Slowly, warily, the master of Nedragaard Keep gained control of the clamor. He listened for hours as his subjects spoke of him, as he would many times in the coming days. From those confused, fractured exchanges he plucked bits of his story that he had forgotten. These divers tales could not completely mend the death knight's ravaged memory; there was too much of his life that the peasants did not know. Yet each new breach that was filled, every gap bridged, let him realize how much of himself he had lost and made him all the more certain he would recover every bit of his forgotten life.

Evening at Veidrava usually found the day-shift miners and their spouses at Ambrose's store. The place was more than a market; it was a meeting hall and tavern, even a hospital when circumstances demanded. On most nights, people crowded together in knots, trading tales of woe or laughing at execrable jokes. The men congregated at the makeshift bar Ambrose set up in the empty area used for gatherings and weddings and such. They talked of the pit. The women milled in the store proper, poking through the knicknacks and sundries, discussing life aboveground. Grubby children dashed between the two camps, and everywhere else, until Kern or Ogier or one of the other "regulars" chased them outside.

That was before Azrael commenced his hunt for agents of the White Rose.

The dwarf had always been an unwelcome presence at the mine. He was brutal and prompted the pit bosses to be the same. The seneschal had ears in every wall, it seemed. Sometimes he would recite the most intensely private conversations as if he had been right in the room when they'd been spoken.

Now, though, Azrael and his police-the Politskara, he called them-loomed large over every aspect of life at Veidrava. He recruited the most vicious of the pit bosses, the toughest miners, and most feared soldiers. It was their job to root out traitors. They suspected everyone of subversion, of secretly supporting the White Rose and her Thorns. When they found the least bit of evidence to support that suspicion, people simply disappeared.

The workers and their families feared the Politskara like nothing Ambrose had ever seen. Worse, they'd come to mistrust their friends and neighbors. Old grudges prompted brothers to inform on their brothers, wives to turn in their husbands. Almost no one came to Ambrose's now. It was better to stay at home and wait for the reign of terror to end.

This night only a half-dozen or so stalwart souls lingered at the store. Ambrose, Kern, and Ogier hunched over the bar, arguing their way through a game of Stones and Bones. The three were all but inseparable and had been ever since they'd first gone down the pit together. Only Ambrose's accident kept them apart during the day. The other two still went down the mine, as they had every sunrise for the past thirty years.

Ganelon slumped against the store's counter, fighting off boredom. Two women were picking over Ambrose's supply of cloth, and a rag-clad little girl, some maltreated miner's child, wandered in and out of the aisles. Ganelon suspected she was hiding from someone by the way she looked over her shoulder at every odd noise. She also kept the hood of her threadbare cloak pulled up around her fine-boned face. Probably on the run from some drunken lout of a father, Ganelon mused. Still, he watched her carefully, in case her skittishness proved the sign of an inexperienced thief.

A sudden cough of Ambrose's phlegmy laughter startled Ganelon out of his scrutiny.

"Here's a first," Ambrose wheezed. "Ogier comes out the victor in a battle of wits!"

The big man nodded proudly. "That's a bottle of Malaturno you owe me," Ogier said. The prize was a dear one, wine from an obscure Invidian vineyard.

Kern still stared down at the remnants of the game. "Bleat away," he said, tugging at his thin beard. His foul mood radiated from him like heat from a well-banked stove. "I still think you've pulled the wool over my eyes somewhere here, Sheep."

Ogier's thick head of curls, now gone white with age, had inspired that nickname. His gentleness made it stick. From Kern's lips, though, the name was a direct comment upon Ogier's low intelligence. The big man's smile drooped into a pout.

Kern regretted the insult the moment he saw its effect upon his friend. "Two bottles," he offered. "If you think you're a big enough boy to handle that much-and Ambrose can provide the goods."

A decade past, Kern might have trekked across the border himself for the prize. He always was the most adventurous of the trio. Like Ambrose and Ogier, though, concern for Helain kept him closer to home these days

The shopkeep clapped the smaller man on the shoulder. "Ill see what I can do," he said. "The Vistani haven't been much for trading with me since Magda died, and no one else is going to be caught dead bartering at the border. How about another game? See if you two can even things up and save me the trouble."

The store's main doors burst open. One of the wooden panels shattered; it fell to the floor like so much kindling.

Framed by the doorjamb were two of Azrael's Politskara. The miners knew one of them, a heartless tough named Markel who'd been conscripted from the pit. He brandished a small silver axe. Each politska carried one, though Markel seemed intent on using his every chance he got. Hence the shattered door.

The other was an elf. He regarded Ambrose, Ganelon, even Markel with a look of open disdain. Azrael hadn't exempted the citizens of Mal-Erek, Hroth, or Har-Thelen from service; the wild elves were their enemies, too, though it was hard to imagine them despising the savages any more thoroughly than they did the humans.

"We have a report of a stranger hereabouts," Markel announced. "Seen on your doorstep, in fact."

The pair offered no more of an explanation before splitting up to search the store. They pulled Ganelon from behind the counter and shoved him roughly to the floor. When he tried to protest, the elf kicked him in the ribs. "You've gotta teach the boy manners," Markel shouted to Ambrose.

The two politskae moved on, shoving aside any barrel or crate in their way, causing as much casual chaos as they could manage. When they came to the two women, they snatched the cloth bags that held their purchases.

"Sorry to have to do this, dears," Markel said as he upended the sacks. He poked through the scattered contents with the toe of his boot, searching for the white rose carried by the Thorns.

"I've never even seen a white rose," one of the women cried.

"No one around here has," her friend added, "not in ten years."

"The Politskara knows otherwise," Markel said smugly. He slapped both women hard enough to drive them to their knees.

Ganelon watched the brutality with growing anger and indignation. He pushed himself from the floor. Someone has to stop this, he decided. His hands curled into fists, and he took a step toward Markel.

"Don't even think about it, son," Ambrose warned in a quiet tone. He wrapped one flabby arm around the young man's shoulder. "You've got to remember your promise to Helain and stay out of trouble. That oath might be the only thing she has to hold on to. Let them break a few chairs, feel big about themselves. They'll be gone soon enough."

Helain's name struck Ganelon like a dash of ice water. For her sake, and his own honor, he would stay true to his oath.

"All right," the young man growled. He moved to the counter, limping heavily on his left leg. He still didn't know how he'd injured himself, but whatever strain or sprain he'd suffered wasn't getting any better. At the moment, it felt as if unseen hands were twisting the limb, wringing it like a wet cloth.

Markel didn't bother to interrogate Ogier or Kern. Instead, he headed up the wooden stairs to the second floor. Ganelon turned pleading eyes toward Ambrose, begging for permission to act.