“Ach, of course Saint Torin must still be honored, sir. Ye wear the badge. Ye should know. His pilgrim tokens are distributed near where stood the paddock of the old chapel. Fearful rogues they were, who burned it down this spring. Duke Al—”

“Who guards the ferries?” Morgan interrupted impatiently. “Can the boatmen be bribed? What kind of guard is kept on the quays?”

“Bribed, sir? The boatmen of Saint—”

“Relax, Thierry,” Duncan said, touching the man’s forehead and exerting control. “Is it possible for two men to cross the lake without being challenged at the quay?”

Thierry had slumped back against the tree at Duncan’s touch, and now resumed his previous matter-of-fact recitation. “No, sir. The guards have orders to search all travelers and to detain those who look suspicious.” He paused wistfully. “I must say that you do look suspicious, sirs.”

“Indeed,” Morgan muttered under his breath.

“Beg pardon, sir?”

“I said, is there any way to get to Dhassa besides across the lake? Aside from riding around to the other gate, that is.”

Thierry knew of none. Nor did the next three travelers whom Morgan and Duncan interrogated and left sleeping beneath the trees. Happily, their fifth informant, a grizzled master cobbler, was more useful. His response to the fateful question began in much the same way; but this time, it had a slightly different ending.

“And do you know of any other way to the city besides crossing the lake?” Morgan asked patiently, never dreaming that he would receive an affirmative answer.

“Nae more, sor. There used to be, but that’s been twenty years now.”

“There used to be?” Duncan murmured, sitting up straighter and glancing quickly at his cousin.

“Aye, there was a wee track through the high pass to the north,” the man said pleasantly. “Hardly more than a game trail, it was. But that was washed out by the floods when I was just a lad. ’Tis just as well. Otherwise, impious souls might try to reach the holy city without paying their respects to our patron. That, of course, would be—”

“Oh, unthinkable, of course,” Morgan agreed, edging closer to gaze into the man’s eyes. “Now, just where was this trail, Dawkin? How can we get to it?”

“Och, ye cannae get through. I told ye, it’s washed awa’. If ye would to enter Dhassa, ye must take the ferry—unless, of course, ye wish to ride to the northern gate.”

“No, I think we’ll try to find this old trail,” Morgan said with a small smile. “Now, tell us how to find it.”

“If’n yer sure.” The man shrugged with apparent lack of concern. “Ye go back to tha road and follow it for ’bout half a mile, then take a trail that heads north. After a few hundred yards, the trail enters a defile that splits north an’ west. Ye take the north fork; the west fork leads to the village of Garwode. After that, ye’re headed toward th’ old trail.”