“Nevertheless, if you wish to remain in Cornwall, you are to surrender your weapons.”

Brit conferred hastily with Accolon and the most experienced of his men. None of them was happy with Mark’s demand, but Brit had a job to do, so there seemed little choice. Unhappily, they all surrendered their swords. The guards made a quick search of their things; happily, they didn’t recognize the acid globes as dangerous. Then, late in the afternoon, led by a detachment of Mark’s men, they headed to the castle.

Mark was waiting for them in the courtyard when they arrived. He was wearing animal skins; he might have been one of the barbarians who sacked Rome. And he was half-drunk; he held a huge flagon of mead or wine or some other intoxicant. He wasn’t wearing a sword, which Nimue took as a positive sign. “Maybe swords are banned here completely. ”

“Don’t be naïve.”

Mark greeted them heartily and claimed he was especially happy to see his second-in-command. “And how is our beloved king?”

“He is fine, Mark, and he sends his regards. And a request. I’m afraid our visit is official; we have military matters to discuss.”

“Tonight, after dinner.” He let out a loud laugh, quite uncharacteristic of him; Brit assumed it was from whatever he was drinking. Then he ordered some servants to take them to their rooms and make them comfortable. “Supper is at seven. You’ll hear the gong summoning everyone. I like big parties.”

“No wonder Arthur likes you.”

“Just ask anyone for directions to the dining hall. I’ll see you then.”

Brit’s and Nimue’s rooms were in different wings of the castle. After getting settled in, Nimue found her way to Brit’s suite. No one she met along the way would talk to her in any but the most perfunctory way. “I’m nervous, Brit. The atmosphere here is so… so…”

“Yes, it is.”

“Did you notice that soldier with the disfigured face? I think the scars are from acid. He was one of the ones who attacked you and Merlin.”

“No, I hadn’t noticed. I’m impressed. You may actually be as smart as Merlin always says you are.”

She ignored this. “Let’s find out what we need to and get out of here as soon as we can.”

“It may take time.”

A man appeared at the door and stepped in without knocking. He was short and squat, like Mark, with bright grey hair and an enormous mustache. “How are the roads to Camelot?”

“Who the devil are you?” Brit didn’t try to hide her suspiciousness.

“I am Giovanni Pastorini, King Mark’s metalsmith.”

“The one who made the shrine for the Stone of Bran?” Nimue was impressed.

“Yes, exactly. King Mark has offered my services to Arthur to fashion a sword to replace the one that was stolen from him.”

“I see.” Brit put on a politician’s smile. She was thinking she might get useful information out of him. “Well, the roads are fine, Giovanni. I may call you that, mayn’t I? Unless the weather takes a bad turn, you should travel well. When do you leave? If we finish our business with Mark quickly, perhaps you might travel with us.”

“I am leaving first thing tomorrow morning, I’m afraid.”

“Ah. Well, we’ll see you at dinner, then. We found some good inns on our way here. You’ll want to know about them.”

“I couldn’t be more appreciative. Till dinner, then.” And he left as quickly as he’d come.

Brit and Nimue looked at each other. Brit said, “It doesn’t make sense to me that Mark has imported an Italian metalsmith.”

“I remember Merlin saying the same thing.”

Brit shrugged. “Well, it’s his court. He can keep whatever retainers he wants, I suppose. And kings can be eccentric. There’s a king over in France who keeps his own royal fish breeder.”

“The more I see of royalty, the more Morgan’s court seems typical to me.”

“Let’s not get carried away. There’s a big difference between importing a metalworker and keeping a chest of poisons. ”

Mark, rather mysteriously, did not appear for supper that evening. Both Brit and Nimue noticed that Pastorini was absent, too. They made subtle inquiries, prying, probing, trying to find out something that might tell them what they needed to know. But everyone at Mark’s court claimed-or feigned-ignorance.

Finally, Brit cornered the majordomo and asked whether she’d be able to meet with Mark the next morning. “On King Arthur’s business,” she added pointedly.

The majordomo promised her he’d make certain there was room in Mark’s schedule for her and headed off to get some wine.

Mark’s court was much like Arthur’s. Knights drank too much; servant girls flirted with them. It was boisterous and colorful; Nimue said it came as a relief after Guenevere’s and Morgan’s courts. “It’s alive.”

“Yes, but with what? Have you noticed the way they all call Arthur simply ‘Arthur’ but refer to Mark as ‘King Mark’?”

“Yes, I had. I found it odd. But Mark is the king here.”

“It’s one more thing to take into account.”

Their night was empty. No one at the castle seemed to feel inclined to entertain these emissaries from the court at Camelot. Brit, uncharacteristically, got drunk. Nimue tried, without much success, to hide her disapproval.

“Don’t scold me, Colin. This is the best wine I’ve had in years.”

“Was I scolding?”

“You were, with your eyes.”

“We’re here on important business. And we may be in danger. I think we should be in our right senses.”

“Drunk or sober I’m the equal of any man in Cornwall.”

“Of course you are. But-”

“Go out and take a walk if you don’t want to drink with me.”

Nimue glared at her but decided a walk sounded like a good idea. “I’ll see you later. Be careful.”

“Be careful,” Brit drunkenly mimicked her.

The air was cold and crisp outside. The quarter moon was brilliant in a clear western sky, and there seemed to be a million stars. The Atlantic was calm; gentle waves fell on the coastline. Nimue ambled about the perimeter of the castle, enjoying the evening. Soldiers on sentry duty made their rounds; she tried making conversation, but they ignored her.

Then she saw a cloaked figure leave the castle by a rear entrance and scuttle off into the night. Intrigued, she followed. He headed quickly down the road to the nearest mine head, the one with the barricades where their party had been stopped. She followed, working to keep up.

When the cloaked man reached the sentry post he identified himself: he was Pastorini. He exchanged words with the guard on duty. They were not near enough for her to make out much of what they were saying. But she heard one word clearly, and it struck her in a way that made it seem to ring through the night: silver.

Brit went to sleep early. First thing the next morning, Nimue told her what she had heard.

“It’s quite possible.” Brit yawned and stretched. “Cornwall is made up of granite mostly. Granite frequently has deposits of various metals. The first one they discovered here was copper. But it wasn’t worth much; there’s copper all over Europe. It was when they went down deeper that they found the tin, which is more precious than they ever imagined. There are zinc, lead and iron, too, though not much of them. And maybe silver as well.” She wrinkled her nose. “Probably not a lot of that either, but…”

“So we have a motive for Mark-silver mines.”

“Tin would be sufficient motive. But I’m still not convinced he’s the one we’re after. I only wish we knew why he’d been visiting Morgan and Guenevere.”

“Let’s go see if we can find out. It’s time for breakfast.”

The dining hall at Mark’s castle was smaller than the one at Camelot. Tables were crowded together; servants bumped into one another a lot and spilled things. Brit and Nimue had seats near Mark’s, who came staggering into the hall just behind them.

“Morning, Mark.” Brit did not hide her disapproval. “You haven’t been drinking this early in the day, have you?”