Jonathan knew he should stop this, but he couldn't. He'd seen the bite wound in Averil's neck, Tereza's arm. The thought of that happening to Elaine and Blaine, of them being torn apart piece by bloody piece, mouthful by screaming mouthful. . the image was thick and red and worse than anything else he could have imagined..

Harkon Lukas laughed again. "I am a fool, sir warrior, a loose-tongued fool. An occupational hazard, I fear." His laughter echoed off the stone walls, rising to the high-beamed ceiling. Jonathan fought the urge to hit him, to stop that cheerful sound. His mind was full of horrors that the bard had put there. He shouldn't be laughing.

"If you cannot hold a civil tongue, then leave us," Jonathan said.

The laughter trickled down and faded. That strange, unreadable look was back on Lukas's face. "My deepest apologies." He gave a low, sweeping bow, hat plumes gliding over the floor. It was the same bow he'd used to usher them through the door.

Jonathan watched the bard give his theatrical apology and didn't believe a word of it. He had meant to upset them. Jonathan wasn't sure why, but he knew it was true. Regardless of motive, Jonathan hated Harkon Lukas. It was one thing to believe the twins dead, but eaten alive. . The thought made the hours until dawn a creeping, agonizing thing. He had Harkon Lukas to thank for that. Jonathan intended to see that the bard got his just rewards. If it was within the mage-finder's powers to make one bard's life miserable, Jonathan would do it.

It was petty, and he hugged the thought to him like a prayer. He would torment Harkon Lukas for tormenting him now. It was cold comfort, but the mage-finder was willing to take any comfort at all on this long, eternally long night.

TWENTY-THREE

Harkon Lukas paced up the stairs like an angry cat. He swatted his hat against his leg as he climbed, beating it in time to his frustration.

Ambrose knew. He knew. Harkon was not sure how much he knew, but he was not the innocent Harkon had thought him. He had invited them here to taunt them. He could have simply captured Kon-rad Burn, but no, he, Harkon Lukas, had to play games. His own arrogance amazed him. Had he really thought the brotherhood's most visible member was a complete fool?

Harkon nodded to himself. Yes, he had thought just that. He had never been terribly impressed with this brotherhood before. But Ambrose's eyes had held a taunting knowledge. Had Ambrose come here to join in the game? Not an innocent lured to cure some magical plague, but a brother aware that the true heart of all evil in Kartakass was in this town. Surely if the mage-finder had known that he, Harkon Lukas, was the heart of evil, there would be more of the brotherhood in Cortton. There would be a great hunt, and he would be the prey.

No, Ambrose suspected, but he was not sure. But how close was the mage-finder to being sure? Harkon still could hardly believe he had had to save them. He had had to open the inn door. The foolish villagers would have let their potential saviors die. He had thought that saving them would put him in their good graces, but the look in Ambrose's eyes said clearly that he didn't trust the bard as far as the next room.

Harkon liked a suspicious man, or at least respected the trait. But now, he could have done without it.

Konrad Burn stepped out of the righthand room. He smelled of herbs and salves. He glanced up, nodding at Lukas.

Harkon stopped at the head of the stairs to ask, "How is the young woman?"

Konrad closed the door firmly behind him and walked to Harkon, putting distance between himself and the room. He appeared not to want to be overheard; the news would be grave.

"She is not well." Konrad moved past him to go downstairs.

Harkon grabbed his upper arm. He liked holding the strong, muscled flesh. It was a good arm, and he would enjoying having it as his own. "Is it blood loss, or is the wound so terrible?"

Konrad looked down at the bard's hand. He stepped back, forcing Harkon to either release his hold or be obvious about it. It was not yet time to be so possessive. He released the man.

"She's lost a great deal of blood."

"But the doctor seemed to think she would survive if the blood loss did not kill her. You think otherwise?"

"I am sure your doctor is a good man, but I've seen more battle injuries than he has."

"You think she will die?"

Konrad frowned at him, his green eyes filling with anger. "I think that is not a question for idle curiosity, bard."

Harkon gave a small bow, graceful but not quite as sweeping as before. "You are quite right, Master Burn. I am a bard, and idle curiosity is a hazard of my profession." Still half bent over, he looked up at Konrad. "Of course if I am to sing of this deed, to immortalize her bravery, I need to know the facts." He straightened and found himself distressingly taller than Konrad Burn. He was a tall man and didn't like giving it up, but nothing was perfect.

Harkon forced himself to smile. "So perhaps my curiosity is not completely idle."

Konrad shook his head. "I do not believe you intend to write some great epic. I think you are just a vulture eager to hear of other people's sorrows."

Konrad pushed past him.

"Ah, yes, you have your own more personal loss to mourn, do you not?"

Konrad stopped on the stairs, back straightening. He turned slowly to look upward at the smiling bard. The rage on his face was murderous. It made Harkon's smile widen.

"My loss, my grief is my own business. It is certainly none of yours."

"Forgive me, please. I speak without thinking. It is a terrible fault of mine."

Konrad came up two steps, then stopped. His hand that gripped the banister trembled, white-knuckled. He wanted to rush up the stairs and attack the bard.

Harkon toyed with saying that one last thing that would push the man over the edge of his anger. He had to force himself to stand still, not to widen his smile farther. Even that might have been enough to bring Konrad up those last few steps. It would have been delicious, ironic, but he might have been forced to hurt his future body. That would be self-defeating. He let it go. The hardest thing was to keep the knowledge from his eyes, the surety that he could kill this man if he wanted to.

The pride and confidence in Burn's face, his stance, said clearly that even that one look would have been enough to cause a fight. His future body had quite a temper.

"A loose tongue can get a person killed," Konrad said.

Harkon fought to keep his face pleasant and blank. The man wanted to fight. His grief had translated into anger, and he wanted a target for that anger.

Harkon hoped to witness when that rage found its target, but he could not afford to be that target. He might have to keep a closer eye on Konrad. If the man got himself killed before Harkon could switch bodies, that would spoil all his plans.

"I most humbly beg your pardon, Master Burn. Please believe me when I say you have my deepest sympathies."

"You speak of things that you know nothing about, bard. I won't believe they are dead, not yet."

"I am sure you are right to be hopeful. Some kind soul might have opened a door, as I opened the door for you."

Konrad suddenly looked embarrassed. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I have not thanked you for saving our lives."

Harkon waved it away. "Master Ambrose thanked me for you all."

Konrad shook his head. "No, we would all be dead now if not for your bravery." The words seemed to stick in his throat.

Harkon narrowed his eyes, studying the man. Did he know something as well? Were all his carefully laid plans known by his adversaries? Had Calum Songmaster had a change of heart? Had Harkon been betrayed? If Calum would betray his bosom friends, why not betray Harkon? Because he, too, wanted a new body. Harkon had thought that the offer of escape would insure Calum's loyalty, but there was dislike in Konrad's face. He had saved the man's life. Why would he dislike him?