“We wouldn’t have let him fall,” one said, scowling.

“I think he’s been spelled,” Arcolin said. “If he starts thrashing, the belts may give time to set the plank down.”

“Oh … spelled. Well, then … where to?”

Where to indeed? Arcolin had no idea where to, other than Marshal Harak’s grange. He picked up his sword in one hand, the hanger and scabbard in the other and followed them outside. In the square, others were gathering—guards, citizens—and the councilors, recovering from their shock in the soft evening air, were talking rapidly to one another. He heard hoofbeats, wheels grinding, axles squeaking, and a carriage drove into the square. The councilors looked up at the noise, and saw him.

“Captain!” Councilor Janchek came over to him. “You saved us all! We cannot thank you enough—” Janchek looked at the men with the plank, at Stammel’s bloody body. “Your sergeant—he died, then?”

“He’s not dead yet,” Arcolin said. “And he’s the one who saved us all—he distracted Korryn enough to weaken the spell that bound us. I need that carriage—” He pointed.

“But—but that’s the chairman’s carriage—and he’s—he’s all bloody—”

“He’s worth more than any carriage ever built,” Arcolin said, grief and rage swamping deference.

“Sir—Captain!” His escort, left behind at the Merchants’ Guild Hall, came jogging into the prison courtyard.

“Gird’s grace!” Arcolin looked them over. “Vik—take my horse; ride at once for the camp and bring our surgeon to Harak’s grange. Smiths’ street. Tam—find Marshal Harak’s grange. Tell him we’re coming there. If you see him on the way—just find him. It’s Stammel; he may die.” Those two took off at a run, no questions asked. The other two moved over and took the plank from the local guardsmen. “Orders, sir?”

“Into the carriage with him.”

The Councilors in their cluster made no more complaint; Arcolin only realized he still had his bloody sword in hand when he tried to climb into the carriage.

On the short drive to the grange, Stammel’s condition didn’t change. Still that fixed unseeing stare, still the heat rising from him as from a stone left in the sun.

Marshal Harak was waiting outside his grange, Tam beside him. “What is it? What happened?”

“I think it’s a spell,” Arcolin said.

“And what about you?” Harak asked. “You’re soaked in blood.”

“Not mine,” Arcolin said, as he helped lever the plank out of the carriage. “And not his. Korryn—or whatever was in Korryn’s body—tried to strangle him. He fell. We were all spelled helpless; we couldn’t move. Korryn killed the guards—that’s the blood and gut stench—and Stammel crawled out of that welter when Korryn’s back was turned and stabbed him. That broke the spell for a moment; I killed Korryn. Then Stammel—” His voice shook; he fought to steady it, and told the rest.

They had Stammel in the grange by then. Harak pulled two benches out, bade them lay the plank across the benches, and called for his yeoman-marshal. “You say he said something was trying to invade him? And he was refusing?”