“It was Croy’s doing, actually,” Malden said. “His contribution to the scheme. You should see this creature in calmer times, Cythera. It has the voice of a poet and a soul devoted to the Lady, but it looks a fright—twice as big as a man, covered in dark fur, its face engraved with ancient and baleful runes.” He laughed. “It should give the guards a good scare.”

“Yes, but maybe not much else,” she said, looking concerned. She glanced over at Croy, who didn’t meet her gaze. “Malden,” she said, “these runes. Do you remember what they looked like?” She took a piece of charcoal and drew on one of his maps. “Were they like this, do you think?”

“Yes, exactly.” Malden smiled. “I’m sure they say something menacing, like, ‘I am your death’ or ‘Face me at peril.’ ”

“Not exactly. It’s a curse your ogre wears on his face, but not for his enemies. It’s for himself. One of the simpler curses, actually, and very effective. Translated, the words you see here would read: ‘An you harm any, thou shalt perish.’ ”

Malden’s eyes went wide. “What’s the nature of this curse?”

“It’s commonly used on paroled prisoners or creatures who have killed men in the past. If your ogre hurts a human being—even in self-defense—the runes will grow hotter and hotter until they burn right through his skull.” She wiped her fingers quite carefully on the hem of her cloak. “I don’t know your plan. I don’t want to know your plan. But if you were counting on this ogre to fight the guards or Bikker, I only hope you have a contingency up your sleeve.”

“Thank you, Cythera,” Malden said, between lips pressed together to stifle a shout. She nodded and left his room, headed back toward the villa before she was missed. When she was well gone, Malden slowly turned to face Croy.

“You knew all this, of course,” he said, quite carefully.

Croy didn’t answer directly. Instead he went to kneel above the loose floorboards where his swords were still hidden.

Malden was faster. He drew his bodkin and had its point at the small of Croy’s back before the knight could reach for his weapons.

“The success of my scheme depended on that ogre,” Malden said. “There’s no time now to find a replacement. Have you betrayed me, Croy?”

“Are you calling me faithless?”

Malden almost concurred. Then he remembered that it was the same word Croy had used to describe Bikker—the word that started a blood feud between the two of them. “I’m asking a question. Did you make some deal with Hazoth, to foil my plans? Or perhaps you work for the same master as Bikker.”

“Never,” Croy said.

“Then why, exactly, did you not tell me that your ogre was hobbled?”