“Sir King!” That from Sarol, at the door. “A courier’s come!”

Kieri shook his head. “No, I must go. Damn the Pargunese!” He turned, leapt lightly over the low barrier between the middle and low sections, stripped off his banda, and handed it and the practice blade to one of the other Squires. He belted on his own sword and hurried into the palace.

Garris met him in the main passage. “He’s in my office, with a pot of sib and some food. I thought you’d rather meet him in privacy—”

“Yes, indeed. Who is it?”

“Not a Squire—a Halveric soldier who rode straight through from Talgan. Says his name’s Beldan.”

Kieri felt a cold chill down his spine. “Garris, are you sure?”

“He’s got a Halveric uniform on, Halveric-style sword. Why?”

“Stay close,” Kieri said to his Squires. And to Garris, “Talgan knows that any message he sends will be taken on by a King’s Squire at the first relay station. That’s what we agreed.”

“But he has the message pouch—and he said it was a special hand-to-hand only—”

When they came to Garris’s office, the door was open and the office empty. On Garris’s desk, the message pouch with the tooled Halveric insignia lay invitingly open, a scroll just showing; it looked wet on one side, as if the courier had ridden through a stream that splashed up onto it.

“He must have gone to the jacks,” Garris said.

“I think not,” Kieri said. “They tried assassination once; no reason they would not try it again—don’t touch that!” he said sharply, as Garris reached for the message pouch. Garris stopped, hand out.

“Why?”

“Was it wet when you first saw it?”

Garris frowned. “No … I don’t recall …” Then he paled. “Poison?”

“It might be.” Kieri’s mind raced. Where was the enemy? Would the man have fled, leaving the poisoned “message” behind? Or would he have stayed behind to accomplish more mischief? In the kitchens, poisoning the food? In the stables, poisoning the horses? “Are you wearing mail, Garris?”

“Me? No, I don’t—oh.” Garris’s gaze sharpened. “Are you?”

“No—I changed for practice. I’ll put it on—I want every Squire in mail, and that includes you. Everyone who has it—and send someone to the kitchens—to the stables—” He stopped and took a breath; it would not do to sound so worried. “We must be careful, but steady. I will go change.”

Upstairs, Aulin and Sarol inspected his rooms before he went in. He decided to risk a quick bath: Joriam had it ready, herb-scented, with towels warming before the fire. The old man smiled at him, came to help him out of his clothes.

Pargunese hot baths might be better than this, but he found it hard to imagine. He eased into the hot scented water, and Joriam sluiced warm water from the ewer over him. He would have enjoyed a long soak but could not spare the time. Joriam said, “Soap, my lord—” Kieri turned just in time to see the old man’s eyes go wide—and an arrow take him in the throat. Joriam slumped; the soap dropped into Kieri’s hand.