“Can’t you guess?” Borenson said, unprepared for the question. “Right now, I’d say he’s fifty miles from Longmot, hoping to reach it near dark. Raj Ahten has forty thousand forcibles there, buried among the turnips behind Bredsfor Manor. You know where the manor is?”

Gaborn shook his head no.

“On the road three miles south of the castle,” Borenson said, “a gray building with a lead roof and two wings. We intercepted a message from the Duchess Laren that says Raj Ahten expects an army to reach Longmot within a day or two. Your father hopes to beat them to the treasure.”

“Raj Ahten knows this?” Gaborn asked, just as he got the ring mail untied from the body. “That’s why he’s abandoning Castle Sylvarresta? To reclaim the forcibles?”

Gaborn obviously thought this foolhardy. He angrily unstrapped the dead man’s jerkin. Borenson wondered what occupied the Prince’s mind. Did he not see that Sylvarresta must be slain? What was the boy thinking?

“Your father hoped to convince the Wolf Lord that Longmot was conquered days ago,” Borenson explained, “and that he’s been taking endowments day and night ever since.”

“A desperate bluff,” Gaborn said, inspecting the sheepskin jerkin, looking close to see if it harbored fleas or lice. But if Torin had suffered from fleas in life, they’d all hopped away as soon as the body cooled.

Gaborn put on the jerkin, pulled on the ring mail and the surcoat—all just a bit too large for him. A small shield lay by Torin’s right hand—a target of wood, covered with a thin layer of brass, then painted dark blue. The lower edge of the shield was filed, so that if one slashed with that edge, it could slice a man’s throat like a knife. Usually only a man with an endowment of metabolism kept such a small shield. Thrust quickly, it doubled as a weapon. Gaborn took the shield.

“What of Raj Ahten?” Borenson asked. “I can see that he is on the move, but will he go to Longmot?”

Gaborn said, “As Father hoped, he’ll march within the hour.”

Borenson nodded. The sun shone in his blue eyes; he smiled. It was not a smile of relief. It was a hard smile, his battle smile. “Tell me,” Borenson half-whispered, “where are you taking them?” He nodded at Iome, her idiot father.

Gaborn said. “Longmot. I took the best horses in the King’s stables. We can reach the castle by nightfall.”

Perhaps, if your charges knew how to ride, Borenson wanted to say. Borenson licked his lips, whispered, “It’s a long journey, and hard. Perhaps you’d best leave Sylvarresta here, milord.” He spoke as if it were a friendly suggestion, tried to hide the hard edge to his voice.

“After all the trouble I went through to get them from Raj Ahten?” Gaborn asked.