The Fox started to scowl, started to curl his hands into fists, but gave up and threw them in the air while he broke out laughing. "You, sirrah, are incorrigible," he declared.

"I certainly do hope so," Rihwin answered blithely. "Now that we've settled how I'm to comport myself on this embassy, with how large a retinue am I to be entrusted?"

"Four chariots and teams feels about right to me," Gerin said. "Any more and you'd look like an invasion; any fewer and you're liable not to get through. What say you to that, my fellow Fox?"

"It strikes me as about the right number," Rihwin said. "If you'd said I was to go alone, I wouldn't have gone. Had you put me in charge of a dozen chariots rather than a dozen men, I'd have assumed you'd gone daft—more daft than usual, I should say."

"For this ringing endorsement of my faculties, I thank you," Gerin said. "Now go ready yourself. I want you to leave before sunset. The matter grows too urgent to admit of much more delay."

"If you and Aragis together can't control what happens in the northlands, who can?" Rihwin asked.

"Adiatunnus, perhaps," Gerin said. Rihwin looked startled, then made a sour face, and finally nodded. He began a prostration such as he might have offered to the Emperor of Elabon. Had he actually got down on his belly, Gerin would have kicked him in the ribs without hesitation. But he stopped with the obeisance half made and went off to get ready to travel.

Gerin felt better now that he'd made his decision. He was doing something, not waiting on Adiatunnus and the monsters to do something to him. That desire to see something, no matter what, happen had brought others down. He knew as much. But waiting to be ruined did not sit well with him, either.

He walked back into the keep from the courtyard. He didn't know how badly his raid had hurt Adiatunnus, but at the least it must have made the Trokmê thoughtful, for the Fox had had no reports of woodsrunners on his side of the border since. Not many monsters had gone after his peasants, either. To him, that made the raid something worth doing, too.

Van and Fand were sitting in the great hall, jacks of ale in front of them. Van gnawed on a mutton shank left over from the night before. When Gerin came in, Fand pushed herself closer on the bench to the outlander, as if to say the Fox couldn't take her away from him. But Gerin was mostly relieved not to have to look forward to their next tiff. If Van wanted to stay with her, he wouldn't stand in his friend's way.

He dipped up a jack of ale for himself and sat down across from the close-knit couple. After a pull at the jack, he told Van what he'd done.

The outlander considered it, nodded gravely. "If your pride won't keep you from working in harness with Aragis, it's probably the best move you could make."

"If it's between pride and survival, I know which to choose," Gerin said.

Fand sniffed. "Where's the spirit in that? A serf would say as much."

Gerin started to bristle, then reminded himself he didn't have to let her outrage him. "Have it however you'd like," he said. "I can only answer for myself." He drained the jack, set it down on the table in front of him, and got to his feet. "A very good morning to you both. Now, by your leave, I have other things to attend to."

As he headed for the stairway, he felt Fand's eyes on his back. She didn't say anything, though; maybe she was also reminding herself that they didn't have to quarrel. On the other hand, he thought, maybe she was just speechless that he hadn't risen to her bait.

Upstairs, he hurried down the hall toward the library. He'd been doing that ever since he came back from south of the High Kirs; when he was with his books, he could remember the scholar he'd wanted to become and forget the baron the gods had decided he would be. Had his footsteps grown quicker yet since he started teaching Selatre her letters? Well, what if they have? he asked himself.

She was waiting for him when he got there. She was not the sort to sit idle; she had a spindle and some wool, and was busy making thread. She smiled and put down the spindle when he came through the door. "Now for something my wits can work on, not my hands," she said, sounding as if she looked forward to the switch.

"More on the nature of the gods," Gerin said, pulling a scroll from the pigeonhole where it rested.

"Ah, good," she said briskly. "My own life was so bound up with Biton that I know less of the rest of the gods than I should, especially seeing how my circumstances have changed." She no longer sounded bitter, only matter-of-fact.

The Fox slipped the velvet cover from the scroll, worked the handles until he reached the section he and Selatre were going to read. "Ah, today we come to the god—" His voice changed. "Here, read it for yourself."

"Mavrix," Selatre said, sounding out the name. She'd caught Gerin's sudden shift of tone. "Why does the Sithonian god of wine—what's the word I want?—disturb you?"

"Raise my hackles, you mean?" Gerin shivered. "We've had dealings, Mavrix and I. I'd guess the god's not happy with them, and I know I'm not. If it weren't for Mavrix, Rihwin would still be a mage. If it weren't— But never mind all that now; I can tell it another time. Just read me what our deathless author set down on parchment." Irony filled his voice. The scroll was a thoroughly humdrum compilation of the deities worshiped by the various peoples of the Elabonian Empire. He would gladly have replaced it with a more interesting volume on the same theme, had he been lucky enough to stumble across one.

Selatre was not yet at the point where she could appreciate fine points of style. She fought her way through words and sentences, seizing meaning as best she could. " 'Mavrix, the god of wine native to Sithonia,' " she read, " 'is also widely reverenced in Elabon. His votaries are even found north of the High Kirs, although all wine in that distant province is of necessity imported.' "

"The scroll says it, but I never knew of Mavrix's cult up here," Gerin said. "Still and all, when Rihwin invoked him in a minor magic, he appeared—not to do Rihwin's bidding, but to punish him for associating with me."

"And why did the god see fit to do that?" Selatre asked. Before the Fox could answer, she held up a hand. "Tell me another time, as you said. I resume: 'The cult of Mavrix is held in chief repute by those who have little happiness in their lives. In the release they take from wine and from the orgiastic nature of his worship, they find the pleasure otherwise lacking to them.' Does orgiastic mean what I think it does?"

"Every sort of excess?" Gerin asked. Selatre nodded. Gerin said, "That's what it means, all right. Go on; you're doing very well."

"Thank you." Selatre started reading again: " 'The Emperors of Elabon sometimes persecuted those who took part in Mavrix's rites when Sithonia was a newly acquired province. Like much else Sithonian, however, the god's cult has become an accepted part of Elabonian life in recent years, and the cry "Evoii!" is often heard all through the Empire.' "

"I've heard it," Gerin said. "If I never hear it again, I'll be just as glad. Mavrix is a powerful god, but not one whom I care to worship. I like order too well to be easy with the lawlessness the lord of the sweet grape fosters."

Selatre clicked her tongue between her teeth. "The lord Biton is also a patron of order and reason, so I understand what you are saying, and yet—may I read on?"

"Seems you already have, if you know what comes next in the scroll," Gerin said. "You read that with just your eyes alone, didn't you? Not many can do that so soon; quite a few have to say the words to themselves no matter how long they've been reading."

"You don't," Selatre said. "I tried to imitate you."

After a few seconds, he said, "I can't think of the last time anyone paid me a compliment like that. Thank you." He let out a wry chuckle. "Not that you're likely to find the way most folks go by looking to me for a guide."