“Yes. ’Twould be my guess, do you see, that he threw himself down looking all wounded and hurt to be carried in, planning to get up when nobody was looking in the hurry and chaos. Blood on clothing is not the most uncommon of things about here, I’m observing. It’s the Mother’s own luck that I happened to do a quick triage check; and there the spalpeen’s back was, not sliced or cut or stabbed at all. So I grabbed the creature’s nose and poured the dose down his throat.”

Now what?

Guelf felt like a parrot lived in his brain; or that an ax had cut it in half. One side of it was reacting with an instinctive rage. The other . . .

Was he sent to contact me? I can’t tell. And the man is unconscious and going to stay that way . . . damned officious Mackenzie. Better send him on to the Grand Constable. The Witch-Queen might easily learn too much. I can’t kill him or keep him, that would make people suspicious right away!

“Right. Father Stanyon, my thanks for defending our interests and referring this decision to me. I’ll take the advice of our ally. Who should take charge of the prisoner, witch?”

The Mackenzie gestured to the men standing by. Both of them were notably hard-faced, and the clothes under their armor were a uniform brown. Scratches and dings and a spray of something reddish-brown dried across one didn’t disguise the snarling face-on bear’s head.

“Those are a couple of Larsdalen men; they came with us. They’ll get the prisoner to the Grand Constable or Lady Juniper, if I ask. Lady d ’Ath is with Odell west of here, at Biggs Junction; our Chief is at Dun Juniper. Mac an donais! Just get the creature out of here, and fast would be best. He smells, and in more ways than one.”

Guelf bowed, a short gesture. “He’s all yours, gentlemen; take him to the Grand Constable and report all you’ve heard. Just give me back the clothes; I hope to identify the man he killed. One more notch on the blade.”

“Come, Odo, we need to say good-bye to Terry and check on Chezzy.”

Guelf sighed gently as he turned away. If the man had been his contact, it was a good thing the Mackenzie had intervened. Good in the short term, at least. A bubble of fear was starting to burn down under his breastbone; fear worse than a spear point coming for his face.

The Mackenzie nodded. “I want him out and harmless. We’ve been warned that the Cutters sometimes possess powers dangerous to ordinary folk, so.”

Father Stanyon crossed himself and murmured a prayer.