The larger of the two prodded him with a spearbutt. “Come on you, on your paws. You’re wanted at Kotir.”

Gonff winked at him cheerily. “Kotir? You don’t say! Well, how nice! Listen, you two good chaps, nip along and tell them I’m busy today but I’ll pop in early tomorrow.”

The spearpoint at Gonff’s throat discouraged further light banter. The smaller of the two weasels kicked Gonff. “Up you come, thief. Now we know where the best cheeses and elderberry wine have been going all winter. You’ll pay for stealing from Kotir.”

Gonff stood slowly. Placing a paw on his plump little stomach he looked from one guard to the other with an air of innocence. “Me, steal? I beg your pardon, sirs, did you know the head cook has given me permission to borrow what I please from his larder? Actually, I was going to return the favor by sending him some good recipes. I understand his cooking leaves something to be desired.”

The large weasel laughed mirthlessly. “Shall I tell you something, thief? The head cook has personally vowed to skin you with a rusty knife and roast what’s left of you for supper.”

Gonff nodded appreciatively. “Oh good, I do hope he saves some for me . . . ouch!”

Prodded between two spears, he marched off with the guards in the direction of Kotir.

* * *

A pale shaft of sunlight penetrated between the iron bars of the high window slit. The walls of the cell dripped moisture, and sometimes the faint trill of a skylark on the flatlands reached the prisoner. Martin knew that this was the onset of full, burgeoning springtime. His face was haggard, his body much thinner, but his eyes still shone with the warrior’s angry brightness.

Martin rose and paced the cell with the sword handle about his neck; it seemed to grow heavier with time. Fifteen paces, whichever way he went—from door to wall or from wall to wall, it was always fifteen paces. He had paced it many times as the days and weeks grew into months. Gingivere was too far away to converse with, besides, it only made the guards angry. They stopped his bread and water for attempting to speak to the one whose name it was forbidden to mention. Now Martin believed that he really had been forgotten and left here to die under the new regime of Tsarmina. He stood in the shaft of weak sunlight, trying not to think of the world of blue skies and flowers outside.

“Get the little devil in there quick. It’ll be less trouble to feed two at once. Ouch, my shin!”

Lost in thought, Martin had failed to hear the approach of guards bringing a prisoner to his cell door.

“Aargh, leggo my ear, you fiend. Hurry up with that door before he bites my lug clean off.”

“Ouch. Ow. He nipped me! Keep him still while I find my key.”

There was more shouting and scuffling as the key turned in the lock. Martin ran to the door but was immediately bowled over by another figure, which shot through the doorway straight in on top of him. Together they fell over backward, as the cell door slammed shut again. The two prisoners lay still until the pawsteps of the guards retreated down the corridor.