Greffys narrowed his eyes. “And Arthur realized all this? Or was it you?”

“I had traveled widely, yes. I think perhaps I was the one who opened Arthur’s eyes to the possibilities.”

“You are the real power behind the throne.”

“Nonsense. Arthur had the military genius to make unity happen. I’m hopeless at such things.”

“Even so. You make policy for the nation.”

“Balderdash. But Arthur had a long struggle ahead of him. Warlords being warlords, they fought him. Sometimes viciously. Mark was one of the most savage. Do you know his history?”

“No, sir.”

“His father, King Felix of Cornwall, died under mysteriouscircumstances. His heir was Mark’s elder brother, Bouduin. Mark killed him and took the throne.”

“That is terrible, sir. How could Arthur ever trust a man like that?”

“That is politics. At any rate, that is politics as it has always been practiced. Mark entered into a treaty with an Irish warlord and married the man’s daughter, Isolde, to seal it. But Isolde, who was much younger, fell in love with Mark’s nephew, Prince Tristram. The two of them died, again under mysterious circumstances. So you see, Greffys, Mark’s history is bloody enough to make him a good suspect for us.” He paused, suddenly concerned. “Uh, you do understand that I’m telling you this in confidence, don’t you? None of this is to be spread around.”

“Yes, sir. But…”

“But what?”

“Well… what kind of a place have you sent Colin and Britomart into?”

The weather was as sunny as could be expected in an English winter, and warm-it might almost have been early spring, not December. Inns had delicious, ample food at reasonable prices; the wine they served was full-bodied and sweet. There was every sign they were approaching a prosperous region.

The landscape was mostly granite hills interrupted by farmland. There seemed an outsize number of crippled men on the roads-men missing limbs or walking on crutches.

Whole fields were covered with wooden trellises; Nimue had never seen anything like them and asked Brit what they were. There had not been much talk between them. But Nimue was determined to learn everything she could, even if it meant questioning someone she didn’t much like.

“They’re for grapevines. Mark’s people have figured out how to cultivate them. It’s the first time anyone’s done it in England. I assume the wine we had at that last inn was made here.”

“They always say vines can’t grow in England.”

“Look at the soil. It’s black and rich, like the soil at Mount Vesuvius in Italy.”

Nimue was puzzled. “There are no volcanoes here.”

“Brilliant observation.”

Then odd buildings began to appear here and there across the landscape. Again she asked Brit. “They’re so tall and thin. What can they be for?”

“They house the equipment for the mines. Enormous air pumps powered by bellows, and huge wheels wound with cable to lower the miners down to the lower depths.”

“It sounds dangerous.”

“It is. There are accidents all the time. You’ve seen all the cripples on the road. Arthur pays the widows a bounty.”

“Big of him.”

“Cornwall is the most prosperous place in England, and the mines are what makes it so. Bronze can’t be made without tin, and Cornwall produces the only tin in Europe. Arthur might well be bankrupt without it.”

“I see.”

Then in the distance, at the head of the Cornish peninsula, loomed Mark’s castle. It was not especially large by the standards of castle architecture, and Mark had had the exterior whitewashed and the towers painted bright red and blue, very un-castle-like; it gleamed, even in the weak winter sunshine.

As the party approached it they came to another of the mine-head buildings at the side of the road. Nimue heard machinery creaking inside, and there was a smell of chemicals in the air. Men, covered in dirt, came and went. And there was a guard post, and a barrier blocking the road.

Amid some noise and confusion-roads in Arthur’s England were not barricaded and travel was supposed to be free-the travelers came to a halt and Accolon exchanged words with one of the guards. Brit put her head out one of the windows and watched to try to make out what they were saying. There were at least a dozen guards on duty, more than seemed necessary or even reasonable. “Military men,” she muttered to Nimue. “Security becomes an obsession.”

Just as Nimue looked out, too, Accolon rode his horse up beside the carriage. “I’m afraid there’s a problem.”

“What problem could there be?”

“The say they didn’t know we were coming.”

“Even if that is true, what does it have to do with anything? This is a free nation; citizens are allowed to travel about unhampered by this kind of thing.”

She stepped out of the carriage and strode ahead to the checkpoint. “I am Britomart, King Arthur’s military advisor. ”

The guard in charge was a young blond man. He looked nervous. “Yes, ma’am, I recognize you from Camelot. Do you have orders from the king?”

“We do.”

“May I see them?”

For a instant it occurred to her that the man almost certainly could not read, and she could have shown him anything. But why risk it? “Our orders are not in writing. But we are here on official business. The king wishes me to go over plans for spring maneuvers with Mark.”

“ ‘We’?”

“Myself, my assistant Colin and our escort.”

He looked doubtful. “No one is permitted to cross into Cornwall without some legitimate reason, properly documented. I’ll have to send to King Mark. Please wait.” He conferred with one of his men, who mounted a horse and headed off toward the castle.

Brit scowled as pointedly as she could manage to show how unhappy she was then went back to the carriage, explained to Nimue what was happening and settled in to wait. “Listen, Colin. I don’t like the look of this. Blocked roads, a lot of guards where a few would suffice… It makes me suspect Merlin may be right about Mark. At the very least, this makes it more certain than ever that he’s up to something he shouldn’t be. We’re both going to have to be alert.”

“Merlin gave me some of his acid globes before I left.”

“Fine. But that isn’t what I mean. Keep your eyes and ears open. We must learn what’s going on here.”

“Merlin gave me some very specific instructions.”

“That’s good. We may have to rely on one another.”

“And our guards?” She was pleased that Brit seemed to be opening up to her but somewhat alarmed at the circumstances.

“I’m guessing Mark will put them up in barracks, with his men, while we’re quartered in the castle. Stay alert and cautious, Colin.”

“You too. Do you… do you think we can actually pull this off?”

“If we can pry Mark away from his wine and wenches, we can.”

“Don’t hope for that too hard. His women and his drink are what we’re counting on.”

“We’re crazy. This will be dangerous. If Mark even suspects…”

“Yes?”

“We could end up with our heads on poles.”

Nimue fingered the acid globes in her pocket and hoped everything would go smoothly.

More than two hours passed. Brit, Nimue and their soldiers were bored. Some of the soldiers played dice to pass the time. Nimue ambled about, talking to Mark’s men. None of them was friendly or communicative. But she noticed that one of them had a badly scarred face-scarred by acid.

Then the rider returned and conferred hastily with his commander, who then approached the carriage. “King Mark says you are welcome to join him at his castle. But he requests that you leave your weapons here.”

Brit registered shock. “I am one of the king’s ministers. Surely Mark isn’t suggesting I abandon all security.”

“King Mark-” he said the word king with special emphasis-“guarantees your safety while you are in his domain.”

“Excuse me for saying so, but that isn’t the issue.”