"'Tis the fact that we are short those men that makes me believe the magician will try his luck soon," Gareth said.

Ranulf frowned. "You think he knows we are undermanned?"

"Aye."

Ranulf's eyes widened. "Do you believe he is so powerful he can use the dark arts to leam such information, then?"

"Nay." Gareth smiled faintly. "He no doubt learned it in the usual manner. By simple observation.

The magician was at the Seabern fair. He would have had no difficulty learning of our plans to send an armed escort back to London with the merchant. It would have been a simple matter to deduce our remaining strength."

"Of course." Ranulf visibly relaxed. "Forgive me, my lord. Mayhap I have been paying too much attention to Dalian's stories. To hear him tell it, the magician can appear and disappear at will."

Footsteps on the wooden tower stairs made Gareth turn his head. Clare emerged from the opening, two steaming mugs in her hands. The hood of her green mantle was drawn up against the chill. The brazier's light played on her quiet, composed face.

"I thought you might appreciate something warm to drink," she said.

"My thanks." Gareth's fingers brushed Clare's as he took one of the mugs from her. He met her eyes and warmed himself in the gentle fire he saw there.

"Thank you, my lady." Ranulf took the other mug. "You certainly know how to ease the rigors of guard duty."

Clare went to the railing and looked out into the black mist. " 'Twill be dawn in a couple of hours, but even when the sun rises it will be impossible to see anything through this fog. How will you be able to see a signal torch?"

"We won't." Gareth sipped the hot pottage. "If anything happens, a messenger will be sent back here with the news."

"Aye, that makes sense," Clare said. "I did not think of such a simple thing."

"Tis not your responsibility to think about such matters," Gareth said.

"Leave the simple things to me.

I am well equipped to deal with them."

Ranulf choked on a swallow of pottage. Gareth looked at him with cool disapproval. The young guard quickly composed his face into a serious expression.

Clare did not appear to notice the byplay. She hugged herself and rubbed her hands up and down her arms. "Does it seem to you that there is something rather unpleasant about the smell of the fog?"

"Nay." Gareth rested his hand on the hilt of the Window of Hell. "It smells as all fog smells. Of dampness and the night."

Clare sniffed experimentally. "I think there is another odor embedded in it."

"What odor is that, my lady?" Ranulf asked.

"I do not recognize it," Clare said. "But I do not much care for it."

Hoofbeats sounded in the distance. The light of a torch glowed in the swirling fog.

"Open the gate," a familiar voice shouted from the road. "I have news."

Ranulf leaned over the railing and peered intently down at the man on the horse who had appeared out of the fog. "Tis Maiden Comstock, my lord."

"Open the gate," Gareth ordered. He looked down as the horseman trotted through the gate and into the torchlit courtyard. "What news, Maiden?"

"My lord, a boat carrying five armed men came ashore at the harbor under cover of fog. We killed two, but the others have retreated to a boathouse."

"So the magician did find a way through the mist,"

Ranulf muttered. "Mayhap he really does comprehend the black arts."

Gareth ignored him. "Why have the other three men not been captured, Maiden?"

"They are skilled bowmen, sir. Thus far they have managed to keep our men pinned down. Sir Ulrich has ordered us to wait until they use up all of their arrows. He says we'll have them soon enough."

"Aye. From the sound of things, we will. I'll be right down." Gareth turned to Ranulf. "I'm going to the harbor. You stay here in the tower."

"Aye, my lord." Ranulf looked disappointed, but he did not argue. "Do you believe that one of the men Sir Ulrich and the others have trapped is the magician?"

"I don't know yet. When one is dealing with an alchemist, nothing is for certain."

Clare stirred in the shadows. "My lord, please have a care. I do not like this."

Gareth took a step toward her. He captured her chin in his hand. "Twill all be over by dawn." He kissed her quickly. "Go back into the hall and bar the door. Do not come out for any reason until I return. Do you comprehend me?"

She touched his cheek with gentle fingers. "Aye, my lord."

There was so much he suddenly wanted to say, but this was not the time or the place. Gareth looked into Clare's eyes for a few seconds. "Later. We will talk later." He released her chin and headed for the tower stairs.

The horse that he had ordered to be kept saddled and ready was waiting for him in the courtyard.

William held the beast's head.

"Can I go with you, my lord?"

"Nay." Gareth vaulted onto the horse's back and took up the reins. "You will stay here with Clare and your mother and the servants. You are to guard the inside of the hall while Ranulf keeps watch outside.

Is that understood?"

William straightened his shoulders. "Aye, my lord."

Gareth swung the horse's head around and set off at a gallop into the fog. Maiden Comstock raised his torch and wheeled his own mount to follow.

One of the servants closed the gate solidly behind them.

Ulrich had just completed his task when Gareth and Maiden Comstock reached the harbor. Flickering torches cast a hellish glow over the bodies of the two dead intruders. Three others stood in sullen silence, their hands bound behind them.

A cluster of villagers had emerged from their cottages to watch the excitement.

Gareth dismounted and tossed the reins of his horse to Maiden. "Well done, Ulrich."

"This is the lot," Ulrich said. "They were not much trouble."

Gareth looked at the three surviving bowmen. "Which of you is Lucretius de Valemont?"

The captives stared at him. One shook his head.

Gareth contemplated the men thoughtfully. "There are many ways to die.

Not all of them are swift.

Give me the answers I seek."

One of the bowmen, a barrel-chested man of middle years, peered at him.

"Your men call you the Hellhound of Wyckmere. Do they speak the truth?"

"Aye," Gareth said.

" Tis said your oath is as strong as your sword."

"Aye."

"If we speak the truth, will you give us your word that our ends will be quick?"

"Aye." He had never tortured a man in his entire career as a hunter of cutthroats and thieves, Gareth thought. But there was no need for these three to know that.

The bowman considered for a short time. "The thing is, m'lord, we don't know any Lucretius de Valemont. And that's the truth. I swear it."

"Who hired you?"

The man shrugged. "A masterless knight who called himself Sir Raymond.

He paid us well to come ashore in a boat tonight. He said he knew how to get us through the fog."

"Why did he want you to come here to Desire?"

"Said we'd find easy pickings here in the village. But I swear he said nothing about the isle being defended by the Hellhound's men."

"How did he guide you through the mist?"

The bowman exchanged uneasy glances. The spokesman looked at Gareth.

"Sir Raymond came with us. He gave us directions after he consulted some magical device that he kept hidden in his cloak."

"Magic." One of the bowmen spat on the ground in disgust. "Told ye we should never have taken up with his kind. I never liked this business, even if that damned renegade knight did promise us enough loot from the convent to sink a ship."

The third man glowered at him. "Ye were eager enough to talk Brock and Dagget and the rest of us into it. We'd be set for life, ye said. Instead, we're all going to hang, thanks to ye."