“Nor does he enjoy the legal immunities of an ambassador,” Tarlan said slowly. His thoughtful voice was little more than a murmur, but the pipe-smoking man nodded.

“Obviously not,” he agreed. “There is the matter of his supposed status as a champion of Tomanak, of course. But with all due respect to His Majesty and his other advisers, how can anyone honestly believe Tomanak would choose a hradani—and a Horse Stealer hradani, at that—as one of His champions?” He snorted contemptuously. “If this Bahzell wants to claim the privileges and powers of a champion, I think it would be only fair to give him the opportunity to prove he deserves them. And since Scale Balancer’s courtroom is the field of battle, there’s really only one place he could do that, isn’t there?”

One or two of the others exchanged glances of varying degrees of uneasiness as they listened to his last couple of sentences, but no one disagreed. After all, the mere thought of a hradani champion of any God of Light was far worse than merely ridiculous. It verged all too closely upon outright blasphemy, whatever others might think.

“I, for one, agree with you completely, Milord,” Saratic said, and Garthan nodded firmly. Tarlan also nodded, only a shade less enthusiastically.

“Thank you, Lord Saratic,” the pipe-smoking man said. “I value your support. And it has always been the tradition of my house to remember those who have lent us support when we most needed it.”

More than a hint of avarice flickered in Saratic’s eyes. It didn’t supplant the anger and vengefulness which already filled them, but it honed and strengthened those preexisting emotions, and the pipe-smoker hid a smile of satisfaction as he saw it.

“It seems to me, Milord,” Saratic said after a moment, “that if we really put our minds to it, there ought to be some way in which we might both demonstrate this Festian’s inadequacy as Lord Mathian’s usurper—I mean, of course, successor—and simultaneously provide ’PrinceBahzell’ the opportunity to prove his status as Tomanak’s champion once and for all.”

“I’m certain there is,” the pipe-smoking man agreed. Then he put his hands on the tabletop and pushed to his feet, smiling at the others.

“However,” he continued, “I fear the hour has grown quite late. I have a full and demanding day waiting for me tomorrow, and so, with your permission, I will bid you all good night. No, no,” he said, shaking his head and raising the palm of one hand as two or three of his guests made as if to stand, as well. “Don’t let my departure interrupt your conversation, gentlemen. It would be a poor host who expected his own early retirement to cut short his guests’ enjoyment of discussions among themselves.” He smiled at them again. “Stay where you are as long as you like. The servants have been instructed to leave you in peace, unless you summon them for additional refreshments. Who knows? Perhaps your discussions will suggest some way in which we might all further the Kingdom’s interests and prosperity.”

He nodded to them all, and then walked softly out of the room.

Thick mist swirled in slow, heavy clouds on the chill breeze, rising from the cold, standing water and scarcely thicker mud of the swamp. Somewhere above the mist, the sun crawled towards midday, burnishing the upper reaches of vapor with a golden aura that was delicately beautiful in its own way. All thirty of the mounted men were liberally coated in mud, however, and the golden glow did little to improve their tempers.

“It would be the Bogs,” one of the trackers growled, grimacing at the mounted troop’s commander.

“Would you really prefer the Gullet?” the grizzled horseman responded in an equally sour voice.

“Not really, Sir Yarran,” the tracker admitted. “But at least I’ve been down the Gullet before. Halfway, at least.”

Sir Yarran grunted a laugh, and so did most of his men. Their last trip down the Gullet had not been a happy one, but the men in this troop were not so secretly delighted by at least one of its consequences. Yet the laughter faded quickly, for like Sir Yarran, all of them were unhappily certain that the mission which brought them to the swamps this morning had been sparked by an effort to undo that consequence.

Sir Yarran rose in his stirrups as if those extra few inches of elevation could somehow help his sight pierce the billowing fog. They didn’t, and he growled a mental curse.

“Well, lads,” he said as he finally settled back into the saddle, “I’m afraid we’ve no choice but to keep going for at least a bit farther.” He looked at one of his men and pointed back over his shoulder the way they’d come. “Trobius, go back and find Sir Kelthys and his men. Tell him we’re pushing on into the swamp.” He grimaced. “If he cares to join us, he’ll be welcome, but there’s little point his wallowing about in there, unless he’s nothing better to do than freeze his arse off in muddy water along with the rest of us.”

“Aye, Sir Yarran.” Trobius sal uted, reined his horse around, and went trotting off into the mist. Sir Yarran contemplated the swamp ahead of them sourly for a few more moments, then grunted resignedly.

“All right, lads,” he said. “Let’s be going. Who knows? We might get lucky enough to actually find something to track.”

“Aye, Sir,” the tracker acknowledged, and urged his horse forward, picking a careful path deeper into the watery muck. “And pigs may fly, too,” he muttered to himself, and Sir Yarran glanced at him. Fortunately, his voice had been low enough Sir Yarran could pretend he hadn’t heard him. Which suited Sir Yarran just fine. Especially because he was in complete agreement with the other man.

He watched the tracker and his two assistants making their cautious way deeper into the treacherous footing, then sighed and clucked gently to his own horse.

“And of course we won’t be able to prove a thing.”

Sir Yarran Battlecrow grimaced, then hawked noisily and spat into the fire in disgust. It was a habit Sir Festian Wrathson, Lord Warden of Glanharrow, had been trying to break him of for years. Not because Festian disagreed with the emotions which spawned it, but because Yarran did it with so much energy.

At the moment, however, Festian felt no urge to reprimand Yarran. If anything, he longed to emulate his marshal, the commander of Glanharrow’s armsmen. And whatever Festian might long for, Yarran, at least, had earned the right to express himself however he chose.

Steam oozed from the knight’s rain-soaked tunic and trousers. His graying blond hair was rough edged and sodden, and although it was obvious he’d wiped down his riding boots, they were still smeared with mud stains. His sodden poncho was draped over the back of one of the hall’s chairs, radiating its own steam wisps before the fire, and a servant was busy drying Yarran’s cuirass in one corner.

“No, we won’t be,” Festian said after a moment. “And because we won’t, I can’t afford to go about making accusations. Especially not about my neighboring lords.”

“Aye, that’s true enough, and I know it,” Yarran agreed in a heavy, resigned tone. “Still and all, though, Milord, you and I both know, don’t we?”

“Maybe we do, and maybe we don’t,” Festian replied. Yarran gave him a skeptical look, and the lord warden waved one hand. “Oh, I know what we both suspect, Yarran, but as you say, it’s not as if we had proof, is it?”

“No, Phrobus take it,” Yarran acknowledged sourly.

“Then let’s take it one step at a time and consider what we do know for certain. For example, what direction were they headed when you lost the trail?”

“Phrobus only knows,” Yarran growled. A serving woman entered the hall and handed him a steaming mug, and the marshal’s expression lightened perceptibly as he detected the rich, strong scent of chocolate. It was an extraordinarily expensive luxury on the Sothoii Wind Plain, and the tough, grizzled warrior had a bigger sweet tooth than any three of Glanharrow’s children combined.