“They don’t have that much!” Master Hollicks complained.

“They’ll find it,” Sylvarresta said. “If they’re smuggling it in, they’ll have some secreted away.

“Now, go, send word to our foreign friends. Tell them that the King is beside himself with rage. Urge them to act quickly, for Sylvarresta can hardly be restrained from taking vengeance. Tell them that even now, I’m in my buttery, getting blind drunk on brandy, vacillating about whether I should torture secrets from the man first, or if I should just slit his belly and strangle him with his own guts.”

“Aye, milord,” Hollicks said, flustered. The parti-colored merchant bowed and took his leave, sweating profusely at the thought of the negotiations about to begin.

During this whole discussion, the somber Chancellor Rodderman had kept silent, sitting on a bench by the Queen, narrowly studying the exchange between the King and the Master of the Fair. Sometimes he stroked his long white sideburns. When Hollicks left, the chancellor said, “Your Grace, do you think you’ll get that much ransom?”

Lord Sylvarresta said simply, “Let us hope.”

Iome knew her father needed money. The costs of armor and endowments and supplies associated with waging the upcoming war would be onerous.

Sylvarresta glanced about. “Now, Chancellor, fetch me Captain Derrow. If I am not mistaken, we shall be visited by assassins tonight. We must arrange a proper greeting.”

The chancellor got up stiffly, rubbed the small of his back and then left.

Iome’s father looked deep in thought. As she prepared to leave, a nagging question took her. “Father, when you played chess with Raj Ahten, who came off victor?”

King Sylvarresta smiled appreciatively. “He did.”

Iome began to leave, but another perplexing question came to mind. “Father, now that we’ve seen Raj Ahten’s knight, should we prepare for him to bring out his wizards?”

Her father’s frown was answer enough.

4

ADDLEBERRY WINE

Borenson studied Gaborn’s eyes. “Do I feel anything, milord? What do you mean? Like hunger, excitement? I feel many things.”

Gaborn couldn’t quite express the odd sensation that assailed him in the market at Bannisferre. “No, nothing so ordinary. It’s like . . . the earth . . . trembling in anticipation? Or . . .” He suddenly caught an image in his mind. “It’s like that moment when you put your hand to the plow, and you thrill to see dark soil fold over, knowing that the seeds will soon be in the ground, and fruit will come of it. Endless trees and fields spreading across the horizon.”