"What'll you have?"

The barkeeper looked up as Cam entered, and he looked down again just as quickly when he saw that Cam's sword was sheathed. Cam put two copper pieces on the bar.

"Give me an ale." The barkeeper slid the tankard across the bar and Cam settled himself where he could watch the door. Near the fire, a pox-faced bard warbled through an old ballad. The inn's patrons were too drunk or too engrossed in their chatter to care how often the bard's voice cracked or how flat his lyre was.

There'd been rumors that the divisionists met here, although as Cam looked around the room, none of the small groups of patrons seemed likely conspirators. If most looked up from their dice or their ale, it was to leer at the serving girls, who were as shopworn as the inn. A candlemark passed, then two. Cam kept an ear open to the conversations around him.

"Heard that grain's going to cost double by summer," a trader mused at the next table.

"What do you expect, after the trouble in Margolan? Lucky if we've got bread on the table by spring," his companion said.

"Don't mind going without bread, but I'd hate to see us run out of mead," the trader replied.

"From the taste of this rubbish, the bar here ran out of mead a while ago. And the bread is stale enough to use for a brick. Fah. A couple of coppers used to buy more."

Cam rose and let himself out the back door, heading for the privy. It was a sorry looking shack that stank even in the frigid air. Its rickety door was barely solid enough to screen its user from view and did nothing to stop the wind. Finished with his business, Cam was about to open the privy door when he heard voices nearby.

"What have you heard?"

"It's all been arranged. The Lord's got his man in place in Margolan—couldn't pay me enough in Trevath gold to live in that damned haunted castle."

"What do you want us to do?"

"Keep the guards hopping. Enough fires and street fights and Donelan will be too busy to bother about what's happening in Margolan."

"How do we know Margolan won't just march an army over to keep peace if Donelan can't handle it?" .

"The Margolan army is busy. The Lord saw to that. Once King Martris is out of the way, you can have your princess back—and whatever brat she's carrying as a bonus. You get yours, we get ours—nice and tidy."

Cam waited until the .men had gone. He was chilled through, but his mind raced at the "conversation. One of the men had the hint of a Trevath accent. What does does a Trev care about Isencroft's crown? He's got no cause with the divisionists—unless it's to keep us busy while Tris goes to war. Cam went back to the inn long enough to warm up once more, and was about to head home when someone bumped against him.

Just as quickly, Cam knew the bag of coins at his belt was gone. A skinny boy leaped over a bench and bolted out of the door. Cam shouldered his way through the crowd in pursuit, catching sight of the boy half a block down the street. For a man his size, Cam moved with surprising speed, and he tackled the boy before the pickpocket could disappear into one of the side streets.

"Take your poxy coins!" the boy said, squirming in Cam's grip. "Just don't turn me in to the guards. I've had enough trouble lately."

"Answer a couple of questions, and I might not hand you over. Seen anyone around the Stray Dog with a Trevath accent?"

The boy wiped at some blood at the corner of his lip and glared at Cam. "Maybe."

"Seen any Trevath gold around?"

"Maybe."

Cam shook his head and started to hoist the pickpocket to his feet. "With a memory like that, there's no reason not to turn you in—"

"All right. Yes. Name is Ruggs. Looks like the kind who has a different name in every tavern, if you get my meaning. Shows up every fortnight. I seen him talking with Leather John. He's a bad seed. On busy days, the innkeeper gives me a few coppers to feed the horses out back. Once I overheard a bit of what Leather John and Ruggs was saying. Leather John said his boys needed more money for weapons. Said they had to move about to keep from getting caught. From the way he talked, I figured he doesn't fancy our princess marrying up a foreigner. Ruggs gave Leather John a pouch. Told him to step it up, burn more. Said his boss wanted to make sure Isencroft kept out of other people's business. Didn't rightly know what he meant, but then the old grocer's place went up in flames the next night."

Cam's fingers were growing numb from the cold and his grip on the pickpocket's shirt. "Did you hear anything else? A name? A place?"

"Just one. Lord somebody. Don't recall the name."

Cam relieved the pickpocket of the stolen pouch and then took out a silver coin and held it up. "When do you go back to work at the stable again?"

The pickpocket eyed the coin. "Next week. Why?"

"What's your name?"

"Which one?"

"The one they know you bv at the Stray Dog."

"Kev."

"All right, Kev. The next time you work at the inn, keep an eye out for Leather John and Ruggs. Go feed the horses, take a leak, bring them an ale—whatever you have to do to get close to them. I'll pay you a silver for the information. Mind that it's not something you made up, or I'll know and you'll be out in the stocks at the guard house. It gets mighty cold at night."

"I understand," Kev snapped. He shook free of Cam's grip.

"Find out where Ruggs goes when he leaves the Dog, and there's another silver in it for you. Don't get caught. Can't imagine a guy like that would take it well."

"How will I find you?"

"I'll find you."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

" I wish things could be different." Kiara said, watching Tris fasten his heavy cloak. Below their window, in the courtyard, she could already hear the clamor of the army readying to leave for war.

Tris wrapped his arms around her and kissed her, lingering in the moment. She didn't need a healer's gift to recognize the tension in his shoulders. The campaign was unlikely to move smoothly. "So do I. But we both know there's no choice."

A month had passed since their wedding, just long enough for the healers to be certain that she carried the child of the king. Just a few days before, the same courtyard had been filled with cheering people as Zachar, weak and barely able to return to his duties, announced that the king and queen were expecting. All the hope and happiness that announcement should have brought were dimmed by the knowledge that it meant Tris was now free to wage war.

"You have Cerise and Malae to look after you," Tris said, stroking Kiara's hair. "Zachar's not well, but Crevan's handled things so far. Mikhail will be here to help, Carroway and Harrtuck will watch out for you. And the dogs will keep you company." He absently reached down to touch the wolfhound's head as the big dog nosed in between them, jealous for attention. "I've asked Comar Hassad to have'the ghosts watch over you as well. You'll be safe here." He forced a smile. "You both will."

"It's you I'm worried about," Kiara said, reluctantly stepping back from their embrace. "You're a king now. And a father. Don't take any foolish chances."

"Did Soterius tell you to say that? He and Mikhail have been lecturing me for days now. Ban wants to keep me so far behind the lines that I won't even be able to see Curane's manor. With luck, we'll break them quickly and it won't come to outright war."

They both knew that was unlikely. "You have a reason to come back in one piece," she said quietly.

"More than one. But I can't leave Curane in place. He's not just a threat to me, and to Margolan, but he's also a threat to the next king—or queen—as well."

"I know. But I don't have to like it."

"Neither do I." A knock at the door made him hurry to gather his cloak. He was dressed for the outside cold, with a winter-weight tunic and trews beneath his mail shirt. A breastplate with the king's coat of arms blazoned across his chest. The rest of his armor—and that of the army—waited in the long train of wagons outside the courtyard. The knock came again, more insistent this time.