“That’s a fine sword, boy,” the guard grumbled at Gaborn as his horse shied from the wagon. “Be careful you don’t cut yourself.” His words were a dismissal; he fought to move away from the wagon without crushing the nearest bystander.

Gaborn shuffled forward, knowing the surest way to get rid of someone was to hang on for dear life. “Oh, it’s not sharp. Do you want to see?”

The wagon halted, and Gaborn saw Iome’s Maid of Honor, Chemoise, in its very back, holding the head of one of the Dedicates there. “Father, Father . . .” she cried, and then Gaborn knew that these were not just any Dedicates to Raj Ahten, but captured knights, brought back to their homeland as trophies. The man Chemoise held was in his mid-thirties, hair of palest brown. Gaborn watched the maid and her father, wished that he could save them. Wished he could save this whole kingdom. You too, he vowed silently, dazed. If I have my way, I will save you, too.

From out of the shadows at Gaborn’s side, a heavy man in a dirty robe approached. He growled, “Aleson, you stinking fool! Don’t just stand in the way. You didn’t empty the Dedicates’ chamber pots, like I told you! Come along now and do your job. Leave the good men alone.”

To Gaborn’s surprise, the fellow thrust two buckets full of feces and urine into Gaborn’s hand, then cuffed him on the head. The buckets reeked. For one who had endowments of scent, the odor was unbearable. Gaborn choked back his desire to vomit, twisted his neck, gave the man a wounded glare. The fellow was stout, with bushy brows, a short brown beard going gray. In the shadows he looked like just another Dedicate in dirty robes, but Gaborn recognized him: Sylvarresta’s herbalist, a powerful magician, the Earth Warden Binnesman.

“Carry these off to the gardens for me, before it gets too dark,” the herbalist whispered viciously, “or you’ll get another beating worse than the last.”

Gaborn saw what was happening. The herbalist knew that Raj Ahten’s scouts had his scent. But no man with endowments of scent would come too near these buckets.

Gaborn held his breath, hefted the buckets.

“Don’t stub your toes in the shadows. Must I watch you every moment?” Binnesman hissed. He kept his voice low, as if to keep from being overheard, knowing well that each soldier in Raj Ahten’s guard had enough endowments of hearing to discern the very sound of Gaborn’s heart at this distance.

Binnesman led him round to the back of the kitchens. There they met the kitchen maid. “Good, you found him!” she whispered to Binnesman.