Those officers-and he had a couple of satisfying duels scheduled with the most discourteous-did not know how very beautiful and courageous and clever Ivy was. She was much finer than any noble lady born under the silver roofs.

Sanval sighed, remembering how Ivy had looked two nights ago. She had just come from the canvas bathhouse used by the mercenaries and was joking with the others as Gunderal braided Ivy's hair. As he stood there, outside of that circle of warmth and laughter, she turned and looked directly at him. "Hey, Sanval, how do you like me clean?" she yelled. "Come and join us. We're more fun than anyone sitting up on the top of that hill." He almost did it-sat down, had a drink, and shared a joke. But the message from the Thultyrl had been urgent, and he needed to return with an answer immediately. So he had said something polite-stupid and dull, but polite-and gone away again. He had never regretted any action so much.

Now he still had a duty to the Thultyrl. He could not let Archlis succeed in his plans. If he could keep Archlis from returning to Fottergrim, it would give Procampur's army an enormous advantage, perhaps even greater than toppling the western wall. Sanval was convinced Archlis would eventually return to Tsurlagol. He knew that Ivy thought she could safely follow Archlis, but she was wrong. As soon as Fottergrim's troops saw her, they would turn against her and her friends. Even her clever tongue would not be able to talk them out of a quick execution, unless Sanval could come up with a way to keep her safe from Archlis and Fottergrim.

Without intending to, Sanval dropped back until he was walking in step with the two bugbears trailing the group. The larger one growled at him and pointed at his armor.

"Your breastplate is very fine," said the big bugbear in Common. The creature wore no metal armor at all, just well-worn leather over his torn breeches and a few clanking chains looped over his shoulders. "A little small for me. But I could wear it. I can trade for it. I have good things, some of Hackermic's things. Poor Hackermic, poor Hackermic." The bugbear sighed deeply, a rumble in the center of his chest.

Sanval nodded, not to agree but to show his interest in the conversation. The creature seemed surprisingly friendly and he thought he could turn that to his advantage.

"Or I could hit you on the head," the bugbear continued more cheerfully, "if you do not give me the breastplate."

Sanval raised one eyebrow but kept silent.

The other smaller bugbear growled some incomprehensible words.

"His name is Norimgic, and I am Osteroric," said Osteroric, gesturing at his companion. "And he says that Archlis does not want you hit on the head. Not yet. I am not afraid of the magelord's anger, not like this one."

Norimgic snarled, showing off his big yellow fangs. "You are afraid of Archlis," said Osteroric to Norimgic, apparently not too impressed by the display. "Or you would have eaten him when he made us leave Lorie behind. Lorie was Norimgic's friend, his particular female friend. But something ate her," he explained to Sanval.

"Where was Lorie eaten?" asked Sanval, although he thought he knew.

"When we first came into these tunnels, something that we could not see bit off her head and an arm. It was very sad," said Osteroric, "because she was Norimgic's first love. This is the problem of being with a fighting female-they get killed so often. Of course, all our females fight. Which means that we males are often heartbroken. Our lives are tragic."

Sanval had never contemplated the romantic disasters of bugbears and decided after a few moments of reflection that he would rather not learn more. Still, he could understand the problem presented by fighting females and offered his own observations, made over the last few turbulent days of his life. "Fighting females," he said, keeping his voice down and hoping Ivy would not overhear him, "can be a very plague upon the heart, making dreams troubled and honorable thoughts difficult."

"You are poet, like us." Osteroric thumped Sanval on the shoulder, a friendly thump not much more staggering that the recent pats that he had received from Zuzzara. "We three brothers (Norimgic is my younger brother, and poor Hackermic was my elder) are all poets. That is why we left our tribe to roam the world. Because in our pack, they did not like poets. Especially after Hackermic broke the chief's jaw when he criticized Hackermic's five-lined verses with the clever triple and double rhymes. The chief thought we should only make verses in the old forms, and Hackermic should not recite his type of verses, especially before his elders," explained Osteroric. "Also, the chief did not approve of Norimgic's poetry-it is all love songs, because he wants to attract the females. Myself, I make the war chant, the kind that makes bugbears bang their heads with clubs or other bugbears. You know, the kind of chant that rouses the blood."

"It sounds very exciting," Sanval said.

"A good thump-thump beat is necessary," Osteroric said. "But Norimgic's songs move the blood as well. With passion of a different sort."

Norimgic, who must have understood the Common tongue even if he did not speak it, coughed to clear his throat and then broke into a long, drawn-out caterwaul that caused Archlis to glance over his shoulder. The magelord fingered one of the charms on his cloak, and Norimgic shut his mouth with a snap.

"That man has no appreciation for the songs of adoration." Osteroric sighed. "That song begins 'love is a nightmare, a thousand sword cuts can never sting so much; a hard heart makes for hard times.' In Fottergrim's camp, they often call for Norimgic to sing another someone-betrayed-someone love song."

Sanval was now positive that he wanted to know nothing more about the love lives of bugbears, but, always polite, he replied, "I regret that I do not speak any of the dialects that Norimgic uses for his love songs and thus cannot not fully appreciate his poetry." Like most gentlemen of Procampur, Sanval's tutor had tried to drum a little literature into his head between training in the sword and horseback riding. "I remember something from my lessons about a fashionable form of poetry, very popular with courting gentlemen and ladies, that consisted of one eight-line verse and an answering six-line verse."

Osteroric said that sounded fascinating although he continued to argue in favor of Hackermic's style of a five-line verse using rhythms created by two short syllables followed by one long one.

Now that friendly conversation had been established, Sanval began to consider how he might be able to sway the bugbears to his side. With great courtesy, he turned down Osteroric's offer of a bent knife for his breastplate, pointing out that his armor had been most excellently made by the best smiths in Procampur. Such armor had not only the natural strengths of the steel plate to keep its owner safe, but also came with certain standard magical protections against arrows laid into it. Such protection was hard to come by, especially underground, and Sanval would prefer to wear it himself-or so he told Osteroric.

"You can keep the chain mail," said Osteroric. "It is too small for me."

"Still, I would not trade my armor for something of lesser value," said Sanval, in as reasonable a tone as possible, because Osteroric was at least a head taller than him and bulging with muscles clearly visible under his furry skin. Remembering one former tutor's advice to know one's enemy, he added, "Why would so powerful a being as yourself need more armor?"

"You will see," said Osteroric with a shiver. Norimgic gave a snarl that almost ended with a whimper. The big bugbear patted his brother on the arm. Norimgic began to chide Osteroric in a series of snarls and growls.

"He thinks that I am too friendly to humans," translated Osteroric. "Blind trust in the honor of soft-skinned bipeds is what got us here in the first place, he says. By that he means that we should never have listened to Archlis when he promised to fill our bellies with more meat than we had ever tasted. Still, it was better than what Fottergrim offered us. He threatened to take off our heads and stuff them down our throats if we lost Archlis in the ruins one more time."