The man looked up at him over a stack of coins he was counting, his eyes blinking in the light of the open door. “My good fellow!” he shouted, somewhat surprised.

“Are you Baskin, sir?” asked Quentin again, startled by the man’s unusual manner.

“At your service. Indeed, yes! If it is Baskin you want, Baskin you have found. What can I do for you…” he cast a sharp, and not altogether approving glance toward Toli, “for two young sirs?”

“We are looking for a party traveling through here-through Bestou some time ago.”

The man scratched his head with a quizzical look on his face. “That could describe a fair number, I’ll warrant.”

“They were four of them altogether…”

“That helps, but not much. Many merchants travel in numbers.”

“One was a lady. Very beautiful.”

“That’s better… but no, I cannot think of anyone like that. Who did they sail with?”

“I… I do not know, sir.”

“They stayed here, you say?”

“They may have… that is, I cannot say for certain that they did. This is the last place in Bestou they could have stayed… if they did.”

“Let me see,” said Baskin, pulling his chin. “You are looking for a party who came you don’t know when, and stayed you don’t know where, and sailed with you don’t know who. Is that right?”

Quentin’s face flushed scarlet. His eyes fell to his feet.

“Oh, don’t mind me, lad. I only wanted to get the facts…”

“I am sorry to have troubled you,” said Quentin, turning to leave.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else you can think of?” Baskin inquired after them.

Quentin stopped and considered this for a moment, then said, “They were bound for Karsh.”

At the word the innkeeper jumped down from his stool and came around the table to where Quentin and Toli stood. “Shh! Do not say that name in here. Bad luck! But, hmmm…” He rubbed a long hand over his high forehead. “I seem to remember them now. Yes.”

“There were three and the lady. One tall, fidgety. Looked to be a man of quick temper. The other big, stout. Dressed like a priest somewhat, though no priest I ever saw. They had a servant of sorts with them. A sturdy man. Didn’t see much of him. And the lady-beautiful she may have been, though you couldn’t prove it by me. She wore men’s clothing all the while. Disguised, perhaps?”

“Yes, that’s them!” cried Quentin.

“So I gather. They wanted to go to… that place. Had difficulty-and who would not-finding any honest captain to take them.”

“Did they find someone?”

“Yes, I think so. They must have. They left early the first sailing day. Paid the bill the night before and were gone, along with everyone else, at dawn.”

“What day was it?” Quentin was almost breathless with relief at having found word of his friends.

“Oh, it must be ten, perhaps twelve days ago now. Yes, at least that long. Perhaps longer-let me see…” The innkeeper turned and went back to his table. A hutch stood nearby and he fished in one of the cubbyholes for a parchment which he at length brought out. “Yes. Here it is. I remember now. They left their horses with the smith up the way. I have the record now.” He pushed the paper under Quentin’s nose.

“Did they say whose ship would carry them to…”

“No, I never did hear. But there would be those who would risk such a trip for enough gold, I would think. Though many would not, as I say.”

Baskin looked confidentially at Quentin and asked, “You are not thinking of following them, are you?” He read the answer in Quentin’s eyes before Quentin could speak. “Forget it. No good can come from it. I will tell you what I told them; stay far away from that place. I told them, and I tell you. Go back to where you come from. Don’t go anywhere near that evil land. Stay away!”

THIRTY-TWO

PRINCE Jaspin swept through the ample corridors of Erlott Castle on his way to the great hall where the Council of Regents sat deadlocked for the third day. He was followed by two of his own bodyguard carrying halberds with royal pennons fluttering from the halberds’ long staves. Jaspin had chosen this moment to remind the recalcitrant regents of his power and prestige.

Behind him also marched Ontescue carrying a small ornamented casket. Next to Ontescue walked a man in the worn clothes of a soldier, hesitant of step, eyes darting everywhere as if seeking refuge for an uneasy conscience.

This parade arrived at the towering doors of the great hall, now locked and the way barred by three guards, one of whom was the marshall of the Council of Regents.

“Halt!” bellowed the marshall. “The Council is in session.”

“The Council is deadlocked,” said Prince Jaspin in his most unctuous manner. “I have with me the means they require to resolve their impasse. Let me through!”

The marshall puffed out his cheeks as if to protest when a knock on the door sounded from within. “Stand away,” he warned the Prince and turned to open the door to the summons.

“Marshall, the Council will recognize the Prince,” said Sir Bran as the door swung open slightly. He added under his breath to the Prince, “I am sorry. I only just received your signal or I would have given this featherbrain orders to admit you on sight.”

“Hmph!” the Prince snorted. “Are you ready?” Sir Bran nodded as they moved inside the door. “Are the others?”

“They know their part. You will hear them sing when the time comes. Worry not.”

Ontescue followed them through the doors, motioning for the man in soldier’s clothes to remain without. The huge door closed with a resounding crash, and all heads turned to see who had entered to disturb their deliberations.

“I protest!” shouted a voice above the murmur which accompanied the discovery that the Prince had invaded the privacy of the Council. “I protest the presence of the Prince at this meeting.” The strident voice belonged to Lord Holben who was on his feet waving an accusing finger in Jaspin’s direction.

“I come as a friend of this body and as one offering evidence which the Council requires.”

Lord Holben clenched his fists at his side and bent his head stiffly to confer with one of his friends. “The Council will provide its own evidence,” retorted Holben. There were nods all around the table.

“Of course,” smiled the Prince sweetly. “But the Council may examine any evidence brought before it from any source-if it so chooses.” More nods of agreement.

“How is it that you know this Council desires any such evidence?” asked Lord Holben. His voice was tense, barely under control. “It seems you have long ears, my Prince, but methinks they belong to a jackass!”

“That is unseemly, sir!” cried Bran. He made as if to dash across the room to where Holben stood shaking with rage.

“Good sirs, desist!” shouted Lord Naylor, leader of the Council. “The Council has the right to decide if it will admit Prince Jaspin’s evidence or no.” He turned to address the whole of the Council. “What say you, my lords?”

Starting with the chair on Lord Naylor’s right hand each regent spoke his pleasure-yea or nay, for or against admitting an examination of the Prince’s evidence. Curiosity enticed the greater number of the assemblage, and the Prince was invited to submit his proof.

“I bow to your discretion,” said the Prince, bending low. He smiled, but his eyes were stone as they cast upon Lord Holben and his dissenters.

“It has reached me that this Council stands deadlocked for want of proof of the King’s death. And though it grieves me-you know not how much-to render this sad account, I would be remiss if, having the power to end this dissent, I stood by and did nothing.”

Again murmurs of approval were voiced around the table. Jaspin picked out his paid followers, eyeing each one individually.

“I have bare hours ago received this final proof of the King’s death. And though it deals a grievous wound to us all, who have hoped against hope that we would one day see his return, it nevertheless confirms the reason for this meeting.” He raised sad eyes around the room. “It does confirm our darkest suspicions.”