The long slope down to the Tilion was in their favor and they made excellent progress, often leaving their horsebound captors/guards behind to chew on the Hippogriff’s dust.

At last they came to a paved roadway, and a city of tents and soldiers, not far from the river. At the horse soldiers’ direction, they halted the Hippogriff at the edge of the camp and got out of it.

“Leave your things here,” the captain directed.

Morlock and Deor ignored him and shouldered their packs along with their weapons.

“Your things will be safe here,” the captain said.

“Will your things be safe here?” Deor demanded. “Why don’t you unburden yourselves and your steeds?”

The horse soldiers eyed each other uneasily.

A tall, gray-bearded man strode up, gold sheaths on his arms and legs. “What’s this noise?” he demanded. “His Majesty the Great King is taking his evening nap!”

“We discovered Prince Uthar, the one that was lost, sir,” the captain said. “We claim the reward.”

The older man looked with bemusement at the Hippogriff and her crew. Then he recognized Kelat. “Prince Uthar! We had given up hope for you! The Regent will have many questions.”

“Ask a question of these men,” Kelat said flatly. “Ask why they were roving in the Lacklands. Ask why their saddlebags are stuffed with human flesh.”

“Eh?” the graybeard said. He turned to the horse soldiers. “Gentlemen, dismount.”

The gentlemen did not dismount, but unsheathed their long, curved swords.

Kelat seized the stabbing spear from the floorboards of the Hippogriff. Deor shrugged off his pack, grabbed his axe, and followed Kelat into the fight. From the corner of his eye he was unsurprised to see Morlock with Tyrfing in his right hand and a cool killing look in his ice-colored eyes as he charged the horsemen.

The horse soldiers were in a bad way. They could not back their horses up, for the paling was behind them. Turning right would take them into the tangle of tents and booths; to their left was the gate and the ditch. To ride forward they would have to trample Prince Uthar/Kelat and graybeard and probably earn a few demerits or something.

In the end, that was what they chose to do, but it was already too late. Morlock dragged one man out of the saddle and threw his sword through another, who fell screaming into the mud. Kelat was facing down a cluster of soldiers to Deor’s left. Ahead of him a horse reared and a horseman brandished a blade. Deor parried the blade with his axe and punched the horse in the chest with all his strength. It gave a kind of squeal and fell back onto the horse behind him.

“Khai tyrkhodhen!” he shouted exultantly. “Ath Thrymhaimen! Ath! Ath!” And he waded forward to strike again.

“Khuf!” shouted a voice that intended to be obeyed. “And all of you: put away your weapons.”

The nascent battle died instantly. “Now you’ve done it!” one of the soldiers muttered to the captain. “It’s the Regent!”

The Regent strode down the street of tents, her goldworked black cloak furling behind her, a gold coronet on her dark-red tangled hair, intelligence and anger mingling in her ice-colored eyes.

“My Lady Regent,” Graybeard said, “these soldiers brought Prince Uthar back, but—”

Ambrosia Viviana held up a long-fingered hand and Graybeard fell silent. “No blame to you, Lord Hulmar. I think I see the seeds of this discord.”

“Good evening, madam,” said Deor.

“Good evening to you, Deortheorn, and to your silent friend, there. Prince Uthar—”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Prince Uthar, you have long been missed. Your father was much concerned.”

“He doesn’t even know who I am! If he were passing by you’d have to point me out to him!”

“That’s true, but he is a completist and always hates to lose any member of a set. You will account for your absence, I hope. I am not surprised to see you in trouble, seeing the bad companions you fell among—”

“Lady Regent!” called out the captain. “We found Prince Uthar, and—”

“Shut up,” Ambrosia said. “Take that insignia off your shoulder. You are no longer a captain.”

“But we—”

“You interrupted me again. Dismount from your horse; you are no longer in the cavalry.”

The former captain tore the hawk insignia from his shoulder and stood silently beside his horse.

“What’s the fight about, Uthar Kelat?” she asked.

“These men are graverobbers at least. They are carrying human flesh in their saddlebags.”

“Salted, I think, madam,” Deor pointed out.

“Does that make it worse or better?” she asked him curiously.

“Worse, in my mind. They salted down fresh kills and stored them. That indicates long-term intent. But I don’t know your laws.”

“My laws agree with your opinions. Gentlemen, what of it? Is Prince Uthar a liar?”

They hung their heads without answering.

“I sentence you to death,” said Ambrosia conversationally. “The reward for discovering Prince Uthar will be paid to your families. Put down your weapons and go to the stockade.”

The soldiers looked at each other for a moment. Without another word, they dropped their weapons.

“Hulmar, have a few of the gate guards go with them. They might need to carry a few of them. Then see about a decent burial of the bodies in their saddlebags. Incinerate them; we want no more graverobbing.”

“Yes, Lady Ambrosia.”

“Prince Uthar, report to Prince Uthar in Uthartown. Perhaps your friend Deor would be interested to accompany you. As for you, Vocate, perhaps you would join me for a brief conversation.”

Morlock nodded and said, “Tyrfing.” The sword flew to his hand, scattering blood in its wake. He wiped the sword on the flap of a nearby tent and sheathed it.

“Lady Regent,” Kelat said urgently, “I have news of some import, not only for the Kingdom of the Vraids but for the fate of the wide world.”

“I’ll hear it in due time, Prince Uthar,” Ambrosia said patiently. “Meanwhile, welcome home. Morlock, to me, please.”

Deor noticed with amusement that the Vraids were more alarmed when Ambrosia said her brother’s name than they had been by the flying swords or the other disasters that had befallen them.

“Well, Prince Uthar!” Deor said, as the two Ambrosii turned away for their private confab. “It’s off to Uthartown for us. Will you introduce me to Prince Uthar when we see him?”

“You think it’s funny,” said the discontented prince, “but it’s not funny.”

“Oh, everything is funny, if you look at it in the wrong way. I’ll prove it to you.”

And they argued the point all the way to Uthartown.

CHAPTER TEN

Scenes of the Crime

Aloê and Denynê recovered seven force anchors from Earno’s jaw and chest. It was messy and difficult work, but there was a grim satisfaction in it. Now they stitched the body back together like an old shirt. It was a shirt nobody was ever going to use again, but Aloê was impressed by the care Denynê took in repairing the wounds their autopsy had made. Even when healing the dead, the shriveled orange-brown woman dropped no stitches, never said and never seemed to think, “Well, that’s good enough.” It was only good enough when it was perfect. Whether it was from pride in her work or respect for the dead, Aloê rather liked her for that.

“So,” Denynê said, holding the toothlike anchors in her bloody hand, “the murderer put a wilderment on Earno, established the stasis, cut his throat, then sealed up the wounds with the stasis field itself. When Earno woke, he knew nothing of what had happened.”

“At most, he would have thought it a nightmare,” Aloê said.

“How could the murderer hope to act unobserved?” asked Denynê. “Did Earno not have companions on the road?”

“At least one—perhaps two, depending on when the murder was committed,” Aloê said. “Perhaps the murderer also cast a wilderment on them. Or,” she added reluctantly, “perhaps they were part of a plot.”