“Of course not. She couldn’t get to them,” he said with a grunt. “Where are the centaurs?”

Linsha sat down beside him and let her breath out in a long sigh. “I don’t know. They were led away while we were still out in the palace courtyard. There were only four left.”

He took her hand in his and held it, their fingers intertwined. “It’s not your fault,” he said quietly. “Or mine. We acted on good evidence.”

“We were deliberately trapped like wild dogs,” she said forcefully. “They led us in and slammed every door. I wouldn’t be surprised if they watched the pool entrance and timed our capture with the attack on the palace. Neat, efficient, and successful.”

Lanther leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “You may be right.” After awhile he added, “Gods of all, I hate prisoner cells.”

Linsha took several long moments to gather her courage, then asked, “Lanther, what happened to Tanefer?”

“He’s dead. Two arrows to the chest. When he fell, I hit my head on the wall. The Tarmaks took me for dead, too, until later. Now I’m here.” He spoke his short narrative with spare words and little emotion, and when he finished, his words faded into steady breathing.

With gentle hands Linsha laid his shoulders and head down on the pallet and straightened his body. While she moved him, she carefully checked him for broken bones and unseen wounds, and when she was satisfied that he was basically unhurt, she made him as comfortable as possible on the lumpy pallet. She wished she had a cloak or a blanket for him, for the underground cells were chilly and damp, but he would have to be content in his ragged, dirty clothes.

“Lady,” a soft voice hissed from the next cell.

The Tarmak guards watched the two cells with avid eyes, but they did not try to stop the speaker.

Linsha responded quietly, “Yes?”

One of the Legionnaires in the neighboring cell asked, “Is Lanther injured?”

“He seems well enough. He is asleep now.”

A sword blade slammed on the table indicating the Tarmaks had heard enough talk. The prisoners retreated to the back of their cells.

Returning to her own pallet, Linsha lay down and tried to sleep. She didn’t know what time of day it was, but it felt like evening, and her body, deprived of a night’s sleep, was aching with exhaustion. She wanted to sleep, to slip into the forgetfulness of slumber and let her thoughts rest, but her mind wouldn’t let her. Too many worries, concerns, and feelings of guilt and recrimination played through her head.

Where were the centaurs? Had the Tarmaks killed them or just imprisoned them somewhere else?

Where was Varia? She had seen the owl falter in flight. Was Varia dead? Wounded? Was she slowly bleeding to death somewhere out in those trees? Or was she all right? What would she do? Surely she wouldn’t try to get Crucible again. That fearful thought led to another that repeated over and over in her head as if Varia could hear. Don’t tell Crucible. Don’t bring him back here. He must stay in Sanction. He must stay with Lord Bight. Don’t risk yourself.

Linsha put an arm over her face and groaned. By Kiri-Jolith, she had caused enough death and defeat for one night. She couldn’t bear it if the owl or the dragon died too.

How could she have been so careless? She had taken the word of a dead man-second-hand information!-and had not checked it out. Instead of following the basic rules for a good clandestine operation, she’d followed her desires and led good men and centaurs to their deaths or captivity. And Lanther had gone along with her! She hated to admit it, but the only one who had guessed it right was Sir Remmik. She could just imagine him lifting his long aristocratic nose, raising one eyebrow, and silently radiating “I told you so” from every line of his lean posture.

Thinking of Sir Remmik put her on a different path-the Tarmaks. They had effectively destroyed the mercenaries. Why hadn’t they tried to bribe or pay off the soldiers? If the Tarmaks were truly building a new army, why hadn’t they tried to hire the mercenaries? Why kill them all? And who had the dragon’s treasure now? Where was Iyesta’s hoard? Where were those damnable eggs? It seemed to her that the Tarmaks now had everything the Missing City had to offer-the city, the harbor, the lands, the palace, the dragon’s eggs, and the dragonlord’s treasure. What was left?

Knight Commander Jamis uth Remmik slapped irritably at the flea on his neck and shoved his blanket aside in disgust. This sleeping place was just too crowded. Between the sand fleas, the bed mites, and the occasional scorpion that crawled in for warmth, there wasn’t a peaceful scrap of material on the entire bed. He rubbed his neck again and crawled to his feet. There was no need to put on boots or a tunic. Like everyone else in the Wadi, he slept fully dressed.

Stretching his aching back, he walked out of the cave and into the cold night air. How he longed for his comfortable bed and warm fire in his room in the Citadel. That room had been built exactly to his specifications and needs and had been kept scrupulously clean. Everything had been in its place-his armor, his uniforms, his books of Solamnic law, his razor and toiletries. Now his magnificent Citadel was a pile of rubble and he was reduced to one tattered uniform, a pallet full of fleas, and a cold, stinking cave he had to share with twenty other people.

He drew in a deep breath of cold air, let it out in a cloudy exhalation, then walked over to the small fire still burning in one of the cooking hearths. A pot of hot water was always kept on the hearth for the night sentries who wanted hot tea or kefre. The ale and beer were long gone.

For a long while Remmik stood and stared at the small flames dancing in the hearth. He let the silence of the night fill his troubled mind. The presence of nearly six hundred people in the narrow, twisting canyon rarely made for long periods of stillness, but this late at night a semblance of peace had settled over the camp. Most of the inhabitants were asleep. Some were on guard duty scattered through the canyon, and some were on patrol or manning the lookout posts. One guard walked by the fire on his rounds and nodded once to the Solamnic commander. Sir Remmik noted the man’s signal horn, his bow strung and hanging ready from his back, and his sword loose in his sheath. He nodded back in approval.

He was reaching for the pot of kefre, a powerful concoction favored by the Khurs, when a small sound reached him. He jerked his head up and stared in the direction of the guard. The young man had just reached the edge of the firelight and could barely be seen against the intense darkness of the canyon. A second person appeared to be with him, although they were so close together it was hard to tell. Then Sir Remmik abruptly straightened, the hot pot still in his hand. The young guard made an odd gurgling sound and slumped to the ground. The second person stood over him, dark and indistinct, a long slim knife in his hand.

Sir Remmik fumbled for his sword and realized with a start of horror that he had come out of the cave without his weapons. He stared in disbelief as the dark figure leaped toward him. For a moment everything seemed to move slowly while his mind absorbed the shock of what had just happened. A heartbeat later his Solamnic training jolted him out of his astonishment, and he hurled the pot of hot kefre at the figure and bolted for the cave. He forced out one shout of warning before a tremendous pain slammed him on the back of his head and sent him crashing to the ground. In that instant of woozy consciousness, he felt himself waiting on the edge of eternity. In a blink, he knew the warrior with the knife would be on his back, the blade would be at his throat, and then his blood would spill on the ground and he would die. He was so sure of it that he could only stare at the earth inches away from his eyes. He felt the weight of a man press a knee into his back.