Noreê would have said more, Morlock thought, but she glanced at the faces of her peers and then stood back with her arms crossed: the debate was over. She never fought to fight; she only fought to win. Morlock respected that about her.

“Then we turn to the case of the captured Khnauronts,” Lernaion said. “Death? Exile? Some third way? Speak, vocates.”

“Exile?” said Aloê. “They are not among the Guarded. They don’t belong here. We are really sending them home, if we send them anywhere.”

“Where is their home?” asked Jordel. “Shall we question them on the Witness Stone, or are they too weak for the trial?”

“My colleague and I questioned them yesterday, with the assistance of Illion and Noreê. Some did die.”

Jordel, not the most patient man in the world, was already rapping on the table before Lernaion was done speaking. “Excuse me! Excuse me! If you are asking us to settle the question, you must settle our questions first. Who are these people? Where do they come from? Who sent them here?”

Illion said, “They mostly come from the lands east of the Sea of Stones. Many of them have forgotten what names they originally had. None of them know anything about the Wards, or much of anything else. They live to eat; that’s all they care about.”

Noreê said, “Jordel, I share your frustration. I, too, expected answers. But it may be that the true commanders of the Khnauronts were the ones whose bodies had absorbed their guts and were living on stolen tal alone—”

A storm of questions arose at this; most of the vocates were unfamiliar with the ins and outs of Khnauront anatomy. Noreê and Lernaion handled these questions capably between them, and then Noreê continued, “And so I think that the Khnauronts who survive should not be thought of as full members of their tribe, or whatever we are to call it. They were more like. . . .”

“Emergency rations,” suggested Aloê.

“Exactly, yes. They were a source of tal for the commanders when there was no other.”

“Their minds have been sculpted, I think, to this end,” Illion said. “Their emptiness and single-mindedness is unnatural.”

“Could they be cured?” asked Jordel.

“By all means, let us send them to the Skein of Healing!” cried Rild. “We can set our thains to knitting woolen underwear for their comfort! Let no expense or trouble be spared for these outlanders who broke through the Wards and invaded our lands to kill and kill and kill!”

Many of the Graith rolled their eyes or shook their heads at this hysterical ranting, but Morlock was sorry to see many vocates, and thains, too, nodding in approval.

“By all means, if you like,” said Jordel when Rild paused for a breath. “But my thought was that if they could be cured, they might be able to tell us more than they have.”

“Doubtful,” said Illion reluctantly. “I wish it were otherwise. But I think what’s gone is gone. They might be made somewhat more . . . awake than they presently are. They will never be the people they once were.”

“Then, unless it conflicts with Vocate Rild’s elaborate plans for their rehabilitation and comfort, I suggest we herd them onto a boat, sail it to the unguarded lands, and dump them on any convenient coast.”

“Might be a kindness to kill them,” Baran said.

“A cruel kindness, I guess? You’re too subtle for me brother. But I must say I can’t say that it matters much. They seem unable to harm us or anyone anymore. They seem equally unable to do themselves or anyone else any good.”

Kothala of Sandport said, “If the enemy who sent them here in the first place finds them and gives them new lifetaking wands, then they could do much harm indeed.”

This was a new thought to many, and a disturbing one.

“This is not a decision that has to be taken today,” Illion said. “Time may bring them healing, or memory, or death. We should follow at least part of Rild’s kindly suggestion and send to New Moorhope for seers who may glean more from the empty fields of their minds than I was able to do.”

Lernaion was dismayed by this, but he looked around the table and realized the weight of opinion was with Illion.

“If we put that matter aside,” Lernaion said, “what of our colleague’s death? When we take the oath of Guardians and become subject to the rigors of the First Decree, the Graith assumes the role of our protector and vengeancer. It is too late to protect our lost friend, Earno—”

Morlock, to his astonishment, heard Aloê mutter to herself, “Shut your lying mouth.” He wasn’t sure if anyone else heard her; evidently Lernaion did not.

“—who lies dead and murdered alongside the Road. What shall we do for him?”

“I could not disagree with the summoner more!” shouted Rild.

Lernaion’s dry, dark face bent with annoyance and surprise. “Some of your peers here saw him die. I myself saw his body, which lies now in occlusive stasis on the very spot where he fell. Are you saying that Earno is not dead?”

“No, of course not! But you seem to be suggesting that his death ends the threat. But it may be only the beginning! If Earno can be murdered by magic, which one of us is safe? Which one will be next?”

“Our conversation will go smoother if you address yourself to what I have said, not what I seem to have suggested. Because what I mean, I say.”

“But—”

“We didn’t join the Graith to be safe, but to pledge our lives for the safety of others,” Illion observed.

“Yes, but—”

“Rild,” Jordel interrupted, “I urge you to shut your mouth. Shall I put the question? Vocates, I want Rild to be quiet, for his good and ours. We have matters of moment to discuss.”

Rild stood back, startled and offended. His glance slid around the room and he spoke no more.

“Because, listen to me, Guardians,” Jordel continued, “I think we’re starting in the wrong place. The question is not what we should do, but who should do it. Everyone here knows what must be done. We must find out who murdered Earno and why. To that end, we must elect one of our Graith to be investigator and vengeancer on our behalf.”

“I accept your correction,” said Lernaion patiently. “Who, then? We must choose carefully. It would be a strange irony if the investigator were also the criminal.”

Jordel waved his hand. “Oh, I saw that play. And what was the point of all that stuff about his mother? I thought it overrated, honestly.”

“With equal honesty, I assure you I have no idea what you’re talking about. Fortunately, it doesn’t matter at all.”

“That’s what I was saying!”

“It isn’t, but put that aside. Who, vocates, will be your investigator, your vengeancer?”

Many, now, were looking at Morlock. He turned away from them to meet Deor’s dark, amused eye. Deor always enjoyed watching the Graith at Station, which he compared to a puppet show that was popular in his youth, where every puppet in the cast took a turn beating the others with a stick. Deor nodded when he saw Morlock looking at him. Morlock didn’t need to wonder what he would have said if they could have talked. Blood has no price! Earno was an odd man, but a rokhlan and a hero, and (after an awkward start) had been well-loved by Theorn Clan—better than he knew, perhaps.

But Morlock did not choose to undertake the task of vengeance. He said, “I name Vocate Aloê Oaij.”

Startlement flashed like lightning across the chamber. Aloê turned to look at him, her golden eyes agape, her dark, rosy lips poised for a grin.

“No one could be better for the task,” Noreê said coldly. “I say the same name.”

“God Avenger!” cried Jordel. “If Morlock and Noreê agree on something, does anything more need to be said? Anyway. Who’s shrewder? Who’s braver? Who’s more dedicated to the Guard? She was a friend of Earno—she has friends all through the Wardlands. She’s a seer and a fighter. Let me tell you this story—maybe you’ve heard it before—”