"Mr. Cobb, you shouldn't be out in the cold, what with your bad joints and all."

The oldster waved a hand toward Beacontor. "Well, Mr. Darby, everyone's got to help in times like these. 'Sides, that willow bark tea laced with chamomile is just the thing for my achy joints and twitchy legs, and for that I thank you, and I'll drink some later. But for now I'm just doing my duty, directing folks of the muster where to gather."

"Why, the town square is where we're headed."

"Oh, no, Mr. Darby. It's down to the stables and out of the storm, what with this snow and all."

Beau glanced at Tip, then said, "We thank you, Mr. Cobb. But mind you, now, be certain to take that tea when you get home-a double dose."

The old man bobbed his head and stepped aside, and Tip and Beau trudged on. They hadn't gone for mor,e than a few steps when Tip turned about. "I say, Mr. Cobb, is the mayor at the stables as well?"

The oldster hitched 'round and waggled a finger. "No, no, Mr. Thistledown. Last I heard he was over to the Fox, holding a war council, I believe."

Tip raised a hand-"Thank you, Mr. Cobb"-then turned to Beau. "I want to see the mayor. It may be that he's gotten some information concerning the dead man, or perhaps Agron."

Beau nodded, and they set out for the Red Fox Inn, located on the northwest corner of the town square, diagonally across from and marginally larger than the Running Horse, the only other hostel in town.

Shortly they arrived and made their way past a pair of blowing horses tied to the hitching rail. As the buccen stepped to the porch and stomped the snow from their boots, "Hmph," said Beau, nodding toward the chuffing steeds, "looks like they've been atrot."

Tip started to reply, but in that moment there came a roar from within. He looked at Beau and raised an eyebrow, and Beau shook his head and turned up his hands. Cautiously, Tip opened the door, and a clamor of rage bellowed outward. Together the buccen entered in among a press of shouting men. Above the din they could hear the pounding of a hammer or some such upon wood, yet down among the legs and stamping feet, there was little they could see, and less yet that they could make out among the shouted epithets and cries of outrage. But slowly the uproar subsided, and as Tip and Beau wormed their way among the men and across the common room, they could hear someone calling for order.

Now the buccen reached the stairwell to the rooms above, and they clambered up to a place where they could see, men making way for them once they saw who they were.

Behind the bar Mayor Prell yet banged a bung mallet down upon the wood, and called over and again for order. Before him stood two men in riding gear, their cloaks yet laden with snow.

Beau turned to Tip. "Do you know either of them?"

"One is Willoby," hissed Tip. "A crofter from up near the Crossland. I mill his grain. The other, I think, is his eldest son, Harl."

As Beau nodded, a sudden quiet fell, and Prell, glaring about, finally laid the mallet aside. Then he turned to the crofter and his son. "How many?"

"Not counting the Rucks, five altogether," replied the older man.

Again a cry of outrage erupted, which was quelled quickly by Prell pounding the mallet upon the bar.

"Wot 'r' they doin' this far west?" shouted someone from the crowd.

Prell hammered against the bar once more and glared the man into silence, then turned to the crofters.

"It looked like a running battle to me, Mayor," said Willoby. "First we found the one man dead among the killed Rucks-"

Tip sucked in air and looked at Beau, that buccan's eyes, too, gone wide, but he said nothing as Willoby continued:

"… and a mile or two later another deader, and on down the Wilder they went, dead Rucks and such and men. Hacked. Their horses killed too.

"We broke off the search and cut for here when we came nigh, seeing as how we were riding to answer the muster. 'Sides, we were both thinking that this might mean something to Twoforks, these dead men."

"Especially with the fire on Beacontor," added Harl.

The mayor shook his head. "I don't think-"

"Oh," blurted Harl, " 'nother thing, the brands, couple o' them was ridin' King's horses."

A collective gasp and murmur rippled through the gathering, and again Tip and Beau glanced at one another, while Mayor Prell pounded for order.

"Do you suppose-?" began Tip, but the room fell to quietness as Prell asked Willoby, "Are you certain? King Blaine's brand?"

"It was the crown, all right," averred the crofter, "them horses that was layin' where we could see."

As if by intuition, Prell's eye found Tipperton and Beau sitting on the steps behind the banister. The mayor sighed and returned his gaze to Willoby and the youth. "Then there were at least six of these men: another one was killed by Spawn out by the mill."

This brought another grumble from the crowd, a voice or two rising above the others:

"Hoy, Mayor, wot would Kingsmen be doin' out this way?" called someone.

"Mayhap it's all tied up with this Beacontor business," declared another.

Speculation rumbled through the gathering, various voices calling out opinions and possibilities, and Mayor Prell, a pensive frown on his face, let it run on awhile. At last he pounded the bar again for quiet.

"Is there aught you would add?" he asked Willoby and 1 his son. They looked at one another and shrugged. "Well then, I suppose that's it for now."

Now Prell addressed the assembly entire. "Men, as to what's going on, for the moment it's all spookwater and vapors. When my boy Arth gets back with word from Beacontor, then perhaps we'll know what to do, where to go, and even what these Rucks and such are doing out here in the Wilderland. Till then there's nought we can do except stay vigilant. Now what I want you all to do is go down to the stables and get some rest, all but the ones assigned to guard duty. If aught happens, someone will ring the fire gong, and then we'll form up in our squads and meet whatever challenge or peril awaits. Any questions?"

"Hoy, Mayor, shouldn't your boy be back anow?"

Prell's face fell grim. "Aye, Redge, unless he was-"

"Oy, mayhap he ran into trouble," declared Redge, a beefy man. "Rucks or some such."

"Here, now," protested the small man next to Redge, sketching a warding sign in the air, "there's no cause to bring trouble down on the boy."

The mayor banged his makeshift gavel, then said, "Arth is a good lad. He can well take care of himself. I think perhaps the snow has held him up. He should be arriving any moment now."

Redge cast a skeptical eye but remained silent. Someone else, though, asked, "When he does come, you'll let us know what word he brings, right?"

Prell nodded. "Aye, that I will."

"And if no word comes from Beacontor, Mayor…?"

"Well, Redge, if no word comes, we march to the tor on the morrow."

Prell looked about to see if there was aught any wanted to add, but the men waited in silence. "Dismissed!" barked the mayor at last.

Muttering, the men began filing out from the Red Fox, speculation yet running high as to the fire on Beacontor, the slain Kingsmen, and the Spawn being this far west from their normal haunts. Beau got up to go, but Tip reached out a staying hand. "Not yet, Beau," he said. "I need to speak to the mayor." Beau cocked an eyebrow but said nothing as he sat back down.

At last the place emptied out, but for the buccen and Mayor Prell and three members of the elder council-two thin oldsters, Trake and Gaman, and robust Tessa, hefty owner of the Fox.

The council members moved toward one of the round tables as Tip and Beau came down from the stairs and crossed the common room. Prell placed a ribbon-bound scroll and four small stone weights on the board and seated himself, saying, "It's a grim business, these Kingsmen. We need to make certain that they're taken up and given a decent pyre." As the others nodded, the mayor espied the Warrows. "Ho, lads, you two had better go on down to the stable as well. If things are as serious as they seem, I'm thinking we'll be marching tomorrow to Beacontor."