In the meantime, he had gone to the stables to make sure Tug was well cared for. And, since the dog was beginning to fret in Wills confined and somewhat stuffy castle quarters, he had taken her to the stables to keep Tug company. Both animals seemed content with the arrangement when he left them together. Tug had adopted an amused, superior attitude to the dog, while she, in her turn, seemed to accept the shaggy little Ranger horse as a reasonable substitute for Will himself. The dog wouldn't stray, he knew, but there was plenty in the way of strange new scents and noises and odd corners to keep her occupied in the castle stables.

It was as well he left her there. As he was crossing the courtyard, a vaguely familiar figure left the gatehouse, striding toward the central keep. He was a tall man, with dark hair and beard, and from a distance Will couldn't make out his features. But the way he moved, the way he held himself, was familiar-as was the heavy war spear he carried in his right hand, hefting it easily in spite of its considerable weight. After a few seconds' hesitation, Will made the connection in his mind.

John Buttle. The man he had left with the Skandian crew in faraway Seacliff Fief.

"What the devil is he doing here?" Will muttered to himself. Hastily, he turned away and dropped to one knee, pretending to fasten a strap on his boot. But fortunately, Buttle wasn't looking in his direction. He entered the keep and Will straightened, his mind racing. By now, Buttle should have been safely ensconced on Skorghijl with the Skandian crew, hundreds of kilometers to the northeast and well out of the way. But his turning up here was a real problem. After all, he had heard the conversation between Will and Alyss and knew that…

He stopped in mid-thought. Alyss! If Buttle were to see her, he could easily recognize her. Of course, he reasoned, her hairstyle and clothes were more elaborate now, as befitted a titled lady. When Buttle had last seen her, she had been wearing the simple but elegant courier's robe and her long hair had been down. But Alyss was a striking figure and, given enough time, he might remember her. If he did, he would know she was not the empty-headed Lady Gwendolyn, but a Diplomatic Service Courier.

Whether he might recognize Will was a moot point. He wouldn't look to see him in the bright, garish clothes of a jongleur. He knew Will was a Ranger and he would expect to see him in dull-colored, plain Ranger garb. As Halt had taught him, people tend to look for what they expect to see. Besides, the light had been uncertain in the shadows by the door where they had fought. But once he recognized Alyss, it would be only a matter of time before he made the connection to the other stranger in the castle.

Will's first step was clear then. He had to warn Alyss immediately. She would simply have to keep out of sight until they had sorted out this awkward new development. He started toward the keep door, then hesitated. Buttle had gone through there and Will had no idea where he might be now. He might be just inside, in the main hall. Or he might even be coming back out again. Will looked around for an alternative entrance to the keep. The kitchens, he knew, opened out into the rear of the courtyard. He'd go that way.

Before he could move, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. He turned and found himself looking into the stern face of the sergeant major. Two other members of the garrison stood close by, their hands on their weapons. There was no sign of the previous evening's friendliness. The three men were all business.

"Just a moment, jongleur," the sergeant major said. "Lord Orman wants a word with you."

Will sized up the situation. The sergeant major was old and slow-moving, albeit an experienced warrior. And the other two were merely men-at-arms-their weapon skills weren't likely to be too advanced. He was confident he could deal with at least two of them before they could draw their weapons. But that would still leave one to sound the alarm-and the gatehouse and drawbridge were thirty meters away and manned by another three or four armed men. He'd never get out of the castle if he tried to fight now. The only thing he could do was try to bluff it out. He made this assessment in approximately half a second.

"Very well, sar'major," he replied, smiling. "I'll drop in on him when I've finished my errand."

The hand didn't budge from his shoulder.

"Now," the sergeant major said firmly, and Will shrugged.

"Of course, now is convenient for me as well," he said. "Lead the way." He gestured for the soldier to go ahead of him but the older man stood firm. His eyes were unamused.

"After you, jongleur," he said.

Will gave what he hoped was an unconcerned shrug and led the way across the courtyard. The three soldiers fell into place around him-the sergeant major behind him and the other two flanking him. Their heavy boots rang on the cobbles as they approached the door.

Will breathed a silent prayer that they wouldn't encounter Buttle on his way out. A man being so obviously escorted would be bound to draw attention and if Buttle looked closely, he might well recognize him, jongleur's clothes or no.

Fortunately, there was no sign of his former prisoner as they entered. The sergeant major prodded him with a hard, blunt object-Will realized that he had drawn the heavy mace he wore at his belt-and they headed for the stairs to Orman's rooms.

As was the fashion, the stairs curved around to the right, so that an attacker fighting his way upward would have to expose his entire body to use his sword while a defender above him could strike with only his right arm and side exposed. He could hear the sergeant major beginning to breathe heavily behind him as they went upward and the two flanking men had to fall behind on the narrow stairway. He could easily sprint away from them here, he realized. But the question remained, where could he go? Once again, he decided to bide his time for a better opportunity. Once he tried to escape, he knew, any chance of pretending innocence was gone. He decided to wait until his chances of success were better. Here, in the heart of Orman's castle, with armed men behind him and nowhere to go but upward, those chances didn't look too bright.

They reached Orman's fourth-floor suite of rooms. Will hesitated at the door to the anteroom but the mace prodded him once more.

"Go on in," the sergeant major's grim voice ordered and, with no choice but to obey, Will did as he was told.

Xander was at his table in the anteroom. He looked up as they entered without knocking. If he was surprised to see the minstrel being escorted by three armed men, he gave no sign of it. He held up a hand, motioning them to stop, then slipped out from behind his paper-laden table and opened the door to the inner office. Will heard his quiet voice.

"The men have brought Barton, my lord," he said. There was an indistinct mumble from inside the room and he bowed his head quickly and emerged, motioning for the sergeant major and Will to enter as he opened the door wider.

The mace prodded Will in the back again. That little habit was starting to annoy him and he was tempted to take the weapon from the sergeant major and do a little prodding of his own. Truth be told, he was curious to know what Orman wanted from him, and as long as he didn't summon more guards, Will was confident he could escape any time he chose.

Orman was behind his own work table. Will noticed that the books on magic were still among his papers, one of them lying open at a page marked with a leather bookmark. Orman was wearing his usual dark robe and he seemed to be hunched over in the large wooden armchair. He moved awkwardly as he waved Xander out, almost as if he was in pain. His voice, when he spoke, confirmed the impression. He seemed to form his words with difficulty and his breathing was heavy and labored.