Pirvan and Haimya were close together under their blankets, and considering getting closer, when the shout of alarm roused the whole camp.

Pirvan's rising lacked the dignity appropriate to a Knight of the Sword. He lurched rather than leapt upright, then caught a foot in the blankets and nearly sprawled on his face. He saved himself from a fall by clutching the tent pole, which promptly tore out of the ground, bringing the tent down atop both of them.

Haimya did not, on the whole, help matters by starting to giggle. She controlled herself before the giggles became open laughter, however.

Given that Pirvan had not yet removed his loincloth, he dressed and armed himself in the open. Haimya, being even less clad, remained under the tent as she passed garments and weapons out to him. Soon, she emerged in trousers and tunic, a shield slung across her back and sword and dagger in her belt.

Neither wasted time with footgear, but made their way swiftly toward the animals. They were not swift enough to reach the scene ahead of most of the rest of the camp, including Grimsoar One-Eye, who was holding Serafina in an embrace at once fierce and tender. It was as if he feared to have her snatched away the moment he loosened his grip, but also that her bones were of spun glass, easily crushed.

Tarothin held a lantern over his head, so that all its magical light was cast downward. He looked worse than could be explained by his suddenly being routed from bed.

In the center of the circle of light stood a young man, hardly more than a youth, wearing the loincloth and tattoos of a desert warrior. He was dusty, bruised, and grazed as if he had been climbing cliffs, or perhaps falling down them. A long sheathed dagger lay on the gravel at his feet.

He was not bound, but he was easily within Darin's reach, which meant his chances of escape were hardly better than those of a prisoner locked in a cell.

Pirvan now looked at the people standing on the edge of the circle, and noted that Serafina was in much the same condition as the-visitor. Grimsoar's face was twisted into a mask of fury that the knight had seldom seen in his old comrade.

"Torches," Pirvan said.

Grimsoar glared. "And light up the camp for this little slug's friends to come and rescue him?"

Haimya replied before Pirvan could recover from his surprise at Grimsoar's defiance. "That was an order, not a suggestion, my friend. Now, may I see to Serafina's hurts? At times like this a woman's presence may do more-"

The desert warrior spat on the gravel and several hands slapped the hilts of weapons. "I did her no dishonor," he said, in a voice that held as much menace as Grimsoar's face. "It was a fair fight. Do not insult me by saying otherwise!" He spoke in the common tongue that had spread from Istar over the last few centuries, although with a strong accent in which Pirvan detecteed a trace of elven speech.

"You are our prisoner, and we can say what we-" Grimsoar began.

"Torches," Pirvan repeated. "Also, silence. Sir Darin, kindly sit on the next person who speaks without permission."

Darin was not quite as large as the minotaur who had raised him, but the late Waydol had been large even for that well-grown breed. At a mere six and a half feet, Darin was still capable of subduing anyone in the camp without using a weapon or working up a sweat.

Two guards ran up, having obeyed Pirvan's first call for torches. Each had a bundle of them under one arm. A few moments of handing around torches and work with flint and steel, and a flickering yellow glow illuminated the scene.

Tarothin set down the magic lantern and looked ready to collapse on top of it. Serafina drew herself free of Grimsoar's arms and went over to the Red Robe.

"Husband, let us help Tarothin to his tent. If he then finds that I need healing, I will not refuse it. But he must save his strength."

Tarothin started to protest, but the other two each took one arm and pulled him to his feet; Grimsoar indeed nearly lifted the wizard free of the ground. They vanished toward the tents. Pirvan wondered if Serafina would wait until Tarothin was asleep before she wielded her tongue against her husband. This would not be their first quarrel arising from Grimsoar's being overprotective.

His old friend had left it a bit late in life, Pirvan knew, to learn about women who insist on standing on their own feet-and kicking the shins of any man who disputes their right.

Pirvan turned to Hawkbrother. "Now, we have sworn honorable treatment-one knight's oath binds all in a company-"

"Then you are Knights of Solamnia."

"Knights of the Sword, both of us," Pirvan said. "But hear me out before you speak again. You came among us like a thief or a cutthroat, and I wager that you had designs on our mounts."

"Yes, but only to learn what business you had in the desert. And to remind you that this is the land of the Free Riders."

"We need no such reminders, and we do need all our animals," Pirvan said. "Therefore, we cannot simply let you run free. Neither, however, do we see any purpose in keeping you captive. No purpose, and indeed much danger. I would make a further wager, that you have comrades within bow shot, enough to give us a good fight if you seem to need rescuing."

Hawkbrother merely nodded.

"Good. I propose a bout of honor, me against you. It will be here and now, by torchlight, until one of us cries 'Hold!' If you win-"

"Pirvan!" Haimya and Darin exclaimed together. It was a moment before the older knight realized that Darin had for the first time addressed him simply by his name.

"Excuse me," Pirvan said. "I was not finished. Oath and Measure allow you to dispute me only when I am."

Strictly speaking. Oath and Measure bound only Darin. Haimya was bound merely by twenty years' love, which seldom kept her from speaking her mind.

This time, Pirvan was fortunate. Both allowed him to explain the terms of the fight.

"If you win, you go free with anything you have learned of us, as well as a message to your father. We may even add a horse, to assure your honor among your comrades.

"If I win, you remain with us, as an honored guest. You will have healing, food, drink, and shelter. I ask only that you lead us to your father, and persuade him to speak freely with us.

"You seek knowledge of those who march south to collect taxes in Silvanesti. So do we. When we have proved one to the other that we are honorable warriors, then perhaps we may quest for this knowledge together."

Hawkbrother frowned. This gave Darin an opportunity.

"Is it not my place to fight Hawkbrother, Sir Pirvan?" he said. He was formal again, in both his manner of address and his tone of voice. "I was the first to swear honorable treatment for him. I was also the first to lay hands upon him."

"In truth, Serafina, wife of the one-eyed man, was the first," Hawkbrother said. "But I will fight her only if she wishes it."

Pirvan smiled, not only at Hawkbrother's courtesy but at Darin's, in not mentioning Pirvan's age. Had Pirvan wed young, he might have had a son Darin's age.

"That is a separate matter," Pirvan said. "I will claim the right of this bout, Darin, because it will be fairer to Hawkbrother. You are twice his size and doubtless nearly his equal in prowess with any weapon or even bare hands.

"If I fight him, it will be a man past his full strength fighting a man not yet come to his. My experience will be matched against his swiftness. All who watch will see something to remember all their days."

Haimya's look spoke eloquently of how entertaining she found the prospect of her husband's risking and perhaps losing his life before her eyes. She seemed ready to hold her tongue, however-and holding honor as dear as any knight, would also stand with steel against any treachery.

"Let it be done, then," Hawkbrother said. "My blood and oath upon it. Swords or knives?"

"Knives," Pirvan said. "Otherwise you would be using a weapon strange to your hands, and that might force me to kill you to save myself."

"Knives it will be," Hawkbrother said. "But do not think to find me a green fledgling, either. You can hardly be worse than my brothers!"

Darin returned Hawkbrother's dagger, and Pirvan drew his. The torchbearing guards shifted about, to form a square some forty paces on a side.

Before beginning his rounds to check the resolve of his troops, Pirvan lifted his weapon in salute to Hawkbrother, who returned the gesture with an easy grace.

There could be many worse opponents for one's last fight, if this were to be it.

Sleep did not come to Gildas Aurhinius that night.

Many visitors did, however. He deemed it prudent not to have Nemyotes turn them away. Too many of his captains ignored the secretary's scars and thought him a scribbling clerk playing at soldier. He was also from a family more outspoken than wise in its hostility to the kingpriest's power. Only the mild disposition of the present kingpriest had kept some of Nemyote's kin from arrest or exile.

Gildas Aurhinius wished to give his enemies a chance to strike at him themselves, rather than march the coward's road against Nemyotes.

Those who came to Aurhinius during the night seemed divided into two factions. One was horror-struck at the temerity of insulting Zephros, a man chosen for his post by the vengeful and ambitious adherents of the late kingpriest. And all this on behalf of a dead kender!

Aurhinius was polite but firm with these, reminding them that the issue was not the vices of kender but the virtues of discipline. An army without it, or campaigning in the company of soldiers without it, was in danger from more than the enemy.

Did they wish him to turn a blind eye to brawls and disorders, until even their own women soldiers and female servants were not safe from the tax soldiers? (Captain Floria Desbarres had the grace to turn the same color as her hair when Aurhinius flung that challenge at her.) The other faction, not much smaller than the first, came to praise Aurhinius and urge him to sterner measures. He spoke to these with more warmth, for they were of his own mind, but said much the same as to the others.

The fault of Zephros and others like him was not that they hated kender or loved-"certain factions" was what Aurhinius said, instead of "the kingpriest"-too much. It was that they did not understand the need for discipline, without which an army was a mob, and a mob this close to the desert was an array of dead men waiting for a place to fall down.

He would punish Zephros as much as the needs of discipline allowed, neither more nor less. They should take heed of this warning, and pass it on to their soldiers.

Neither faction left Aurhinius's tent in any light spirits, which doubtless had something to do with the fact that it was now well on toward cockcrow. Also, the sky was growing clouded, with both moons and half the stars shrouded from sight.

Aurhinius had begun to longingly contemplate his cot when Nemyotes entered. The secretary wore a long clerk's robe and a frown.

"Don't tell me," Aurhinius said. "You've come to tell me that I can't arrest Zephros."

"How did you guess, my lord?"

Aurhinius wished that he could doubt his ears. He did try to forestall the bad news by saying, "It is too late or too early for jests. Choose which one, then be silent."

"Your pardon, my lord, but I do not jest. The warrant under which Zephros assembled his band and marched south is very specific. You do not have the right of high or middle justice over him or any of his sworn men, save in a case involving a crime against a man sworn into the regular service of the city."

Aurhinius saw a leather pouch under Nemyotes's arm. "Is that a copy of it?"

"Yes. It cost me-"

"Whatever you spent, take it from my strongbox. In the morning, please."

The copy of Zephros's Warrant of Captaincy over Tax Soldiers made quite as dismal reading as Aurhinius had feared. Nemyotes's interpretation was correct, as it usually was. The man would have made a formidable law counselor.

"Very well," Aurhinius said. He restrained an urge to tear the warrant into shreds. "I do not suppose that the kender Edelthirb was sworn into the regular service of Istar, by any interpretation?"

Nemyotes shook his head. "I inquired. He was not even listed as a servant to any of our sworn people."

Aurhinius did not waste breath groaning. Truthfully, a kender was about as likely to be a registered servant in an Istarian army as Takhisis, the Dark Queen, was to be a virgin.

"Very well," he said at last. "We must content ourselves with what we can do. Guard those two remaining kender as if they were high-ranking clerics."

"We shall, when we find them," Nemyotes said.

"When you-oh, to the Abyss with that!" Aurhinius snapped. "Also, if I cannot keep Zephros from moving about, I can at least keep watch on him. Guards will be posted where they can watch his tent at all times."

"Ah-that may not be so easy," Nemyotes said.

"The difficult I expect to be done. If you had said it was impossible-"

"It may be that, too, my lord. Zephros has pitched his camp well apart from the rest of us. All approaches are already watched by his sentries. They seem to be hand-picked men, and more seasoned soldiers than one would expect to find under such a captain."

Not if the kingpriest helped him recruit them, Aurhinius thought. He wondered briefly if Zephros's band was in truth the supposedly outlawed militia called the Servants of Silence, tricked out like an aging woman of pleasure in a fresh gown and new jewelry.

"Very well. Have a few trusted men ready to move, nonetheless. It looks to be coming on to storm. The best sentry in the world finds it hard to halt an intruder when rain or sand is blowing in his face."

"Yes, my lord."

Aurhinius nodded in dismissal. As Nemyotes left the tent, Aurhinius realized he was still nodding. Indeed, his head seemed too heavy for his neck. He pushed himself up and away from his camp desk, stumbled over the chair, but reached his cot before his legs gave way under him.

He did not awaken as Nemyotes reentered with two servants, to undress their commander and see him snugly abed.

Pirvan reckoned Hawkbrother had already tested the footing while standing captive under Darin's gaze. It was what he would have done in the younger man's place, and he would not assume that a desert chief's son was any less shrewd that a Knight of the Sword.

From chronicles of battles the knights had fought for Istar against the "barbarians," none of them had been despicable opponents. The knights had won, but they and Istar had paid a fair price in blood and treasure.

Tonight at least no one would be spending treasure, and neither side could readily lose honor-as the knights had sometimes done as Istar's hirelings. Blood might be lost, but, the gods willing, not even much of that.

Pirvan made his rounds of the square, studying each man's face as he passed. Good. No one looked to be harboring plans for treachery or folly. He hoped no one would dishonor him, even if he appeared in mortal danger.

More than his own honor was at stake here. The trust men placed in the Knights of Solamnia still stood between the kingpriest and absolute power. Any knight's loss of honor weakened that barrier. If tonight ended with Haimya and the children weeping over his corpse, it would still be a fair price for keeping that barrier strong.

He gripped shoulders with Darin while standing on a patch of ground that felt like a hard crust over something softer below. They could even embrace now, he and the younger knight, without him standing on tiptoe or Darin stooping like a hunchback, although it had taken some years of practice.

Then Pirvan was face to face with his family. Their weeping over his body suddenly seemed not so small a price to pay, even for the honor of the knights or the downfall of the kingpriest.

He remembered a warning, from one of his oldest and shrewdest instructors.

When you are in love with honor or reputation, death may seem light. For you, perhaps it will be. Unless you've been an utter fool, you'll be given to the skies or the earth, with Huma and the old heroes.

It is those you leave behind who will weep. To them, your death will be heavier than a mountain, and your honor may seem lighter than a feather when they think of how much they miss you.

Pay for honor in your own coin, not by borrowing from others.

If I die tonight, Pirvan thought, I will not join with Haimya when she is a grandmother. I will not see Gerik either a knight or embarked on some other honorable course of life. I will not see Eskaia growing into her full beauty, and wed to some man I am sure I will consider not at all worthy of her. I shall remember all of this, and not be careless of either life or honor.

Pirvan finished his round and stepped into the center of the square, not more than a bow's length from Hawkbrother. The young warrior might have been cast in bronze.

"It is time, I think, friend," Pirvan said.

"Time indeed, and friend if the gods will it," Hawkbrother said.

No need to fear this one's being foolish about life or honor, either, thought Pirvan. This is a son any father might be proud to claim.

Pirvan raised his voice. "Sir Darin, will you give us the command?"

For a moment Pirvan thought the younger knight would balk. Then he drew his sword, tossed it, caught it by the hilt, and held it upright.

In a great arc, Darin swept the blade downward, until the point touched the ground. As it did, he cried, in a great voice: "Begin!"