Although the man had not been carrying a sword when he wandered to his death, he was armed with a dagger, several throwing knives, and a stiletto in his boot. Linsha kept the dagger and the stiletto, but she gave the slim throwing knives to the centaurs.

“You never know when a knife might come in handy,” she said.

Leaving Azurale to watch the tunnel entrance for Crucible, Linsha and the other two centaurs worked their way over to the southern edge of the gardens not far from the road that led to the palace. They found the Brutes had built a strong encampment fortified with a log palisade and guarded by sentries. Within the ring sat the crumbled foundations of an old building that now supported a large and spacious tent decorated with banners and hung with lamps. Smaller tents clustered around it, leaving a clearing directly in front of the tent where the barbarians had placed a ring of spears, each holding the severed head of some hapless enemy. Guards stood at the gate, at the main tent, and all around the perimeter.

Linsha and the two centaurs looked at the encampment, impressed in spite of themselves.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Phoulos whispered. “You might get in, but I don’t see how you’ll get out.”

Linsha was sure. She had a strong suspicion that this general was intelligent enough to know a great deal about the dragonlord’s activities. There was a good chance they could find some useful information in his tent. But was the chance of information worth the risk? She took a second look with a more discerning eye. If those guards over there had been drunk, asleep, inattentive, or fewer, her scheme might work. But they were alert and heavily armed and left not a scrap of ground within the camp unobserved from some angle. There was no way she could see to get into the general’s tent and out again without being apprehended or killed. Linsha had participated in enough undercover activities to know a bad risk when she saw one.

“Maybe we’d better rethink this,” she said softly.

There was a chorus of ominous creaks and a voice said in coarse Common, “That would be a good idea.”

The companions froze in frightened surprise. All three knew the sound of bow strings being stretched.

“That’s good,” continued the voice. “You are completely covered, so don’t try anything heroic. Just step out onto the path.”

Linsha felt sick. She wanted to kick herself for falling so easily into their hands. She looked up at the two centaurs and gave them a nod. “Don’t,” she whispered.

Ever so carefully Leonidas, Phoulos, and Linsha raised their hands in plain view and walked out of the line of trees onto the path. Half a dozen Brute warriors stepped out of their hiding places, their bows drawn and arrows ready.

From a pine tree nearby, the hunting cry of an owl pierced the night. Linsha pretended not to hear it.

The leader of the Brute patrol said something in his own tongue, and the other five warriors swiftly disarmed the captives and urged them at spearpoint toward the encampment. They were taken to the open space before the large tent and forced to wait under the gruesome trophies on the spears.

Linsha refused to look at the heads for fear she might see someone she knew. She stayed close between the centaurs, keeping in their shadows so she could study the men around her without being too obvious.

The leader went into the tent and, after what seemed a lifetime to Linsha, came out again with the Brute general.

The Rose Knight pulled the leather cap further down over her face, but she needn’t have bothered. The patrol leader hauled her out from between the centaurs and pushed her in front of the general. She drew herself up and stared defiantly up at the impassive gold mask. The general was a tall man, taller than Lanther, and built proportionately with wide shoulders and a chest she could crack rocks on. He wore nothing more than a kilted skirt of fine linen and leather sandals, and all of his exposed skin had been painted blue. His long hair had been plaited into dozens of small braids and twisted with white bird feathers. Dark eyes glittered through the eye holes of the gold mask as he studied her. He reached out and yanked her cap off.

“A woman. Reddish hair in curls. Green eyes like gems. Slender nose with freckles. A large bruise on her face. The description was a good one. You are the Solamnic Knight Linsha Majere.” Ignoring her gasp of surprise, he turned to his warriors. “Good work. Take those two to the slave pens. Bind this one and bring her to my tent.”

Linsha stiffened. Her muscles tensed, and her weight shifted as if she were preparing to run. But powerful hands clamped around her arms and pulled them behind her back. She was marched into the tent and tied with leather strips to one of the strong supporting poles in the center. The thongs bit into the raw skin and scabs around her wrists from the last time she had been bound.

“Tie her feet, too,” the general ordered. “She is trained in the ways of the warrior.”

The men complied and left the tent. Linsha could move nothing more than her head. She looked around and realized she and the general were alone. Gods, she wondered, who has been telling him so much about me?

The Brute moved with athletic ease to a low couch carved from black wood and cushioned with animal pelts. On his left stood a small camp table with writing implements and scrolls. To his right was a matching table with a stoneware bottle and several small cups. Behind him hung an ornate banner decorated with geometric designs surrounding a magnificent lion. A sword stood on a rack close to his hand. Hanging from the tent’s roof, Linsha noticed a long, black-shafted lance, but it was muffled in shadows and she could not see it clearly.

She turned her attention back to the general. He sat on his couch and poured a dark red liquid into a cup. He held it up in a mock salute, but he did not drink.

When he said nothing, she glared at him. “Don’t you ever take off that mask?”

“Not in the presence of outsiders,” he growled. “Now tell me where the bronze dragon is. Tell me about this Scorpion Wadi. Tell me about the militia and its general. Who survived and what do they plan to do?”

“Who are you people?” she countered. “Why did you come here? Do you seriously believe Thunder will allow you to stay?”

The general swirled the drink around in his cup and laughed. “Of course he won’t. He is greedy, envious, vicious, and hates anything that gets in the way of what he wants. He will kill the bronze, increase his totem, and drive us out as soon as he grows weary of our help. We, however, have other plans.” He rose and strode to her, the cup still in his hand. “We are the people of Tarmak, the sons of Amarrel. We have crossed the ocean to claim this city for our own.”

“But it’s not your own. This city was built by the Legion, by Iyesta, and by people who came seeking peace.”

“And now they are dead. The city is ours and we intend to keep it. Now, where is the dragon? What does the militia plan to do?”

Linsha pressed her back into the pole to keep away from him. The paint on his body smelled foul, and the menace in his voice sent her heart racing. His words sent her mind racing, too. She had wondered from the beginning how a dragon like Thunder had organized and planned a complicated and thorough invasion of the Missing City. Now she suspected she knew who had really planned it. From the intonation in his voice, she suspected he had not yet completed his plan. Could it be possible that he was also responsible for the death of the brass dragons?

“The bronze went back to Sanction,” she said, trying not to breathe too much in his proximity.

He shook his head and held the cup closer to her face. “He is injured and cannot fly. Now, where is he?”

“How do you know all this?” she demanded. “How do you know me?”