They reached the camp of Duke Cyron's Lords just before dark. Blade was beginning to wonder if they would be having dinner on what was left of the sausage, then saw the campfires ahead. A moment later he heard a sentry hail them.

«Who goes there?» The almost universal words, which Blade had heard in more lands and Dimensions than he could remember.

«Lord Gennar, the only survivor of Lord Fingo's party. I have with me the Lord Blade, an outlander under oath of secrecy.»

This announcement caused a considerable uproar. The sentry ran back into the camp, bawling the news at the top of his lungs. From the camp dozens of men came rushing, some tripping over trailing bootlaces and nearly falling into the campfires. Many were Lords, some were Helpers, and some wore so little it was impossible to guess their rank. Blade also saw half-naked women peering out from the door of a large tent. The uproar and the smell of garbage and open latrines told him that Duke Cyron's army had the usual loose discipline of medieval warriors. In battle they might be hardly more than an armed mob, even if most of the individual Lords in the mob were good fighters.

Eventually a squarely built Lord of medium height pushed his way through the crowd and shouted for silence. Gennar whispered to Blade, «That is Lord Alsin, Marshal to Duke Cyron.»

Alsin drove the spectators back with bellowed oaths, but Blade was still aware of curious eyes on him while Alsin and Gennar talked. For the first time since arriving in this Dimension, he wished he had more clothes on. He'd been so glad not to be stark naked that he'd almost forgotten that his present outfit might also look odd.

When Alsin and Gennar were finished, the Marshal turned to Blade and had him tell his version of the day's events. At last Alsin shook his head grimly. «This treachery you both describe means trouble for the duchy, of a kind we have long expected but hoped would not come so soon.»

«I am sure I can fight the-«began Gennar.

The Marshal interrupted him. «I am sure you will fight no one for several weeks, and if you will not swear this I will have you tied to your bed!» He lowered his voice, apparently trying to avoid Blade's hearing him. Blade's sharp ears made this futile. He heard the Marshal add, «I ask nothing against your honor, only that you think of more important battles to come.» Then Alsin turned to Blade.

«Lord-Blade. You have made a friend of a man more truthful than most, in saving Gennar from-the dangers he faced. I think you also have another Lord in this camp who will speak for you to the Duke. You must be the man who fought Lord Ebass after he'd been wounded.»

«The Lord whose opponent was slain by a Feathered One?»

«Yes!»

«I am that man,» said Blade. «I would not have fought Lord Ebass at all, but he seemed to be leaving me no choice.»

«That is so, and he admits it. He also admits that after learning what you must have done afterward, he owes you an honorable forfeit.»

«Doubtless we can speak of this when he is healed,» said Blade. «He will heal, I hope?»

«Some teeth are gone forever, and he will be muddleheaded for a few days. But otherwise he will heal. Lord Ebass is harder than most to kill,» Alsin added wryly. «Now, as for you-I hope I am not speaking too much against your honor when I ask you to give your word that you will not seek to escape. Then you may ride with us as a free Lord to meet the Duke at Castle Ranit. Otherwise… «Alsin's voice trailed off, as if the alternative was too shameful to mention unless Blade forced him to do so.

«I will ride with you, and lift a weapon against no man among you,» said Blade. «By the Fathers I swear it. I will even ride with only this knife, if you will swear that no man will be allowed to raise sword against me.»

«Most surely I swear it,» said Alsin.

«And I will guard-«began Gennar, before a glare from the Marshal silenced him.

«You will guard your tongue before anything else,» said Alsin sharply. «I am quite serious about binding you to your bed, if you go on showing no more wit than a boy.»

Gennar looked sulky, until Blade gripped him by both shoulders. «Come, my friend. I have put a good deal of work into bringing you home. Don't waste it by not taking proper care of yourself.»

There was enough light from the campfires for Blade to see Gennar blushing. «I am sorry,» he said. «My tongue is quick, even when my sword cannot be.»

Alsin rolled his eyes up to the stars. «To think I've heard him admit it!» He laughed. «All right, Gennar. To the doctors with you. Blade, come with me. Some clothes first, then a meal.» Blade followed the Marshal through the crowd, realizing suddenly how good the idea of food sounded.

On the whole, he could be satisfied with his position. Without giving up his masquerade as a Lord, he'd managed to place himself under Alsin's protection. That could give him at least a few days' security against whatever plots might be brewing in the Duchy of Nainan, while he used his own eyes and ears to learn his way around.

Like the Lords themselves, Castle Ranit would have looked at home anywhere in fourteenth-century western Europe. When Blade saw it two days later, silhouetted against the dawn on its hilltop, he again had the feeling he might have traveled in time as well as in Dimensions.

A dry moat protected the castle on three sides. On the fourth side the hill plunged a hundred feet straight down to a meandering tributary of the Crimson River. The castle itself was a huge square, with towers set at intervals around the yellowish stone walls. In the middle a round keep towered at least a hundred and fifty feet, and Blade saw the roofs of outbuildings peeping over the walls all around it. From the flagstaff on the keep streamed Duke Cyron's banner, a clawed green hand on a silver field.

The Lords rode through the village at the foot of the hill at a brisk trot, while chickens, pigs, and small children scurried in all directions. Blade remembered the day before, when he'd seen the Lords gallop through a village and trample a little boy into the mud. He could only grit his teeth and ride on, not daring to help or even rein in. Along the Crimson River those who weren't Lords were expected to get out of the way of Lords. If they didn't, anything that happened to them was their own fault.

The drawbridge across the moat swung down and the riders clattered in through the dark, musty gate into the castle's courtyard. Blade reined in hastily to avoid a stray dog, then two grooms were holding his horse's head so he could dismount. As he did so, he noticed that most of the castle's outbuildings were wood, with thatched or shingled roofs. Even the stone hall with its slate roof had high windows and a wide, unbarred doorway. This castle wasn't expected to stand a full-scale siege. Otherwise the outbuildings would have been stouter, or at least more fireproof.

Alsin led Blade straight into the hall, while the other Lords were still dismounting. The hall was hung with tapestries, some of them explicitly erotic, and crowded with polished wooden furniture. At the far end of the hall stood a chair almost large enough to be called a throne, made of intricately carved stone inlaid with ivory and decorated with gold leaf. On it sat a white-bearded man, who had to be Duke Cyron.

Blade expected heralds to sound trumpets or at least announce names, but Alsin simply strode down the hall toward the Duke. Again Blade followed. If Marshal Alsin didn't know the proper etiquette, no one did. Blade also remembered the casual way the Lords treated each other on the march. Along the Crimson River every Lord was equal to every other Lord. If another Lord's behavior offended you, you either ignored it or challenged him to a duel.

When they reached the throne, Alsin went down on one knee. Blade went down on both knees, figuring that as a complete stranger on parole, he ranked as low as a Lord could. As the Duke exchanged greetings with his Marshal, Blade studied the older man.