where was Vakkis headed?"

Linton's tanned face creased in a grin. "Thought you'd ask. The Boar's Inn in Westerhaven—not far. Of course, since he told me that's where he'd be he won't be totally surprised if he gets company—"

"Only if he sees me coming," Vahanian replied, pushing to his feet.

"Jonmarc..."

"Don't worry, Maynard," Vahanian said as he grabbed his cloak. "I know we're a danger to the caravan. Let me take out Vakkis and we'll be gone in the morning."

"Would you sit down and stop thinking with your sword?" Linton snapped. "Did I say anything about leaving?" He spat loudly into a bronze cuspidor next to his counting table. "I haven't gotten to be a rich old trader by shivering every time a bounty hunter looks in my direction. Do you think you're the only one in my caravan who's got someone looking for him? If you can take Vakkis down, all the better. Why do you think I called you in tonight? And if you can't, we keep our eyes out. He doesn't have anything solid or we'd have been ridden down by King Jared's troops by now. Just warn the others to keep their heads down," the caravan master continued, pouring himself another drink.

A slow grin crept into the edges of Vahanian's mouth. "I knew you were a good man when you didn't water the ale, Maynard," he said.

"And I knew you were an honest mercenary when you paid for it," Linton shot back. "Now get Out of here. And good hunting."

The smoke of battle and the smell of blood filled the air. Around her, clashing swords clanged and hoof beats thundered as the struggle for the embattled city wore on toward evening. For Kiara Sharsequin, Princess of Isencroft, nothing mattered except the bearded man gasping for breath on the ground.

"The king is down!" she heard a man shout. The word passed down the line. She pushed through the knot of armsmen around her fallen father and dropped to her knees beside him, weeping.

"Kiara, you must get free," the injured monarch managed, blood flecking his lips as he struggled to raise a hand. Even that gesture exhausted him, but Kiara dabbed at his lips with her robe.

"I won't leave you."

"You must go," he whispered. His eyes closed and Kiara sobbed, holding his hand. Just behind his head, the flag of Isencroft lay trampled in the mud.

"Your Highness," a guardsman said insistently. "We must get you to safety."

"I won't leave him."

"Look!" a guardsman shouted, pointing, and Kiara raised her head to follow his gesture. Just beyond where the king lay, the air shimmered. The sparkling air took on shape and substance, until the form of a stern, strong woman appeared, her close-cropped, dark hair cut for wearing a battle helm and her arms strong and muscled from wielding a sword. To Kiara's open-mouthed amazement, she found herself not an arm's length from Chenne, the Avenger Goddess.

"Kiara," the apparition said.

"Yes," the girl stammered, her eyes wide.

"Take up the flag, Kiara. This is not yet your father's hour, nor yours," Chenne said, fixing Kiara with her amber eyes. "Darkness is coming, and you hold a key which can dispel it. Lift that sword," the goddess commanded. Trembling, Kiara reached for her father's bloody sword and wrapped her hands around its pommel. Chenne stretched out her ethereal hand and touched the sword's point, sending a wave of white fire down the length of the weapon.

Kiara gasped. The blade glowed with an inner blue fire, as if first taken from the forge. Chenne withdrew her hand and looked appraisingly at Kiara.

"Raise this sword in my name and know that the armies of Isencroft will follow you in any just cause," the Avenger Goddess said, transfixing Kiara with that amber gaze. "Your role will become clear. Only believe," the Goddess said, her shape becoming more insubstantial as Kiara watched in astonishment. "Only believe."

The air shimmered once more and then the image was gone, leaving Kiara sword in hand and open-mouthed. The men-at-arms around her knelt in fealty, even as her father groaned and lost consciousness.