Lionel’s cupbearer passed the cup to Merritt and examined the man, peering under the slack eyelids and locating a strong pulse, then nodded reluctantly. Lionel got slowly to his feet and gazed across at Bran, his face grim but resigned.

“It appears that your master surgeon is, indeed, accomplished, my lord. Of course, on the basis of what we have just seen, we cannot rule out a longer-term poison, or the possibility that you might administer something else while we slept, or even murder us where we lay. But, then, life is full of gambles, is it not? And His Majesty will be expecting either your return or mine. Even I am reluctant to keep him waiting.”

“Then you will accept my terms?”

“So it seems.” Lionel bowed. “I trust, however, that we shall be permitted to sleep somewhere other than on the ground, like your trusting friend.” He glanced down at the sleeping guard with a sardonic smile. “When we do return to Cardosa, His Majesty would be most distressed, were he to learn that my colleagues had been obliged to sleep in the dirt.”

Bran bowed slightly and held back the flap of his tent, returning Lionel’s smile. “Come, then; you shall sleep in my own pavilion. I would not have it said that Eastmarch men do not know how to accommodate noble company.”

As Bran and his party stood aside, Lionel inclined his head and then signaled the rest of his contingent to dismount, led them into the tent. He surveyed the rich appointments in appreciation as he removed his gloves, exchanging resigned glances with Merritt and a few of his comrades, then selected the most comfortable of the several chairs in the space and sat down.

Taking his helmet back, he laid it on the floor at his feet and stashed his gloves inside, then propped his booted legs on a leather footstool and sat back in preparation. His long black hair gleamed in the glow of the light that streamed through the open entryway, and he toyed with the hilt of the flame-bladed dagger thrust through his sash as his men arranged themselves on the furs at his feet.

Merritt took the chair beside Lionel’s, his homely face tense and apprehensive, and the man with the cup stood uneasily beside the tent’s center pole. As Bran and Gwyllim entered the shelter of the tent, the Torenthi standard-bearer moved into the doorway to watch, his face whiter than the white standard he still bore. Only he and the cupbearer could be certain they would return to Cardosa, once the rest drank the cup.

Lionel studied the five men ranged trustingly at his feet, then signed for the cupbearer to go to each of them in turn. Each man kept his eyes locked on Lionel’s as he sipped from the cup. The first of them slumped to a supine position as the cup came to Merritt. The cupbearer paused in alarm as two more passed out, and Merritt half-rose from his chair; but Lionel shook his head slightly and signaled for Merritt to drink.