Cazaril clenched his teeth. Shut up, dy Sanda.

"The Roknari reported he'd died," replied the chancellor shortly. "They'd hid him for revenge, I'd assumed, when I learned he yet lived. Though if the silk merchant spoke truth, maybe it was for embarrassment. He must have escaped them, and knocked about Ibra for a time, until his, um, unhappy arrest." He glanced at Cazaril, and away.

You know you lie. I know you lie. But dy Jironal did not, even now, know for certain if Cazaril knew he lied. It didn't seem much of an advantage. This was a weak moment for a countercharge. This slander already half cut the ground from under his feet, regardless of the outcome of Orico's inquiry.

"Well, I do not understand how his loss was allowed to pass without investigation," said dy Sanda, staring narrowly at dy Jironal. "He was the fortress's commander."

Iselle put in thoughtfully, "If you assumed revenge, you must have judged he'd cost the Roknari dearly in the field, for them to use him so thereafter."

Dy Jironal grimaced, clearly misliking where this line of logic was leading. He sat back and waved away the digression. "We are come to an impasse, then. A man's word against a man's word, and nothing to decide it. Sire, I earnestly advise prudence. Let my lord dy Cazaril be given some lesser post or sent back to the Dowager of Baocia."

Iselle nearly sputtered. "And let the slander go unchallenged? No! I will not stand for it."

Orico rubbed his head, as if it ached, and shot side glances at his chilly chief advisor and his furious half sister. He vented a small groan. "Oh, gods, I hate this sort of thing..." His expression changed, and he sat upright again. "Ah! But of course. There is just the solution... just the just solution, heh, heh..." He beckoned to the page who had summoned Cazaril, and murmured in his ear. Dy Jironal watched, frowning, but apparently could not make out what had been said either. The page scampered out.

"What is your solution, sire?" asked dy Jironal apprehensively.

"Not my solution. The gods. We will let the gods decide who is innocent, and who lies."

"You're not thinking of putting this to trial by combat, are you?" asked dy Jironal in a voice of real horror.

Cazaril could only share that horror—and so did Ser dy Maroc, judging by the way the blood drained from his face.

Orico blinked. "Well, now, there's another thought." He glanced at dy Maroc and at Cazaril. "They appear evenly matched, withal. Dy Maroc is younger, of course, and does very well on the sand of my practice ring, but experience counts for something."

Lady Betriz glanced at dy Maroc and frowned in sudden worry. So did Cazaril, for the opposite reason, he suspected. Dy Maroc was indeed a very pretty duello dancer. Against the brutality of the battlefield, he would last, Cazaril calculated, maybe five minutes. Dy Jironal met Cazaril's eyes directly for almost the first time in this inquiry, and Cazaril knew he was making the identical calculation. Cazaril's stomach heaved at the thought of being forced to butcher the boy, even if he was a tool and a liar.

"I do not know if the Ibran lied or not," put in dy Maroc warily. "I only know what I heard."

"Yes, yes." Orico waved this away. "I think my plan will be better." He sniffed, rubbed his nose on his sleeve, and waited. A lengthy and unnerving silence fell.

It was broken when the page returned, announcing, "Umegat, sire."

The dapper Roknari groom entered and glanced in faint surprise at the people assembled, but trod directly to his master and made his bow. "How may I serve you, my lord?"

"Umegat," said Orico. "I want you to go outside and catch the first sacred crow you see, and bring it back in here. You"—he gestured at the page—"go with him for witness. Hurry, now, quick quick." Orico clapped his hands in his urgency.

Without evincing the least surprise or question, Umegat bowed again and padded back out. Cazaril caught dy Maroc giving the chancellor a piteous Now what? look; dy Jironal set his teeth and ignored it.

"Now," said Orico, "how shall we arrange this? I know—Cazaril, you go stand in one end of the room. Dy Maroc, you go stand in the other."

Dy Jironal's eyes shifted in uncertain calculation. He gave dy Maroc a slight nod, toward the end of the room with the open window. Cazaril found himself relegated to the dimmer, closed end.

"You all"—Orico gestured to Iselle and her cohort—"stand to the side, for witness. You and you and you too," this to the guards and the remaining page. Orico heaved to his feet and went about the table to arrange his human tableau to his close satisfaction. Dy Jironal stayed seated where he was, playing with a quill and scowling.

In much less time than Cazaril would have expected, Umegat returned, with a cranky-looking crow tucked under his arm and the excited page bouncing around him.

"Was that the first crow you saw?" Orico asked the boy.

"Yes, my lord," the page replied breathlessly. "Well, the whole flock was circling above Fonsa's Tower, so I suppose we saw six or eight at once. So Umegat just stood in the courtyard with his arm out and his eyes closed, quite still. And this one came down to him and landed right on his sleeve!"

Cazaril's eyes strained, trying to see if the muttering bird might, just possibly, be missing two tail feathers.

"Very good," said Orico happily. "Now, Umegat, I want you to stand in the exact center of the room, and when I give the signal, release the sacred crow. We'll see which man he flies to, and then we'll know! Wait—everyone should say a prayer in their hearts first to the gods for guidance."

Iselle composed herself, but Betriz looked up. "But sire. What shall we know? Is the crow to fly to the liar, or the honest man?" She stared hard at Umegat.

"Oh," said Orico. "Hm."

"And what if it just flies around in circles?" said dy Jironal, an exasperated edge leaking into his voice.

Then we'll know the gods are as confused as all of the rest of us, Cazaril did not say out loud.

Umegat, stroking the bird to calm it, gave a slight bow. "As the truth is sacred to the gods, let the crow fly to the honest man, sire." He did not glance at Cazaril.

"Oh, very good. Carry on, then."

Umegat, with what Cazaril was beginning to suspect was a fine sense of theater, positioned himself precisely between the two accused men, and held the bird out on his arm, slowly removing his controlling hand. He stood a moment with a look of pious quietude on his face. Cazaril wondered what the gods made of the cacophony of conflicting prayers no doubt arising from this room at this instant. Then Umegat tossed the crow into the air, and let his arms hang down. It squawked and spread its wings, and fanned a tail missing two feathers.

Dy Maroc held his arms widespread, hopefully, looking as if he wondered if he was allowed to tackle the creature out of the air as it swooped by him. Cazaril, about to cry Caz, Caz to be safe, was suddenly overcome with theological curiosity. He already knew the truth—what else might this test reveal? He stood still and straight, lips parted, and watched in disturbed fascination as the crow ignored the open window and flapped straight to his shoulder.

"Well," he said quietly to it, as it dug in its claws and shifted from side to side. "Well." It tilted its black beak, regarding him with expressionless, beady eyes.

Iselle and Betriz jumped up and down and whooped, hugging each other and nearly frightening the bird off again. Dy Sanda smiled grimly. Dy Jironal gritted his teeth; dy Maroc looked faintly appalled.

Orico dusted his plump hands. "Good. That settles that. Now, by the gods, I want my dinner."

ISELLE, BETRIZ, AND DY SANDA SURROUNDED CAZARIL like an honor guard and marched him out of Ias's Tower to the courtyard.