Apparently he realized instantly what he smelled. Lurching toward the open patio doors, he cast the lamp outside, where it shattered on the flagstones, the oil forming a thin puddle on the ground, flames spreading quickly over it. Then he crumpled on the floor. The other investigator staggered outside. There the fresh evening breeze dissipated the fumes, but even so, he too collapsed.

The Sisterhood's embassy was enclosed by a wall. It was not militarily effectual, of course, but it kept out thieves and vandals. And with occasional attention by the resident magician and her assistant, it discouraged would-be assassins. For if Quaie the Elder was long dead, and his Expansion Party badly shrunken, there were still fanatics dedicated to his memory and his hatreds.

Rillor had paused at the embassy just long enough to change back into the civilian clothes in which he'd traveled, and to get a loaf of bread and block of cheese from the pantry. He departed on horseback, then left the horse at a livery stable on River Street, saying he'd pick it up the next day. When he didn't, they'd wait a few days, then claim it for nonpayment. Next, pack-roll on his back and saddle on his shoulder, he walked a block to a boat rental.

By that time it was not much short of night. Occasional dedicated sport fishermen were still rowing in, returning their boats and picking up their deposits. Using a false name, Rillor rented a trolling rig, a landing net, and a boat with skeg, spar, and sail. He planned, he said, to row downstream, trolling, and spend the rest of the night at his cousin's in Riverton. He'd spend a day sailing on Mirror Lake, then hire a tow back up the river behind a freight barge. It was a common procedure. He left his saddle and a gold imperial for security.

Before he left, he stepped his spar, then rowed out into the river and unfurled the small sail. The current and the northwest breeze would take him to the Imperial Sea by next afternoon. Supper at the latest. He could stop at some riverside inn for a meal. Then he'd cross the so-called sea by skirting the wild marshy west shore, camping in his boat in the mouth of inflowing creeks. If weather developed, he could shelter in one of them. With favorable winds, the crossing wouldn't take more than a day and a half. Two or three if he had to row; five at worst.

With luck, he assured himself, it would be a pleasant excursion, at worst a survivable ordeal.

A Murmur Of Trumpets,

A Mutter Of Drums

Looking aft, the old man spoke more to himself than to his grandson. "What the devil is he doing?"

Within his field of vision, more than a score of ships lay to seaward, ships unlike any he'd seen before, tall, with square sails. A light, schooner-rigged vessel had separated from them and was closing astern, bearing down on him. In an effort to get out of the way, he steered too closely into the wind, and his small sail luffed, flapping.

His thirteen-year-old grandson sat numb, hands motionless on the sheet. The schooner veered past, missing them by perhaps two fathoms. At the foredeck rail, a man had a crossbow pointed at them. The boy heard a snap, then a "thuk." His grandfather grunted, pitched forward across a coiled trawl line, and lay unmoving.

The schooner sent a work boat to pick the boy up. Leaning, one of its men took an ax to the fishing boat, and it settled to the gunnels.

The boy was taken to one of the large ships, where he was questioned by the tallest, most frightening man he'd ever seen. The giant's accented Yuultal and his own Scrub Lands dialect were not entirely compatible, but the lad did his best. When his interrogator had the information he wanted, the boy was sent to join his grandfather.

Occurrence off the Scrub Coast

19 Follow-up

The small household staff huddled waiting on the front lawn. The breeze thinned the aroma of rosebushes, replacing it in the esthetics mix with the rustle of leaves. Staff wasn't paying much attention. Their normally stable lives had been severely shaken, first by the convulsions and death of Zednis, the kitchen girl, then by the murder of a policeman, and finally by being ordered from their quarters into the night. They talked quietly, casting occasional glances at the two large young men in foreign uniforms. According to Jahns, these were their lady's sons by Marshal Macurdy, but they'd arrived with the man who was said to be the poisoner.

The twins stood somewhat apart, stoic in the face of the evening's events. They'd concluded on their own that the murderer was Rillor. They'd known him far better than the others had, and had paid more attention to him. He hadn't been himself since they'd arrived at this house.

While they waited, men came with an ambulance, and getting out of it, disappeared through the garden gate. Minutes later, two of them reappeared with a litter. The sheet had been folded back, and a face could be seen. On the second and third trips, the faces were covered. When the last litter had been secured, the driver climbed onto the seat and spoke to the horses. With a clop of hooves on brick pavement, the ambulance left.

Soon afterward, Talrie came out the front entrance and told staff the house was safe again. It had been opened to the breeze-first the doors, and after an interval the windows, downstairs and up. He, with his lordship himself, had emptied all the lamps on the first floor, refilling them with fresh oil. The hall lamps had been relit, and staff should return to their rooms.

They filed along the walk that took them to the rear of the house, to the servants' entrance. Then Talrie walked over to the twins. "If you will follow me," he said, "I'll take you to Lord Cyncaidh. The Chief Inspector of His Majesty's Police is expected momentarily, and he will want to question you and his lordship about Captain Rillor."

They didn't have long to wait, and the inspector's questioning was brief. Then the twins went to their room. They were getting ready for bed when someone knocked at their door.

"Who is it?" asked Ohns.

"It's Macurdy. Your father. Are you still dressed?"

"Partly."

"Get dressed enough to come with me to the garden. Someone else has questions for you."

It was Vulkan who awaited them. ‹So you are Macurdy's sons,› he said. ‹You resemble him. My questions are about Captain Rillor. It is quite apparent that he is responsible for the deaths here tonight. That he intended the deaths of your parents, and everyone else in the room where the lamp was poisoned.› He paused, examining their conscious minds, and the surface zone of the subconscious. ‹Did he say anything, give any clue, as to where he might go?›

When they came up with nothing, Vulkan asked a few more questions, garnering no specific information, nor sign of anything withheld. But he did gain a certain psychic sense of Rillor. He also knew the scent of Rillor's horse, and by eliminating other known scents, that of Rillor himself. That might well suffice.

After thanking the twins, he dismissed them. They went back to their room, and minutes later were in bed.

But not asleep. There was too much to talk about. They agreed their mother was even more beautiful than her clone sisters. And although they did not perceive auras in much detail, it was clear that few Sisters were as talented psychically. They wished she'd return to the Cloister, but there seemed no chance of it.

Their father had awed them. He too was psychically talented, and to have so awesome a companion as Vulkan… Also they'd felt his surge of anger at Rillor, even if they hadn't understood it. Such power! And at the same time control. Ohns said their father should be king somewhere, or even emperor, and Dohns agreed unreservedly.