"No! By Gird!" Ambros leaped forward, sword high. Paks shook herself, suddenly alert to her musings, and followed him. She was not surprised to see a sword appear in the man's hand, a dagger in the other. Ambros met the sword with his own, narrowly missing a dagger thrust. Paks came in on the Achryan's sword side. She turned his blade and thrust. Her blade seemed to stick in his robes; she jerked it free with an effort. Meanwhile his blade had raked her shoulder. She could feel the links of mail along that track.

No one else came to join them. As the priest of Achrya turned, Paks had time for a quick glance back. The others stood motionless, clearly unable to break free. Meanwhile the priest fought superbly, sweeping away their blades again and again. It seemed impossible to wound him. Every thrust that Paks thought went home caught in his robes, and he fought on unhindered. She did not notice that he worked them toward a corner of the room where dark blue velvet rose behind a carved black chair. He backed, backed again, turned, and grabbed for the chair arm. Paks, hearing a rustle above, jerked back and looked upward. A tangled mass of black webbing fell down, catching her off-balance. Where it touched her clothes, they turned black, charring. She slashed at the cords, her sword hissing as it sliced them. But they were tough and sticky; she could not free herself quickly.

Ambros had jumped forward, a long lunge at the priest, and the web caught only one foot. Before the priest could strike, he had cut himself free. Now they fought behind the chair, great sweeps of sword parting the air and ringing together.

"You might as well quit," the priest said. "You can't win now—two of you couldn't defeat me."

"Gird's grace," said Ambros between clenched teeth. "I won't quit—I will kill you."

"I think not, boy," said the priest with a smile. He made a gesture toward Ambros's face, and a length of something gray flicked at him. Ambros blinked but kept fighting. "You're a stubborn fool, boy—are you hunting your death?" Paks struggled with the web, hardly aware of the Company curses she shouted. She could see blisters rising on Ambros's face, like the mark of a fiery whip. The priest spared her a look. "You won't get clear of that in a hurry, sweetling. 'Tis made of Achrya's own webs. As is this—" He lashed once more at Ambros's face. The yeoman-marshal screamed, one hand clawing at his face. "You see, boy, what you drive me to? Why will you not submit?"