“Not a dog’s work, is it, braggart? Never forget what brought this upon you-and never say it again, or next time I won’t spare you!” The fellow couldn’t speak, and there was blood coming from his mouth as he gasped for breath. Gord felt suddenly sorry, ashamed that he had handled the bullyish fellow so. In truth, Lurajal was blameless by no means, but he had been encouraged by Raug and the rest of his comrades. Gord turned his sorrow for Lurajal into anger at how the episode had begun in the first place.

“Now that you’ve gotten your dupe injured fighting your battle for you, Raug,” he said, staring hard at that one as he spoke, “perhaps you’ll be bold enough to step up and see if you can’t do better yourself.” Raug’s neck muscles bulged, and he was about to accept the challenge when Tirrip intervened.

“Leave be, cousin! That little killer is dangerous and an unfair fighter. Do not soil your hands on the likes of him-Lord Rexfelis will deal with him soon. He has just harmed one of our lordly peers, a relation of ours-and our liege lord’s as well, of course.” She turned to glare at Gord over her lovely, smooth shoulder. “You are a nothing! I hope Lord Rexfelis has you tied and flogged for what you just did!” Then she went off, tugging at Raug so that he had little choice but to follow. The others in the party glared, scowled, and muttered at Gord but then traipsed off after Tirrip and her cousin, leaving Gord to minister to the fallen Lurajal.

“Shit,” Gord said softly and without feeling behind it. Then he looked at his fallen opponent again. The fellow was nearly unconscious from pain, having tried to sit up and fallen back to groan helplessly on the trampled and blood-spattered sward.

“Lie still, man! Don’t try to move around on pain of life,” Gord said more gently. “You’re badly hurt, but it isn’t mortal unless you make it so. Here,” he said as much to himself as to Lurajal as he dug into his girdle, “I have a little bit of salve which will soothe the pain and perhaps even heal you somewhat.”

Lurajal tried to snarl, fight off the ministrations, but he was too weak. “But that doublet must come off first,” Gord went on, ignoring the attempted rejection. In a moment his long dagger was out and doing its work. Gord was very careful not to allow the magically keen blade to slice flesh, and he was gentle as he cut the garment away to expose the man’s chest. Where his heels had struck the skin was discolored, swollen, and there were abrasions too.

“Hold very still now. I shall be as quick and careful as possible-I don’t relish this any more than you do-but you need seeing to here and now. Later some priest or other will heal you, never fear.”

“Why are you doing this?” Lurajal was unable to understand this foe. First Gord could have killed him, but he had simply broken his ribs and incapacitated him, and then he had decided to aid him. It made no sense to the golden-eyed man, none at all. “I attacked you. I would have shown you no mercy, given no quarter…”

“What you did was no true fault of your own, Lurajal. Your fault was one many have-you listened to the wrong counsel and took it to be truth.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I am not surprised,” Gord said, carefully spreading the ointment. He got the stuff onto his fingertips and then smeared it gently upon the worst-looking places on Lurajal’s chest. As he worked, Lurajal’s breathing became easy, unlabored.

“What is that stuff?”

“A dweomered salve,” Gord replied, glancing a bit ruefully at the empty container. “I received it from a strange chap in Sha-a place I was forced to visit not long ago. What a shame it is all gone now,” Gord lamented again.

Lurajal could raise his head now, and his voice Was stronger too. “You are a nonesuch,” he said with a small shake of his head as he watched Gord tuck the empty box away. “I have heard of magical ointments of that sort, but none with such efficacy!”

“Hmmm,” the young thief said to acknowledge Lurajal’s comment. “I think it was gifted to me by the one who made the original, the very namesake for all lesser ones made after its fashion. That would explain much, including its potency, wouldn’t it?” His eyes met the golden brown of Lurajal’s.

“I do not apprehend of what you speak, Gord, but I do appreciate that you used some special gift to assure that I would live. Don’t you know that as one of the royal line I have no fear of injury or death?”

Now it was Gord’s turn to be puzzled. He helped Lurajal sit upright, then assisted the man to his feet a moment later when he indicated he was ready to stand. “Now,” Gord said, “what is this about not fearing injury or death?”

Managing a painful chuckle, Lurajal accepted Gord’s shoulder as a prop as the two walked slowly back toward the Catlord’s home. “I thought all denizens of this place were aware of the special prerogatives held by the descendants of Lord Rexfelis.”

“Well, I for one am not aware, although I am by no means a denizen of the Catlord’s realm.”

“Nor I, actually, although someday that may be otherwise. At the death of my own sire some few months back, I was called here by our liege so as to become acquainted with the place and its nobles and such.”

“And that gives you Immortality?”

Lurajal made another series of chucklings and gaspings. Between the pain of laughing and the attempts to suppress it to avoid the pain and so as to not offend Gord with it either, he had a difficult time of it for a while, so the two had traveled a fair distance farther before the golden-eyed fellow was able to explain again.

“I am not immortal, not at all. But I can heal rapidly enough-even without your help I’d have been able to drag myself back here by nightfall and be well in a day. And if I should meet death I am revived and made quick again-”

“Because of your cat’s-eye ring?”

It was again Lurajal’s turn for astonishment. “How do you know of mine own royal ring?” He stared at Gord for a second, then at his own unadorned fingers, then spotted the ring Gord wore. “It is remarkably similar to what you wear,” he said slowly, “only its jewel is of a different, finer sort.”

“Oh…”

“How came you to know of the ring?” Lurajal was not going to let that question pass.

“I think Tirrip might have mentioned it,” Gord suggested, not wishing to lie directly.

“That is a possibility. She too has one, of course, being of royal lineage also.” He seemed satisfied, and went on. “As to having new life bestowed, no, it is not the ring. The benison, as well as the gift of healing, is bestowed directly by Lord Rexfelis when he accepts one as one of his heirs. Tirrip, myself, Lowen, and the rest all have such a gift. It is a wonder that she didn’t mention that fact to you,” Lurajal concluded.

“About the rings…” Gord said suggestively, hoping that the fellow would be willing to discuss them further. However, before Lurajal could say more, a hail came from the buildings ahead. Lord Lowen, the seneschal, came hurrying out to meet them with four stout retainers, men who resembled the blond-maned castellan but were of less noble bearing and of slightly smaller stature as well.

“See that Lord Lurajal is comfortable in his own chambers,” the seneschal commanded after a cursory appraisal of the two. “Then report back to me.” The four bustled about to assist Lurajal, then off all five went as ordered. That ended Gord’s hopes of learning more about Rexfelis’ special rings.

“Now, Master-Sir Gord, I suppose-it wouldn’t do to have princelings brawling with common folk, would it?” the big man harrumphed. “I think you need to have some rest and time alone to reflect yourself. Please go to your quarters, and I will have some refreshments brought there directly.”

“Of course, Lord Lowen.”

“Splendid. I will speak with my liege of the matter. When that is done I will come and tell you what sentence you might expect, or what judgment is to be handed down.”