Perhaps she'd been hasty in striking Jollya. Jealousy over a man who was now beyond the reach of either of them was foolish. But once she'd struck, there was no way back. Jollya could no longer be trusted, perhaps not to obey, certainly not to keep her mouth shut. Siharma would do well enough in the Women's Guard, and meanwhile Jollya would make a good hostage for her father's loyalty. It also meant a clear road to Manro, and that was becoming more important each day. If the loyalty of the men was beginning to fray, Manro's death at the hands of the Elstani would repair much of the damage. It would fill most of the men with a burning desire for vengeance on the Elstani, and remove the king as a possible rallying point for anyone who became discontented.

Blade was rubbing animal fat on his blistered feet when the refugee family arrived with word of Tressana's camp. His feet were as tough as leather, and it took a good deal to get them blistered, but keeping up with vengeance-driven Elstani was enough. Daimarz considered thirty miles a day no more than healthy exercise. Blade had met only one other people who could cover ground as fast on foot, the tall warriors of Zunga. When he set off Blade doubted that any men on foot could hunt a mounted enemy. Now he suspected that a well-fed Elstani could move faster than a hungry rolgha, and certainly the enemy's mounts were hungry.

Daimarz listened to the refugees for only a minute before calling Blade over to hear the rest of their story. It took a while, because the father was always interrupting himself to ask Blade if he could join the raiders in their attack. Blade kept refusing to make any promises to a man half-mad with rage, exhaustion, and hunger.

Tressana was no more than ten miles away, and had King Manro with her. Blade recognized both banners from the man's description. She had four or five hundred armed men with her, and twice as many gaunt rolghas.

Daimarz was in no mood to count the odds, and after a while he was able to convince Blade. The Elstani could march the ten miles, strike, and be safely away between sunset and dawn. In Jaghdi clothes they would be hard to recognize as enemies in the darkness. With surprise on their side and all their strength concentrated on striking down the queen, Tressana would be doomed. His desire for vengeance wasn't keeping Daimarz from thinking clearly. Blade went along with him partly because of this. The raid really wasn't as suicidal as it seemed. He also went along because it was his only way of getting to the queen, even if there wasn't any way of getting out.

It was nearly sunset. If they started now they would be approaching the camp before midnight. Blade and Daimarz started going down the list of their men, picking the best sixty. With surprise that would be enough. Without surprise there weren't enough Elstani closer than the Kettle of the Winds to make the attack. Everyone would carry a sword or a spear, half would be carrying crossbows, and six would be carrying pots of the Living Fire. They'd brought it along at Blade's suggestion, in spite of Daimarz's protests that it would slow them down.

«I told you we'd find a use for it,» said Blade cheerfully, as he sharpened his sword. «If we can stampede the rest of Tressana's rolghas, it hardly matters whether she dies or not. She'll have to go home. After a disaster like this, her own subjects may lose their patience with her.» Blade realized that if Tressana returned home safely, Jaghd would not be thrown into chaos. The Jaghdi would be able to find someone to take her place in a peaceful and orderly fashion, which they couldn't do if she was simply murdered by the Elstani.

«Maybe,» said Daimarz, wrapping his feet in clean cloths before pulling on his boots. «But people who could follow that woman in the first place-I won't trust them. Not now. I'll trust these and not much else.» He rested one hand on his sword and the other on a pot of the Living Fire.

Something was wrong tonight. Manro knew it. He felt it in the air, heard it in the voices of the women guarding him, saw it in their faces. The gods were going to strike tonight at Tressana herself. They'd already struck the men who rode away from her, hoping to escape. Now it was the bad woman's turn. So pretty, but bad.

Where was Jollya? Dark Jollya would protect him, if he could find her. But he could find her only if he got loose from the chain on his ankle. How could he do that? He remembered that chains were fastened by locks, and locks had keys, but only the person who had the key could open the lock. He didn't have the key, so he would have to wait until the person with it came to him.

But what if the person didn't come before the gods did? He might be hurt too, because the gods would think anybody near Pretty Tressana had also done bad things like her. Even Dark Jollya might get hurt, although she hadn't done anything bad at all!

Manro whimpered. He had to get out of his chain, find Jollya, and escape from the gods with her.

Chapter 23

Tressana was drunk, because the wine bad gone down on a nearly empty stomach. She wasn't feeling cold or tired any more. In fact, she had new strength. She decided to go over to the treasure tent and have a short talk with Jollya. Some of that talk might be conducted with a sharp knife-perhaps even a hot one.

«Siharma! Give me four of your people. I'm going over to the treasure tent.»

«Yes, Your Grace.»

Tressana's hands shook as she picked the knives. Traitor, traitor, traitor! went the scream in her mind. She wasn't sure if she was screaming at Jollya or at Richard Blade.

Maybe when Jollya was also screaming she'd know.

The rain had stopped but the wind was rising. That was just as good for the raiders, although it had come too late to help them dry out. The sound of the wind would muffle their footsteps from sentries who could still be more concerned about keeping comfortable than with keeping watch. With surprise on their side the sixty Elstani could hardly fail. At least they could hardly fail by Daimarz's standards, which meant killing Tressana and be damned to everything else! Blade knew his own standards were different, but knew even better that he had to keep them to himself.

Blade lay on his stomach, feeling the chill of the ground eating through his clothing, and peered out at the camp from under a bush. The leaves of the bush were faded and brittle; autumn was definitely coming to Jaghd. The center of the camp was lit up by a fire that flickered and danced in the wind, throwing twisted shadows onto the tents and making the tents themselves seem to change shape with every gust of wind. The sentries' fires on the edges of the camp were much smaller, barely large enough to let a man warm cold hands and feet.

As far as Blade was concerned, the less light and the more cold the sentries had, the better. He shifted position to make room for Daimarz as the woodcutter crawled up and lay down beside him. «We're ready, Blade.»

«Has Borokku gone back?»

«Cursing every step of the way, but he's gone.»

«Good.» Borokku had twisted his ankle, so they'd ordered him to escort Lorma and the farmer who'd guided them back out of danger. Borokku wasn't at all happy over this order. He felt that a glider flight and six dead Jaghdi still wasn't enough vengeance for his dead sister Kima. Blade and Daimarz felt differently, and once again superior rank got results.

Blade was especially determined not to get Lorma killed. It would be a poor reward for her loyalty, with the end of the war so close. If he got killed tonight, Borokku's orders were to release Lorma and let her make her way back to freedom in the forest of Binaark.

«You remember your own advice, Blade,» said Daimarz, putting a hand on the Englishman's arm. «You're probably the man the Jaghdi would most like to kill. You don't have to be out in front all the time.»