As Nebon vanished, Serana finally got her voice back. She shook herself like a wet dog and said unsteadily, «W-what can this mean, Blade? He-he is here in Morina. Yet-he did not sign our agreement, What are we going to do about him, Blade? What can we do?»

Blade shook his head slowly, trying not to laugh at Serana's confusion. It would be cruel, and besides, he suspected that if he started laughing now he might not be able to stop.

Finally, he said, «I don't know what 'we' are going to do. I am not going to be a part of anything you do. I must be on my way. Serana, my lady-Nebon Bossir is going to be your problem.»

Chapter 23

Just to make everything more complicated, Count Drago Bossir began a miraculous recovery when his long-lost grandson returned. His fever left him, he called for wine and beef, and over the meal he told Nebon of the agreement over the succession to Morina.

Serana was not much happier over Count Drago's recovery than she was over Nebon's return. However, there was nothing she could do about either one, particularly not after Nebon's outlaws moved into the city to guard him.

Perhaps Serana had even given up the thought of doing anything drastic about the Bossirs. Blade certainly hoped so. He did know that she would have very little time for plotting. Morina was a shambles, and there were thousands of wounded; and thousands more widows and orphans. In spite of her ambitions and her bloodthirsty streak, Serana knew her duties to these people.

Repairing the damage of the war would keep Serana busy for quite a while. Making sure Morina got its proper share of the spoils of the war would take even longer. In theory, all the newly independent leaders of Rentoro ought to be overflowing with gratitude to Morina for its heroic stand against the Wolves. In practice, Blade knew that few politicians in any Dimension ever gave anybody anything out of pure gratitude.

By the time Serana had time to think of intrigue, she would probably know Nebon Bossir quite well. Blade expected she could also come to like him. He seemed to be an abler man than his younger brother, or at least a great deal more sophisticated. He lacked Zemun's charm, of course, and he had a bloodthirsty streak that matched Serana's. After five years as the disguised leader of a band of desperate outlaws, he could hardly be gentle and kind. In time he and Serana should be able to marry, and the succession to Morina would be safe. Zemun's son, or theirs, would someday reign as duke-as long as they didn't work off their bloodthirsty streaks on each other!

As an additional precaution, Blade sat down in a long private conference with Haymi Razence. When they rose from the table, Razence understood clearly the need for a third party in Morina, a neutral man who was neither Bossir nor Zotair and had armed men at his command. He was willing to be that third party-and Blade was willing to believe he would do the job well.

Two nights later, Blade saddled up the stoutest heuda he could find in Morina, and rode out of the city. He rode fully armed and armored, and in his belt pouch were half a dozen sky-bridge crystals. His destination was the Wizard's castle, and hopefully the Wizard himself.

Blade rode across a land where law and order were coming apart. It was not pretty to see everyone trying to grab the most from the collapse of the Wizard's rule. At times Blade felt a heavy burden of responsibility for this situation. If he hadn't taken a hand, the Wizard might still be ruling in Rentoro and none of this would be happening.

On the other hand, twenty thousand people in Morina would be dead or slaves in the Wizard's castle and mines. This chaos would also have happened if the Wizard left Rentoro and came back to Home Dimension. In fact, the chaos would have been worse, because the Wolves would still have been strong and determined to fight to the last. Nothing was happening now that wouldn't have happened sooner or later.

Blade rode by night and stayed hidden by day. He rode as fast as he could, avoiding other people as much as possible. He stole his food and drink and fresh heudas, and preferred to outrun bandits and stray Wolves rather than fight them. Few challenged him anyway. He looked too tough and well-armed.

Blade was not sure what he was going to find when he reached the Wizard's palace. He was not even completely sure what he expected to find. Certainly the Wizard would hardly feel grateful toward him. On the other hand, the Wizard had been willing to give up his power for the simple chance of returning to Renaissance Italy and finishing his days as Bernardo Sembruzo, Conde di Pietroverde. If he was sane, he could hardly be ready to strike down Blade merely for ending the power that he himself had been so willing to give up.

But was he sane? Suppose a madman waited in the Wizard's castle? A madman, whose power to reach and enslave other people's minds might still be intact?

Then Blade might be riding to his death. He fingered the hilt of his dagger. His original decision still stood. Death would be better than letting the Wizard get control of his mind. It would be a grim and foolish irony to have to kill himself now, after living through the battle of Morina. It would be still worse to become the Wizard's mental slave, living in a shadow world created by his master. In time the Rentorans might storm the castle, slay the Wizard, and free the body of Richard Blade. He doubted they would also be able to free his mind. Far better a quick, clean death here and now.

It was normally two weeks' travel from Morina to the Wizard's castle. Blade made the journey in ten days, in spite of the disorder spreading across Rentoro. The «armies» sent out by the cities and towns were hardly more than mobs, and Blade usually found it easy to give them a wide berth.

The few times he got close to one of them, he had a mild surprise. Three times he saw men in unmistakable Wolf armor, just as unmistakably giving orders and being obeyed. Why not? Blade thought. The Wolves were about the only people in Rentoro with real military training. Vengeance was all very well in its place, but someone was certain to realize that the Wolves were too valuable to kill. Then the Wolves in turn must have realized they had a skill to sell, or at least trade for their lives. Blade wondered if in time the surviving Wolves would emerge as a regular class of professional mercenaries, like the condottieri of Renaissance Italy. The Wizard would appreciate that final irony, if he managed to be around to see it!

As Blade approached the Wizard's territory, the marching armies faded away and even the refugees and bandits became fewer. Most of the people around here seemed to be already dead or else scattered to whatever safety they could find elsewhere in Rentoro. The few Blade talked to spoke of a terrible curse fallen on the Wizard's castle-fire, thunder, plague, Wolves and servants alike going mad. Blade did not believe all the stories, but it certainly seemed that something ugly had been going on at the castle. He began to wonder if the Wizard was still alive.

On the ninth day he was only a few miles north of Peloff, and he decided to risk pressing on in the daylight. That brought him another surprise, much greater than seeing Wolves leading Rentoro's armies and much more pleasant.

He was trotting through an orchard when suddenly a shout ahead made him pull up. Then five helmeted heads rose from behind a stone wall on the far side of the orchard. A woman's head rose beside them, and at the sight of her Blade stopped his wild grab for his sword.

«Lorya! What are you doing here?»

Lorya laughed and whispered quickly in the ear of one of the men. He motioned to his followers to lay down their weapons, and all five men crowded around Blade's heuda. Lorya stood to one side, and Blade saw that she was now tanned and toughened like leather, her hair cut even shorter than before. She wore a loose tunic and baggy trousers, and no on would have taken her for a woman, except for one thing. Her swordbelt was let out to its last notch to accommodate an unmistakable swelling of her waist.