“The obvious conclusion would be Shinsan. But they’re trying to get along. They’re flashing the hand of friendship. And assassination isn’t their style.”

“Somebody trying to frame them? Somebody who doesn’t want peace?”

Varthlokkur shrugged. “I couldn’t name a soul who would be ahead by maintaining a state of tension.”

“Matayanga. Michael’s rebel friends in Throyes.”

“I doubt it. Too much risk in the backlash if they got found out. And he did come from the west, not the east.”

Ragnarson shook his head. “I’m getting groggy. I can’t get anything to add up. Liakopulos just isn’t that important. Valuable to me because he’s a genius at training soldiers, but that don’t especially make him a threat to anybody else…. I can’t go on with this now. It’s been a brutal day. Let me sleep on it.”

“I’ll have this taken back to Wachtel, then have Radeachar find its brothers and master. Check with me tomorrow.”

Radeachar was the wizard’s name for his creature. In the tongue of his youth it meant The One Who Serves. In the days when Ilkazar had been great, Radeachar had been the title given wizards who served with the Imperial armies.

“All right. Damn! It’s going to take five minutes to get this old carcass of mine moving.”

As Ragnarson turned to leave, a shadow in the courtyard gateway withdrew. The silent observer had remained unnoticed even by the wizard’s servitor. He vanished into the palace halls.

Ragnarson took a couple of steps, paused. “Oh. I been meaning to ask you. The name, or title, or whatever you want to call it, of the Deliverer mean anything to you?”

Varthlokkur started as if stung. Stiffly upright, he faced the King. “No. Where did you hear that?”

“Around. If it don’t mean anything, how come you’re acting like….”

“How I act is my concern, Ragnarson. Never forget that. Forget only that you ever heard that name. Do not speak it again ever, anywhere near me or mine.”

“Well, excuse me, your cranky-assed wizardness. But I got a job to do around here and anything that might affect Kavelin is damned well my business. And you and seven gods aren’t going to tell me different when I think there’s something I got to do.”

“The thing you mentioned, whatever it might be, has nothing to do with you or Kavelin. Expunge it from your mind. Go, now. I have nothing more to say.”

Bemused, Ragnarson forced his weary legs to carry him toward the kitchens. What the hell was with the wizard these days? The old grouch knew a damned sight more than he wanted to let on.

Concern began to fade. His stomach nagged. It was a hollow pit demanding something more before the body was permitted its rest.

He was trudging down a poorly lighted hallway, still frowning and slithering around thoughts about Varthlokkur’s weirdnesses, when something crinkled beneath his foot. By night the castle was lighted only by a few fat-fueled lamps. One could barely see. One of his little economies.