"I sent them away because the girl needs a stern hand and I know of no one more suited to the task than Lady Monteith. Lady Montei-th can turn that slip of a girl into the mother of a king and show her the proper way to raise a prince. When the boy is older, Lord Monteith can introduce him to the Trevath court. It's about time King Nikolaj realized that I've presented him with an outstanding opportunity."

"The fact remains that we're as hard pressed inside the walls as the Margolan army is outside," General Drostan said. "It's true that with fewer villagers our firewood and supplies have lasted longer, but the villagers who are still alive are getting desperate. They fear the plague more than the army outside. I don't have the guards to put down an insurrection and fight a siege."

"Then take hostages. Separate out the essential workers and guarantee their compliance by taking their families as surety. You're a military man, Drostan. You can figure this out."

"With all due respect, Lord Curane, the battle has gone hard on 'military men.' We lost General Arnalt when the East tower collapsed in the bombardment. General Eddig burned with his garrison when one of the fireballs hit the south wallwalk. General Nerin lost an eye to shrapnel. Siencen and I are the only two generals still uninjured. Our ranks are down by a third. There's precious little room to dodge boulders inside stone walls," Droston said.

"Are we beaten so easily by a boy king?" Curane thundered. "Every day, Martris Drayke becomes more vulnerable. His army weakens. And while he's busy here, our man at Shekerishet grows closer to solving another problem.

"The net's tightening around the new queen. And as it does, our partners in Isen-croft are making sure that Donelan is far too busy with his own problems to worry about Margolan." Curane smiled. "Great plans take time. Just a while longer, and we'll be the regents behind the crown—not just of Margolan, but of Isencroft as well. A handsome payoff for a bit of messy work, wouldn't you say?"

"I learned a long time ago that a soldier should never count on his pay until the battle's been fought," Drosten replied. "Especially when magic's involved."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The Isencroft night was bitter cold. Cam secured his horse at a hitching post down the street from the Stray Dog Inn, tethering him lightly for a quick departure. He looked at the brightly lit windows and sighed. Although a few minutes by the fire and a mug of ale would feel good, he decided that it was best to avoid being seen too often inside the inn. He'd worked out a way to leave a message for Kev— a com on an unused back shelf in the stable was the signal for a meeting the following night at eighth bells.

For two months, Kev had watched and reported. The bit of information the stable boy provided had helped Cam piece together details of the divisionists—and of what seemed clear to be an outside power behind them. Cam ducked down an alley, careful to make sure no one was following him. From the trampled snow and the muddy hoof prints leading into the stable, Cam guessed it was a busy night at the inn. Moonlight filtered in to the stable through cracks in the walls, catching dust in its rays.

"Kev?" Cam hissed. He drew his sword. It wasn't like Kev to be late.

"Kev's right here." A pox-faced man easily Cam's own size stepped from one of the empty stables. Kev was pinned in the big man's grip, a knife against his throat.

"Let him go."

The pox-faced man shook his head. "Too late for that."

Kev's eyes grew wide, but there was no chance for him to scream. The man behind him drew his dagger across the boy's throat in one swift movement, slitting him from ear to ear. Blood soaked Kev's shirt and his body tumbled to the floor.

"Leave him as a warning," the pox-scarred man said. He looked to Cam with a cold smile. "On the other hand, you're much too valuable a hostage to waste."

Cam's sword was ready as the two dozen men sprang from the shadows, swords drawn. Cam launched himself at the two men closest to him. He ran the first through with an inside thrust, and parried the second man's charge, taking only a cut to his forearm. A third man ran at him from behind, and Cam kicked, catching his attacker off guard and throwing him clear. He overturned a hopper of feed, filling the air with dust and momentarily blinding his attackers.

Cam coughed and sputtered, hacking at the dark shapes as they struggled through the dust. At least three men blocked the door closest to the inn, and Cam could see another three outlined in the far doorway.

"Get him."

Four fighters approached him from the right, and three more from the left. Cam stood his ground, heart pounding. Two swordsmen charged and Cam met their attack, holding them off although he was tiring quickly. He heard a stave whistle as it swung through the air, catching him across the small of his back. A mace jangled as it flew, and blinding pain radiated from Cam's right leg as the heavy spiked ball connected. He fell and a boot slammed down on his right hand, breaking his grip on his sword. Another boot kicked him hard in the ribs, snapping bone. Cam struggled for breath. Two men hauled him to his feet, and a third landed a solid punch to his jaw. Cam felt teeth loosen and his head swam.

It was over. Someone bound his wrists tightly with rough rope. One of his attackers punched him in the kidneys and Cam groaned. The silhouetted figure moved toward him.

"I expected better from the king's champion." He delivered a hard punch to Cam's stomach, and Cam doubled up, retching. "You shouldn't have come here."

"Go to the Whore."

Cam could see the man's face now. While the men who attacked him might be common thugs, everything about the man's eyes marked him as a professional.

Cam struggled to stay conscious. "Donelan won't deal with you. Not even for me."

The pox-scarred man shrugged. "We'll see." He reached out for Cam's left hand and noted the signet he wore, the crest of the King's Champion. "This will do nicely." With a jerk of his head, he directed Cam's guards to drag him over to one of the feed bins. The man forced Cam's hand flat against the bin and drew his dagger, slicing off his ring finger. "Now, Donelan will know that we're serious." He took a kerchief from his pocket and wrapped the severed finger with the ring in the piece of cloth and handed it to one of his men. "Leave this near the guard house where it'll be found. Mind that you're not seen. It should be enough to begin a conversation."

He turned his attention back to Cam. "I think our luck just turned. And so did yours."

Fading in and out of consciousness, Cam tried to count the turns and bridges as the wagon lurched along the rutted roads. Every bump jarred his broken leg, sending shooting pains from ankle to thigh. His hands were numb from the ropes that secured his wrists. He struggled to breathe with the dust. Cam could feel the roads change as the wagon rolled from the town's plank road onto the hard-packed dirt of the main road, and then onto a rough farm road. Finally, the horses stopped and two men dragged him down from the wagon. .

"Damn, he's heavy."

"Shut up and lift."

They dumped him on the floor and jerked off the hood. Cam blinked and coughed. They were in an old millhouse. In the shadows, he could hear rats. Cold winds blew though the rickety walls and up through the paddle-wheel's opening. One of the men secured Cam's wrists to the prongs of the massive gears behind him. "He's not going anywhere, not on that leg."

The pox-faced man left his conversation and walked toward Cam. "I gather you've been wanting to meet me. I'm Leather John."

"Donelan won't pay a ransom, if that's what you're after. He'll hang hostage-takers before he'll negotiate."