By then the assassin was in flight up a sidestreet. But he (she guessed it was a man) had not tethered a horse anywhere near, of course. And she was lighter on her feet than he was. He was wearing a thain’s cape, she saw without real surprise.

As she got nearer to him he turned at last, deciding to make use of the weapon he carried. Had he used the thing as a club he might have had a chance, but he actually tried to fit a gravebolt to the songbow.

She threw herself at his knees and they went down together in the street.

As he was thrashing around to get free, she took the gravebolt stained with her blood and put it against his throat.

“Stop,” she said, and he stopped.

“Please don’t kill me,” he whispered. “I was only doing as I was told.”

“I—” would very much like to kill you “—am not going to kill you. Who gave you the orders?”

“Please. I’m afraid.”

In her rage it delighted her that he was afraid, and was weak enough to admit it, too. She wanted to shake him until he broke open like a stuffed doll.

She might be able to break him. But even more than that, she wanted answers from him. She needed someone to work with her—to check her rage—to ask questions she might neglect.

Her seconds would be the people to call on here, but one was dead and the other missing. For all she knew, this quivering uncooked sausage was responsible, and that thought made her even angrier, dangerously angry.

She got to her feet and dragged him with her. “Here’s an order: come with me.”

Jordel’s house was near at hand. She was pretty sure she could trust Jordel . . . and, if not, that was worth finding out.

Jordel was sitting sadly on his porch, a jar of wine in his hand. He took an occasional sip of wine as he moodily watched Aloê marching her prisoner up the street.

“Good evening, Aloê,” he said when she was near enough for conversation. “What happened to your neck?”

“This fellow shot me.”

“Oh. Should we kill him?”

“He says he had orders. I want to know who gave the orders.”

“Then we can kill him?”

Aloê laughed. Her rage was receding a little.

“I think we can let him live, if he helps us.”

“Oh. Do you absolutely insist?”

“That depends on him.”

Jordel stood. He grabbed the would-be assassin by his left arm. “Let’s talk, youngling.”

They went indoors. Jordel dragged the frightened thain up the stairs to a room in the front of the house on the second storey.

“Only room with a lock,” he explained to Aloê. “So we can lock him in, if need be.”

“Your house doesn’t have any locks?”

“It has a lock. That’s more than I usually need, you know. Nothing worth stealing. Except my heart, of course. In with you,” he said to the thain.

They all sat in chairs, the thain with his back to the door so that Chariot’s somber light from the eastern windows would fall on his face. And they talked.

The thain’s name was Dollon. He was very afraid, and he was only following orders. If they would allow him to send a message to a friend, he would be grateful his whole life long. That was what they got out of him—over and over and over.

“How long do you think your life is likely to be?” asked Jordel impatiently on the tenth repetition of the thain’s request.

From below came the sounds of someone entering the house—voices they both knew, calling Jordel’s name.

“Come on,” Jordel said to Aloê. They left the room and Jordel locked the door ostentatiously behind him.

By then, Jordel’s visitors were climbing the stairs. One was Noreê, Aloê was somewhat relieved to see, and the other was Naevros syr Tol.

Noreê had been alerted by someone at the Well that Aloê had been attacked, and she had trailed her back to Tower Ambrose. There a householder told her that Aloê had captured someone and dragged him away, and in what direction. Deduction told her the rest.

“You mean there were people watching and listening as I fought that . . . that . . . thain?”

“Many. They were discussing it in the street as I passed.”

That gave Aloê an eerie feeling, thinking of all those faces in the dark, watching, doing nothing.

“As for me,” Naevros said, laughing, “I was just coming by to see if Jordel had anything to drink.”

“I had something to drink. Then I drank it. A polite guest brings something to drink, Naevros; he does not merely seek to sponge up the drippings of his host’s wine cellar.”

“Thanks for the lesson in etiquette, Sir Honorable Jordel of the Cowpies.”

“I think it’s ‘Honorable Sir.’ Isn’t it? What’s the correct usage. You’re of the gentry, Aloê; you enlighten us.”

“I’ll enlighten you with a brick.”

“You hear that, Naevros? That’s the sound of true nobility—often imitated, but in the end inimitable. I remember once—”

Noreê asked impatiently, “What are we doing out here if the prisoner is in there?”

“We’re giving him the chance to make a mistake,” Jordel explained kindly. “So far he’s made only two: failing to kill Aloê the first time, and then getting caught the second time. Now, if he gets away, we can follow him.”

“That’s very shrewd, Jordel!” Aloê said.

“I’m shrewder than I look. Please don’t point out how easy that would be.”

There was the sound of glass falling into the streets.

“Clod,” Jordel said, shaking his head. “Guardians, shall we . . . ?” He sauntered down the stairway.

Before any of them reached the first storey, there was a heavy blow on the porch roof and the sound of flailing. Something fell into the street outside.

They rushed out into the street. Thain Dollon lay there without moving. His feet had gotten tangled up, and he had fallen from the porch roof to the street onto his neck. There was no question that he was dead.

“Clod!” Jordel repeated, more emphatically.

Aloê felt crushed. It had seemed, for a moment, there was a real chance of getting somewhere in this business. Now there was only one more dead body, one more dead end.

“God Sustainer, I’m tired,” she whispered.

“Stay here with me,” Jordel said quickly, while Naevros was only opening his mouth. “Naevros and Noreê can alert the necrophors and oversee taking the body to a suitable boneyard. Meanwhile we will eat and drink and sleep, and you will have a new idea in the morning. You always do, you know.”

“Thanks, J,” said Aloê gratefully. She’d been dreading the trudge back to Tower Ambrose, its dark emptiness when she arrived there.

Naevros surrendered with a good grace, shrugged, and punched Jordel on the arm. Then he turned to Aloê. With a serious look he said, “Rest. Heal. The Wardlands need your shrewdness at full strength.” Then he embraced her.

“Thanks,” she gasped. She waved farewell to Noreê and went in with Jordel. He fussed over her with wine and fruit and cabbage stuffed with meat and things.

Aloê didn’t eat much. She was too tired, and a little nauseated. Naevros had been wearing a rather powerful scent, and it struck her as very unpleasant. It was an oily musky smell—made her think of lumberjacks, and not in a good way.

Then she remembered the scent that had stained the beds in the timber lodges not far from where Earno had died and been murdered.

And then, without really being able to prove anything, she knew or guessed something she would have preferred to never know.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Miracles of St. Danadhar

“Where is Aloê?” Morlock asked in something like a conversational voice.

“She’s back in the Wardlands, harven,” Deor said gently.

“No,” Morlock said thoughtfully. “No. You’re back in the Wardlands. Aloê was taken by the basket-bird. I saw it fly east into the dead lands.”