The Knight-Commander’s outer room, furnished as an office, was cooler and the stench of death much less. “I’m fine,” Rolyan said. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Nothing to be sorry about. You saved us both,” Juris said. “I couldn’t even move.” He sounded angry; he was usually the leader in their activities, a stronger fighter than Roly.

“Nor I,” Mikeli said. “Sit down, Roly—” It was easier to be calm, he noted, when he was taking care of someone else; his hands weren’t shaking now.

“I’ll get blood on the chair,” Rolyan said.

“No matter,” Mikeli said. “Ah—here’s the sergeant with some clothes.” The man laid a stack of clothes and towels on the scribe’s table.

“We’ll get this off you,” Juris said. He rolled up his own sleeves; Mikeli followed his lead and in moments they’d removed Rolyan’s dinner capelet, unlaced his doublet, then his shirt, while Juris rolled up the bloody sleeve, then the clean one, and pulled the shirt over his head. With the tail and back of the shirt wetted in the can of water Juris had brought along, they cleaned the blood from him.

“I can’t wear his—” Rolyan began, as Juris handed him an undershirt.

Mikeli took his hand. “You can’t walk about the palace half-naked, Roly. We need you. And my uncle Beclan would want you to have them. Now get dressed. It’s going to be a long night.”

Rolyan managed a shaky parody of his usual grin. “At once, your royalness.”

That sounded more like the real Roly. Mikeli turned to the sergeant. “We’ll need those plans and things Roly brought. They’re on the floor in there—”

“At once, my lord.” The sergeant bowed and went back to the inner room. More palace guards arrived, with litters for the bodies, and a servant appeared with a jug of sib and a plate of pastries.

“My lord Marrakai said to bring this—” he said. Mikeli gestured to the table; the servant set it down.

“We can’t just eat,” Juris said.

“If your father meant us to,” the prince said, “we had better. Come now—we were interrupted at dinner. I doubt we’ll see a bed tonight; we need something.”

Food and sib restored Rolyan’s normal coloring even as a distant clamor rose, nearing as Knights of the Bells gathered in their hall.

CHAPTER SIX

Vérella, two days later

As they came in sight of Vérella, Arcolin saw what he had not seen for years—a Royal Guard blockade on the road. He trotted ahead of the cohort and then halted at the blockade. “What is it?”

“Who are you?” demanded a man with officer’s knots on his shoulder.

“Arcolin, Duke Phelan’s captain, with a cohort bound for Aarenis—surely you had word. Our employers preceded us.”

“They’re all in Phelan’s colors, Captain,” one of the troop said. “It’s got to be him.”

“Do you have proof of your identity?” the captain asked, a shade less truculent now.

“I have the Duke’s ring and a letter,” Arcolin said, fishing the ring out of his pocket and handing it over.