A more immediate worry, however, was whether or not the bandit's woman would decide to circle back for another try, drawn by a delayed desire for revenge or his purse. Wading out of the stream,

Alec scanned the surrounding forest with renewed wariness. Thick underbrush pressed close on both sides of the trail, the potential for ambush unlimited. The storm blew on, hastening the afternoon darkness already thickening into mist beneath the tangled forest roof.

Seregil was obliged to delay his escape. Soon after they picked him up, the Watch patrol entered the East Ring to begin a sweep of the shanties there. Even if he got away now, there was nowhere to run.

Other bluecoats were already at work there, pulling down the shacks and piling the scrap wood onto carts, clearing the Ring to serve its wartime purpose as a killing zone between the inner and outer walls of the city.

The marketplaces and circles all around the city would be cleared as well for similar reasons.

Despite its size and grandeur, Rhiminee had been designed first and foremost to be a defensible citadel.

Most of the shantytown denizens had cleared out already, warned by the vagrant's sixth sense that trouble was brewing. Those that had remained were rounded up and sorted out. Cripples and mothers with young children were allowed to stay in the city, as well as any able-bodied person willing to work for their keep or fight.

Unpatriotic ne'er-do-wells would have to fend for themselves in the countryside.

The cart was full by midday and the patrol headed back through the east ward. Seregil stood at the rear of the cart, maintaining his air of sullen bewilderment until a familiar street corner came into view.

Taking the three bluecoats riding behind the cart by surprise, Seregil vaulted over the side, dodged between their horses, and tore off down the street. Behind him, his fellow prisoners cheered him on with delighted jeers and catcalls.

Two of the guards wheeled in pursuit, but Seregil had chosen his moment carefully. Running back to the familiar street, he bolted around the corner.

It was more of an alley than a street. There were no side ways leading off it and the far end was blocked by a high wooden barrier. Without slowing, Seregil launched himself at it, found purchase with hands and feet, and clambered over the top just as the furious guards thundered up.

On the far side, another alley angled off toward a larger street. The bluecoats knew this section of the city nearly as well as he did himself; he could hear the approaching clatter of hooves ahead of him as he ran. Dodging down a side lane before they caught sight of him, he slipped into the narrow space between two sagging tenements and came out in a tiny, weed-choked courtyard.

Here he bounded up a rickety exterior stairway to a disused attic. The cache of spare clothing and knives he'd hidden there months ago was still under the warped floorboards, no worse for wear except for a few beetles and some mouse turds.

Whistling softly through his teeth as he shook them out, he changed clothes and settled down at the garret window to outwait his pursuers' patience. It was only a filthy beggar they'd lost. They wouldn't waste much time hunting for him.

Hungry, wet, and footsore, Alec finally reached the edge of the woods by late afternoon. Through the trees ahead he could see a rolling valley stretching out before him.

A small log house stood near the trail, with a low byre and a goat pen beside it. Too tired to care what he must look like, he headed for it, hoping to beg a little food and some directions.

As he approached the place, a huge mongrel charged out of the byre, baying as it charged toward him.

"Soora thasali," Alec said quickly, making the left-handed charm sign Seregil had taught him. It worked to a degree; the dog halted a few feet away, but remained on guard, growling every time he moved.

"Who's that?" a man called out, emerging from the byre with an ax gripped in both hands.

"Sir Alec of Ivywell," Alec replied, holding his hands out, palm up. "I had some bad luck up the trail. Bandits stole my horse. Could you—"

"That so?" The man stepped nearer, squinting for a better look at him.

Alec had managed to wash off most of the blood, but his bedraggled clothing and sword appeared to inspire little confidence.

"Lots of bandits about just now," the man went on, still wary. "Stole two of my milch goats just the other day. Could be you're one of 'em come back to rob me again. Tugger!"

The dog crouched, baring its fangs.

"No, please! Soora thasali." Alec fell back a pace, making the sign again.

"Listen, I'm only trying to get down to—"

"Here now, what're you up to with my dog?" the man demanded. "Tugger, on him!"

"No-soora thasali—if you'd just listen—"

"Damn you, Tugger, at him!"

"Shit!" Alec took to his heels with Tugger snapping at the ends of his cloak close behind.

The dog chased him until they were well out of sight of the cottage, then stood its ground in the center of the trail, snarling every time Alec chanced a backward look.

Winded and irate, Alec ran on until he was certain the dog had given up, then collapsed on a rock to get his breath. Evidently Seregil's dog magic worked best without the cur's master on hand to countermand it.

Less than half a mile farther on he struck the main road and soon met a string of heavy oxcarts heading for Warnik's estate. At

the sight of Alec's gold the lead carter and his wife agreed to let him ride with them.

Climbing into the cart, Alec stretched out gratefully among the bales and baskets.

"Maker's Mercy, lad! You've had rough traveling, ain't you?" the woman asked, turning to look him over.

"I had a little trouble coming over the hill trail," Alec told her.

"The hill trail," snorted the carter.

"What in the world made you go that route when it's faster on the highroad?"

"Faster?" Alec groaned. "I thought the hill track was a shortcut."

"What looby told you that? It's my livelihood, driving these roads, so I guess I know a thing or two. It don't take more than two hours by cart from this valley around to the next one, less on a good horse. The hill track this time of year? By Dalna, you're lucky you got over at all."

The late afternoon light was already beginning to fail when they arrived at Lord Warnik's fortified keep. A gate in the curtain wall swung wide for the carts and they rumbled to a halt in the bailey yard.

"We've got someone looking for one of his lordship's guests," the carter told the reeve who came out to take charge of their stores.

"I'm looking for Micum Cavish of Watermead," Alec explained. "I need to speak with him at once."

The reeve gave him an appraising once over, then motioned to a stable boy loitering nearby.

"Portus, go and find Sir Micum. Tell him there's a messenger boy waiting his pleasure in the bailey."

Alec stifled a smile, then bid the carter and his wife farewell. A large brazier had been set up in the yard and he drifted over to join the knot of guards and servants who'd gathered around it. Sitting in the cart in wet clothes had chilled him through.

Leaning close to the fire, he ignored the curious glances his sword and filthy clothes attracted.

A few minutes later he saw Micum stride into the bailey. He was dressed in a fine coat and furs, and looked rather harried.

"Someone looking for me?" he called out.

"Me, sir," Alec said, reluctantly leaving the brazier.

"What is it then?" Micum asked impatiently.

He stopped, recognizing Alec as he came closer. "By the Flame—"

"Greetings, Sir Micum," Alec said, covering a discreet warning gesture with a bow. "Is there someplace we could speak privately?"

Taking Alec by the arm, Micum drew him into the stable. Grabbing a horse blanket from a nearby stall, he handed it to Alec.