One of the men held a dagger’s blade casually at his captive’s throat. A fourth man in the tunic of a field surgeon knelt by Derry’s head, clucking to himself disapprovingly as he bared the wound and began to dress it. Derry’s concentration brought a score of additional men into focus, standing watchfully around and staring down at him. With a sinking feeling, Derry realized that escape was now close to impossible.

When the surgeon finished binding up the wound, one of the standing guards pulled a length of rawhide from his belt and looped deft coils around Derry’s wrists, securing them in front of him. After testing the bonds, he straightened and stared at the prisoner suspiciously, almost as though he recognized him, then disappeared from Derry’s range of vision. Derry lifted his head and tried to orient himself as the men who had been holding him got to their feet and joined the watching circle.

He was back in the camp, lying partially in the shade of a low, brown leather tent. He did not recognize the specific place and did not expect to, since he had seen only a small part of the encampment; but there was no doubt in his mind that he was deep within it.

The tent was of the sort used by the plainsmen of Eastmarch, low and squat but finely finished: an officer’s tent by the look of it. He wondered briefly whose tent it was, for he had certainly seen no one of appropriate rank so far. Perhaps these men did not realize the importance of their prisoner. Perhaps he could avoid meeting someone of higher rank who might recognize him.

On the other hand, if they did not realize who he was and believed him to be but a common spy, he might not even get a chance to talk himself out of this one. They might execute him without further ado.

But they had bandaged his wound—a senseless waste of effort if they only meant to kill him. He wondered where the men’s commander was.

As though in response to his thought, a tall, middle-aged man in mail and a blue and gold plaid strode to the green beside the tent and tossed a crested helmet to one of the watching soldiers. He had the lean, assured carriage of aristocracy, a sureness of movement that immediately marked him as an accomplished warrior. Jewels glittered on the pommel of his sword and subtly within the links of a heavy gold neck chain. Derry recognized him immediately: Baron Campbell of Eastmarch. Now, would Campbell recognize him?

“Well, what have we here? Did the king send ye, lad?”

Derry frowned at the condescending tone, wondering whether he was being baited or whether the man already knew who he was.

“Of course the king sent me,” Derry finally decided to say, permitting a trace of indignation to show in his voice. “Is this how you always treat royal messengers?”

“So, it’s a royal messenger you’re claiming to be, is it?” the man asked, cocking his head wistfully. “That isn’t what the guards told me.”