As Kit remounted Cinnamon, she heard the horses below snort and whinny before starting again in her direction, up the rocky incline. She looked around and chose another, even more narrow, precipitous path slicing upward. She could zig and zag in these low mountains forever, and eventually lose the ones who did not turn back. All she had to do was stay well away from Silverhole and not get lost.

Several hours later, and a dozen miles to the northeast of where she had started out, Kitiara was satisfied that she had left her pursuers behind and no longer had any reason to be cautious.

She stopped beside a small stream and splashed welcome refreshment into her mouth, then poured several tin cups of the cold water over her head. Cinnamon bent her head to drink alongside her mistress. Kitiara yanked off her mustache and tossed it into the bushes. Allowing herself a brief rest, she lay on her back and basked in the rays of the sun, now descending in the sky.

Kitiara figured she had about two hours of riding, straight toward her destination, before she would be back at the rendezvous spot. That should be well before nightfall.

Indeed, it was almost two hours later that Kitiara approached the previous night's campsite. She was clinging to the saddle, sore and weary, much more exhausted than she had thought she would be. Cinnamon, too, was no longer moving with ease, but was almost plodding along the forest trail.

As she neared the rendezvous, Kit was startled to see, lying strewn before her on the trail, an assortment of debris that included ripped clothing, smashed weapons, some coins and jewelry, and pieces of broken wood she recognized as fragments of the treasure chest that Gwathmey's son had been carrying with him. She also noticed markings that led off the path.

Warily Kit dismounted and, drawing her knife, advanced slowly into the undergrowth. Here, she saw that bushes and twigs had been trampled underfoot, and these clues led farther into the dense woods. Stooping low, Kitiara followed the trail. It was now nearly twilight, yet she was fully alert, breathing fast, ready.

At last Kit came upon a trampled form face down in the dirt, sprawled full-figure, as if it had been running and been knocked down, but with such force that it could never get up again. Taken aback, she stopped and took a moment to glance around, seeing and hearing nothing.

Cautiously, she proceeded closer. Then, with growing horror, Kit flipped the body over. She gasped when she recognized the person as being a ringer for herself-the young nobleman with his short black hair and thin mustache, Gwathmey's son, the man she had impersonated. He was quite dead.

Worse than dead. His front torso was torn to bits, with pieces of entrails hanging out and blood congealing around every wound. It looked as if he had been clawed by some ferocious monster, and then, Kitiara winced at the thought, half-eaten. Only his serene, youthful face, white as snow, appeared untouched.

This was the first time Kit had ever seen a dead person so close. This was the first time she herself was partly responsible. She felt no sorrow, no pity, only shock. And fright.

Stumbling backward, Kitiara lost all orientation. She turned, ran, fell, got up, ran again-wildly, in circles, pushing branches out of the way with one arm while the other shielded her eyes. She couldn't find her horse. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't see anything in the swiftly falling darkness. Kitiara stumbled again, and this time did not get up. Lying there, she fell asleep.

Kit lay on her back, her face to the sky.

She dreamed of a youthful face, pure and beautiful, that did not seem to belong to its mangled body, a face that looked remarkably like her own.

A cracking noise sounded in the undergrowth, and Kit felt the presence of something. Even before she woke fully, Kit knew that she was no longer alone.

She tried to sit up, but a hand on her chest pushed her back, and when she opened her eyes she was looking up at Ursa. He put his fingers to her lips, whispering, "Shh. Keep still." He was on his haunches, bending over her, but his eyes darted back and forth among the trees.

It was pitch dark, well past midnight. The air had cooled. Kit saw that her horse and Ursa's were tethered nearby. She couldn't see very far through the trees. Her own fast breathing sounded loud in Kit's ears.

After long seconds, Ursa relaxed his hold and permitted Kitiara to sit up. Disoriented, she tried to remember what had happened, how she had got here: Oh yes, it all came back to her. The ambush, the decoy escape, doubling back, and finding… the mutilated body of the young nobleman.

Although Kit had probably only slept a few hours, she felt revived. She was no longer afraid; in fact she felt almost confident. As she looked around for the others, Ursa rose and began making a small fire. She could see now that they were in a slight bowl of land sided by rocks and bushes. A good concealment. Ursa must have carried her here, and found Cinnamon.

"Where are El-Navar and the others?" she asked.

"Waiting somewhere," said Ursa, his back to her. The tone of his voice indicated some worry. He busied himself making broth-putting water from a canteen into a big tin cup, adding some stuff from canisters in his pack, and then, with a forked stick, heating the contents over the fire.

Kitiara moved near the fire and sat down so that she could see his face clearly. "Were you followed?" she asked anxiously.

"Were you?" Ursa asked. His tone was noncommittal.

"I lost them hours ago," Kit said a bit proudly. "First, they thought I was… you know, just like you said they would." Her face darkened at the recollection of the slain nobleman. If Ursa noticed the hitch in her voice, he didn't interrupt.

"But then," Kit continued, "they chased me around the hills for a time. I stayed just far enough ahead of them to make them think they were going to catch up." She couldn't help chuckling a little. "After I tired them out, I made a wide circle and headed back here, where you said you'd meet me. Then…" Her voice trailed off.

"Here," said Ursa, wrapping a rag around the tin cup and handing it to her.

"What is it?"

"Doesn't have a name," Ursa replied.

"It's good," Kit said after taking a sip. It tasted like strong tea, but more nourishing than that. From the flavor of the broth, it was a mixture of roots and powdered fish. Kitiara hadn't realized how hungry she was.

"Uh-huh," was all Ursa said. She waited for him to say something else, but he just sat there, watching her for several minutes, until she had drained the cup.

"Where are the others?" she asked again.

"Waiting somewhere," he repeated.

"You said that," Kit pointed out, getting angry.

He stared at her for a long minute. "They're not coming," he said, "and I'm going, shortly."

"What do you mean?"

"Look, they didn't even want me to come," Ursa said flatly. "I came to make sure you were all right."

"Why?" she demanded. "What do you mean? What's happened?"

He looked at her again for a long time before answering. He stood and started to pace, before facing her. "I guess you have a right to know."

"Know what?"

Ursa sat down again, watching her reaction. "The dwarves in Silverhole are building a mountain road. The convoy we robbed was carrying a half-year's salary, in advance, for their labor. Fifty dwarves, some humans, six months of excruciating labor-enough gold and silver to make the four of us rich for ten, maybe twenty years."

"Five of us," she corrected tersely.

He let it pass.