Casberry asked how many warriors Tol expected to face. Argonnel answered her.

“The emperor has lost many men to the bakali, I’ve heard,” said the commander of the Iron Scythe Horde. “But I reckon he can draw upon eighty to a hundred hordes.”

Casberry reached for a grape. “Sounds like you’ll need every friend you’ve got.”

“No. None but Ergothians can ride with us to Daltigoth.”

Tol’s quiet, blunt declaration put an end to all merriment. Hanira dabbed her lips with a silken scarf-Ergothians knowing nothing of napkins-and said, “Are you certain, my lord? You’re giving up much good help.”

“It must be so. Your pardon, Syndic, but the presence of foreign troops would change the way our approach is perceived. Instead of patriots and liberators, we’d be seen as invaders.”

“Rebels,” rumbled Zanpolo. “Which we are not!”

“Victors can style themselves any way they choose,” Hanira said. “Losers only die.” She toyed with the goblet before her, turning it slowly in her fingers. “You know the Pakin Pretender is in Caergoth, don’t you?”

Her words struck like well-timed slaps.

“What Pakin Pretender?” Egrin demanded. “The last claimant was slain twenty years ago, in the reign of Pakin III!”

“He had children, did he not?”

Trudo, eldest of the warlords, said, “Three that I know of. All daughters.”

“The youngest, Mellamy Zan, is twenty-five. For the past dozen years she’s lived in Tarsis. She’s come to Caergoth.”

Argonnel leaped to his feet, hand on his sword hilt. “You did this, trickster! You brought the Pakin infection with you from Tarsis!”

Hanira looked up at the red-faced man. “Upon my word as a syndic of the city, I did not,” she said.

Tol curtly told Argonnel to sit down. Once he had, Hanira explained that she’d placed spies among Mellamy Zan’s followers soon after the Pakin princess arrived in Tarsis more than twelve years ago. The troubles in Ergoth had encouraged the new Pretender to leave Tarsis with a small entourage. She had entered Caergoth only yesterday, before Tol arrived.

“Where is she?” Argonnel growled. “Tell us where to find her, and we’ll settle the Pakins for once and all!”

Hanira looked down the long table at Tol. “Well, my lord?”

All eyes turned to Tol. His gaze was locked with the syndic’s. She knew his fragile alliance of disgruntled warlords could not hold against the threat of a new Pakin rebellion. She knew, too, he would loathe having to kill someone who had committed no crime, but who could cause untold trouble in the future. Hanira was positioning herself cleverly. If Tol asked, she could have Mellamy Zan assassinated. The gratitude of the warlords would be enormous. So would her influence in Ergoth.

But there was one fact about the Pakin Pretender that Tol knew he could use to his advantage. “A woman?” he said, forcing a patronizing smile. “One princess is not that important. Still, I’m sure there’s room aplenty in the citadel for another prisoner. So yes, Syndic, I would like to know where Mellamy Zan is.”

Her maneuver had failed. Hanira dissembled politely, promising to put the Pretender in Tol’s hands.

Chief Voyarunta announced himself ready to return home. He’d seen quite enough of the grasslands and its cities of stone. He didn’t say it in so many words, but it was plain he regarded Ergoth as immoral and decadent. The fighting was good, but there was too much plotting and treachery.

“And too many noisy women,” he said.

“You fathered two of the noisiest!” Queen Casberry snorted. There was laughter while Miya flushed and Kiya scowled.

It was agreed, after more wrangling, that all Tol’s foreign friends would depart before the final ride to Daltigoth. Hanira and her Tarsans would leave immediately. Voyarunta and the Dom-shu would remain until Tol left Caergoth, then they would depart. This would allow the chief’s wound to heal before beginning the long trek back to the Great Green.

Around midnight, as the party was breaking up, Tol announced that the Army of the East would depart for Daltigoth in five days. The warlords were startled. It seemed a very short time to organize and equip so momentous an expedition.

In reply, Tol quoted one of Ackal Ergot’s favorite maxims: “ ‘Suffer or strike, strike or be struck.’ Until we know where the imperial hordes are, and what’s happened to the bakali, we can’t risk being trapped here. For all we know, the emperor could be at our gates tomorrow.”

On that cheerful note, the guests departed. As servants moved in to clear the table and snuff the torches, Tol took Tylocost aside for a private word.

The elf had said little during the meal. His head seemed oddly bereft without his gardener’s hat.

“You’re not going to Daltigoth either,” Tol told him. “I have another task for you. Find out from Syndic Hanira where the Pakin Pretender is. Get the princess-alive-out of Caergoth. Go wherever you like, but send me word of your location once you alight.”

Tylocost’s pale eyes showed a glimmer of interest. “What is your plan, my lord?”

“Only to avoid another civil war. Killing one princess won’t solve anything. But-” He drew a deep breath. “But having a Pakin in reserve may add weight to my dealings with Ackal V.”

Given the marriage habits of high Ergothian nobility, there were scores of Pakins scattered throughout the empire and border regions. Valaran herself was of Pakin blood. Killing Mellamy Zan was no answer; any of her kin could incite a revolt by claiming the throne, if they could gather enough followers. However, having the chief claimant as hostage might have a chilling effect on any warlords who backed her on Ackal V. With the Pretender in his clutches, Tol could use fear of a Pakin uprising to keep the emperor in check.

“You’re putting a great responsibility in my hand,” Tylocost said. “Do you trust me that much?” “You’re the man for the deed.”

Tylocost bowed his head. “I will do as you bid, my lord.” All the nearby torches had been extinguished. A candle on the table reached its last mark and went out. The Silvanesti, silhouetted by the remaining light, said, “I must retire, my lord. I have a task at dawn.”

Tol had an inkling what the task was. “Shall I come?” “Thank you, my lord, but the rite is for Silvanesti only.” Though Zala had been only half-elven, in death such distinctions no longer seemed to matter.

Four laborers, hired in Caergoth, dug a deep hole on a hilltop northwest of the city. It was the same hill on which Tylocost had observed Caergoth when he’d first arrived. The treasure caravan was long gone, safely stowed in the citadel.

Dawn was a pale promise on the eastern horizon as Tylocost paid off the diggers and sent them home. He assured them he did not need them to stay and fill in the hole “after.”

The laborers’ two-wheeled cart creaked away, and Tylocost was finally alone among the widely spaced oaks. The grave held two shrouded bodies. Zala would not sleep alone. Her father, Kaeph, had passed away not long after his daughter. His cough was pneumonia, and the Caergoth healers could not save him. He spoke only once, to ask for his child. Miya was sitting with him at the time. She assured him he would be with his daughter very soon. The Dom-shu woman spoke only the truth to the dying man.

Tylocost pressed his palms together and began to chant an ancient Silvanesti song. It was the Wath-Ranata, a hymn for those who perish far from the sacred homeland. He sang it for Zala. The gods would forgive him for performing the hymn in the presence of the human. Tylocost would not part father and daughter again.

The song was long. He sang it as the sun lifted itself above the horizon and washed the land with heat. Bluish gray clouds hovered in the west. The weather would be foul for the ride to Daltigoth.