The officer went down with a bubbling scream, and suddenly there was no more fighting. Instead, there were only moans, sobs, and-in the distance-the thud and thunder of galloping hooves disappearing into the darkness.

"Anybody with a prisoner, hang on to him!" Aplyn-Ahrmahk barked, and then turned back to the river.

"That's the best I can do, Sir," Lywys Taibor said. The healer's mate looked drawn and weary, and well he should. The ambush had cost the boat party heavily, with five dead and twice that many wounded. Now he stood up, rubbing his back, and looked glumly down at Lieutenant Fairghas Gowain, who lay unconscious on the rough pad made of captured Delferahkan saddle blankets.

"How soon is he going to wake up?" Aplyn-Ahrmahk asked. He felt as tired as the healer's mate looked, but he couldn't afford to admit it.

"Dunno, Sir," Taibor said honestly. "Head wound like that, he may never wake up. Or he could come to in the next ten minutes. If you want me to guess, probably not for a day or two. And I don't know if his wits're going to be wandering when he does come to or not."

"I see." Aplyn-Ahrmahk gazed down at the lieutenant for several moments, then patted the healer's mate on the shoulder. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "And not just for the prognosis. The lads are lucky they had you along."

"Did what I could, Sir," Taibor replied in an exhausted voice. "But I'd be lying if I said I was happy about 'em. Got at least four we need to get to a proper healer fast as we can, or we'll lose them sure as Shan-wei."

"Understood."

Aplyn-Ahrmahk patted him on the shoulder again, then walked to the riverbank and stared out across the cold, clear water.

Lieutenant Gowain, HMS Victorious' first lieutenant, was in command of the entire operation. But now he was unconscious indefinitely, and Lieutenant Bryndyn Mahgail, the senior Marine, was dead. Which left Lieutenant Aplyn-Ahrmahk-all sixteen years old of him-in command and the next best thing to two hundred miles from the nearest senior officer.

At least they'd taken three of the dragoons alive, and the Delferahkans had been so shocked by the abrupt reversal of their ambush that their tongues had wagged freely. It was also possible the sight of Stywyrt Mahlyk contemplatively sharpening a knife as he smiled evilly in their direction might have had some bearing on their loquaciousness, of course.

Aplyn-Ahrmahk had kept them separated from one another to deprive them of any opportunity to coordinate their stories, yet all three of them had told basically the same tale.

Word of the attack on Sarmouth had spread even faster than Admiral Yairley's plan had allowed for. Worse, some idiot upriver from the port had actually believed the boat expedition's warnings that the horrible Charisian heretics were sending an entire invasion fleet up the miserable Sarm River! Aplyn-Ahrmahk couldn't understand how anybody with the sense to pour piss out of a boot, to borrow one of Mahlyk's favorite phrases, could have credited that story, but according to all three of their prisoners, one of the Earl of Charlz' bailiffs had actually believed the Charisians were burning both banks of the river as they advanced deep into the heart of Delferahk. He'd sounded the alarm and sent out parties of dragoons to scout for the invaders.

The one good aspect of the entire comic-opera farce was that the dragoons in question were militiamen, not regulars. The bad news was that this particular lot of them had spotted the Charisian boats the previous evening and shadowed them from shore. Working against the current, the boats were actually slower than the horsemen, which was how the Delferahkans had been able to get into position for the ambush. And an unknown number of them had gotten away. By now, they had to be raising the alarm, and Aplyn-Ahrmahk doubted the number of "Charisian invaders" was going to decline when they started explaining how they'd gotten their asses kicked. Which meant every man the Delferahkans could scrape up would be hunting for his people by late afternoon.

So what did he do? If there were more dragoons available, it wouldn't be hard for them to repeat this bunch's tactics. And even if there weren't, the word had to be going out by semaphore (if it was available) and by runner and courier (if the semaphore wasn't available) even as he stood here. He knew how important this mission was, but if he continued, the odds were overwhelming that he'd simply lead his own pursuers straight to the people he was supposed to be rescuing. And that didn't even consider those badly wounded men Taibor had mentioned.

He looked out at the slowly flowing water and tried to think.

.VI.

Sunthorn Mountains and Royal Palace, City of Talkyra, Kingdom of Delferahk Lazy wings of snow drifted almost silently on the wind sighing among the peaks of the Sunthorn Mountains ninety-odd miles northwest of the city of Talkyra. The temperature hovered at a brisk six degrees below zero on the old Fahrenheit scale, and the stars showing through the cloud rifts overhead were huge and bright ... and icy. Technically, it was spring south of the equator, but at these elevations that meant very little, especially in the small, still hours of the morning just after Langhorne's Watch.

The single Imperial Charisian Guardsman sat in a lotus position atop an ice-crusted boulder. He'd been sitting there for three days now, ever since his conversation with Baron Coris, and there was snow drifted on his hair-and on his skin, for that matter-but he seemed unaware of it. Because he was unaware of it. He'd allowed his body temperature to drop to that of the air about him, and after he'd caught up on some of the SNARC reports he'd been unable to give proper attention to when they first came in and spent a day or so contemplating future possibilities, he'd actually put himself on standby and taken the equivalent of a lengthy nap. It wasn't as if anyone was going to be wandering around four thousand feet above the permanent snow line to stumble across him while he was "asleep," and it would probably make Cayleb happy.

And if it didn't, at least it would offer him a handy bit of ammunition to toss back at the emperor the next time Cayleb decided to lecture him about the need for "down time."

It wasn't often Merlin Athrawes had the opportunity to simply sit and think, which made him value those rare chances even more when one of them came along. For the most part, he was far too visible (aside from those "retreats to meditate" which had become a more frequent part of his life of late) for something like this. If "Seijin Merlin" dropped out of sight, even briefly, people started wondering where he was and what he was up to and, as a general rule, he tried very hard to avoid having people wonder about things like that.

In this instance, however, it was going to be necessary to explain how Captain Athrawes had gotten to the city of Talkyra. Or, to be more accurate, it was going to be necessary to allow time for him to have made the trip. Everyone knew seijins moved in mysterious ways and at speeds few other mortals could match, so the exact details of his travel arrangements could be glossed over. But it still took them at least some time to make a journey of over six thousand miles, which was why he'd left Tellesberg five five-days earlier.

He'd spent most of that time in Nimue's Cave, going over reports, discussing the events racing towards a violent confrontation in the Republic of Siddarmark with the rest of the inner circle, refining the propaganda Owl's remotes were distributing across all three continents, catching up on some reading, and working with Owl on a couple of private projects he'd been unable to give proper attention before.

In particular, he and the AI had the Class II VR unit almost up and running. Owl still didn't have the specifications he needed to build another PICA, and Merlin was no more enthusiastic than he had been about letting the computer take apart his own cybernetic housing to find out how it worked. But at least if he had to, he now had a refuge for his and Nimue's memories and personality. A Class II VR wasn't as big and capable as the massive virtual reality computers the Terran Federation had used as "homes" for electronic iterations of their top R&D, military analysts, and pure researchers. It simply didn't have the memory and the processing power to maintain two or three dozen fully aware personalities in detailed virtual environments indistinguishable (from the inside) from reality. A Class II could handle no more than three or, at the outside, four virtual personalities if it was going to give the VPs a fully developed world in which to live. There'd be plenty of room for Nimue/Merlin, though. If worse came to worst, he could set up housekeeping in there even if "Seijin Merlin" became totally inoperable, and at least one other possible use had occurred to him, although he still wasn't at all certain that one was going to work out.

In addition, he'd decided it was time to take advantage of Commander Mahndrayn's work with his breech-loading rifle and the percussion caps he'd developed for it, and he and Owl had used some of the free time to redesign his own sidearms. Those were going to come as a nasty surprise to someone-possibly sometime soon-he thought, and they wouldn't violate a single clause of the Proscriptions. Father Paityr had already made that abundantly clear, although none of the Empire's gunsmiths had yet come up with the design he and Owl had built.

The truth was, though, that as much as he'd enjoyed having time to tinker and putter, he'd gotten bored. Unfortunately, he'd had no choice but to go on marking time for at least another five-day or two if he didn't want to raise all sorts of eyebrows about the truly miraculous, not simply mysterious, speed with which Seijin Merlin could cover distances of six or seven thousand miles. That was why he'd landed here in the mountains after Zhevons' chat with Coris, sent the recon skimmer back to Owl, ordered his nannies to regrow Seijin Merlin's hair, and then gone to standby mode for fifty minutes of every hour.

Of course, even with that, if anyone ever started adding up times, they were bound to come to the conclusion that seijins must know some magic spell to give them command of wind and wave.

In theory, he'd sailed from the Earldom of West Harding, the Island of Charis' westernmost headland, rather than Tellesberg, which had at least reduced the length of his supposed voyage to the Desnairian Empire's Crown Lands from over ten thousand miles to "only" fifty-seven hundred. He'd actually turned up in West Harding, publically (and noisily) "borrowed" a forty-foot single-masted schooner, and put to sea in order to make sure everyone "knew" how he'd gotten where he was going in the fullness of time.

That schooner, unfortunately, was now on the bottom of the Parker Sea. He regretted that. It had been a sweet little craft, and Nimue had always loved single-handing her sloop back on Old Terra whenever she'd had the chance. In fact, he was increasingly irked with himself for having abandoned the schooner as quickly as he had. With so much time to kill, he might as well have spent some of it doing something he'd always enjoyed so much before.

You need a vacation, he told himself. Well, to be fair, I guess you needed a vacation. You'd really have to call the last month or so something like a vacation, after all, but you're just too damned contrary to actually take time off, aren't you? Always have to be doing something. Everything depends on you. He snorted mentally. You need Sharley or Cayleb closer to hand to kick you in the butt when you get too full of your own importance.

It was amazing how comforting it was to be able to think that. The loss of so many colleagues left a special aching wound at the center of the theoretically immortal "seijin's" heart, yet the inner circle had survived, even continued to grow. Best of all, he wasn't indispensable any longer, and that was a greater relief than he'd ever imagined it might be. If something happened to him, the others would still have access to Owl and the technology hidden away in Nimue's Cave. Not that he planned on anything happening to him, of course. It was just- "Excuse me, Lieutenant Commander Alban."

Merlin twitched internally, although his physical body never moved, as Owl's voice invaded his thoughts.

"Yes?"

"The sensor net deployed to cover Talkyra has reported a situation which programming parameters require me to call to your attention."

"What sort of situation? No, scratch that. I assume you have the raw take from the sensors for me, yes?"

"Affirmative, Lieutenant Commander Alban."

"Then I suppose you'd better show it to me."

"Tobys."

Tobys Raimair looked up from the dagger edge he'd been carefully honing and cocked an eyebrow at the man who'd just poked his head into his spartan little bedchamber. Corporal Zhak Mahrys was one of his small guard force's noncoms. Normally a calm, almost phlegmatic sort, he looked more than a little anxious at the moment.

"What is it, Zhakky?"

"There's something going on," Mahrys said. "You know Zhake Tailyr?"

"Sure." Raimair nodded; Tailyr was one of King Zhames' guardsmen. He was also a drinking buddy of Mahrys', and Raimair and Earl Coris had encouraged the corporal to pursue the friendship. "What about him?"

"He says there's been a lot of going back and forth between Colonel Sahndahl's office and Father Gaisbyrt's office since lunchtime. A lot, Tobys."

Raimair's face stiffened. Father Gaisbyrt Vandaik was a Schuelerite upper-priest attached to Bishop Mytchail's office in Talkyra.

"What kind of back and forth?" Raimair asked.

"Dunno. He said it was Brother Bahldwyn mostly, though ... and Vandaik came back to the castle with him about an hour ago."

Better and better, Raimair thought. Bahldwyn Gaimlyn was attached to the king's household-technically as a "secretary," although there was precious little evidence King Zhames had requested his services.

"Did Tailyr have any idea what it was about?" he asked.

"If he did, he wasn't telling me." Mahrys looked even more concerned. "He's somebody to hoist a few beers with, Tobys, not my blood brother. He may know-or suspect-a lot he's not telling me. On the other hand, at least he dropped some warning on me."

Raimair nodded, although he had to wonder if Tailyr's decision to "warn" Mahrys had really been his own. Raimair could think of a couple of scenarios in which a particularly devious Schuelerite-and they were all devious, sneaky, underhanded bastards-might arrange to have a "warning" passed in order to manipulate someone he suspected into incriminating himself.

"Thanks, Zhakky," he said now, standing and sliding the dagger into its belt sheath. "Pass the word to the rest of the lads. No one makes any moves, no one does anything to suggest we're worried, but check your equipment and be sure you keep it handy. I want them ready to move fast and hard if we have to. Got it?"

"Got it." Mahrys nodded and disappeared, and Raimair walked down a short hallway, up a half-flight of stairs, and knocked on another door.

"Yes?" a voice responded.

"Could I have a minute of your time, My Lord?"

"I don't know, Irys," Phylyp Ahzgood said, looking out the turret window into the darkness. "I can't think of any good reason for Vandaik to be talking to Colonel Sahndahl. Or not any reason that would be good for us, anyway."

"Can we go ahead and run now?" Irys asked, watching his back, seeing the tension in his shoulders.

"Maybe. But we weren't supposed to run for another two days, and we don't even know for sure what's happening. Making a break for it now might be the worst thing we could do!" The frustration in his voice was evident, and he turned to her with a sour expression. "I'm not used to having things like this sneak up on me."

"I know you're not," Irys said with a lopsided smile. "And I count on it not happening. But you're only human, Phylyp, and the truth is-"

"And the truth is," a much deeper voice neither of them had ever heard before said calmly, "that everyone makes mistakes occasionally. Even me."

Irys and Coris whipped back around to the window just as a tall man with blue eyes, fierce mustachios, and a dagger beard swung lightly over the windowsill and into the room. The fact that they were three stories up and that the wall fell sheer from the window would have made that astonishing enough, but to make bad worse, the stranger wore the livery of the Charisian Imperial Guard in the middle of the capital of the Kingdom of Delferahk.

The earl and the princess gaped at the apparition, and he bowed gracefully.

"Please excuse my unceremonious arrival," he said, straightening from the bow and stroking his mustache. "Captain Merlin Athrawes, at your service."

"But ... but how-?"

The imperturbability of even a Phylyp Ahzgood had its limits, and the Earl of Coris couldn't seem to get the question finished. He only stared at the newcomer, and Merlin chuckled. Irys Daykyn was made of sterner stuff, though.

"Captain Athrawes," she acknowledged, bending her head in a gracious nod. "I won't say the Empire of Charis is especially near and dear to my heart, but at this moment, I'm most happy to see you."

"Thank you, Your Highness." He bowed more deeply. "And please accept Their Majesties' greetings. They look forward to seeing you safely out of Delferahk."

"And into Tellesberg, of course," she riposted in a slightly barbed tone.

"Well, of course, Your Highness, but I'm trying not to be tacky," Merlin murmured with a slight smile, and Irys' lips quivered for just a moment. Then she cleared her throat.

"It would appear you've arrived at an opportune moment, Seijin Merlin," she said then. "Of course, we don't know why it's an opportune moment or how you've managed to arrive at it, now do we?"

"In answer to the second half of your question, Your Highness, everyone insists on calling me a seijin, so it's only reasonable I should act like one on occasion, including arriving at opportune moments. If I recall my fairy tales correctly, Seijin Kody did a lot of that sort of thing." He smiled more broadly, but then his expression sobered. "And in answer to the question you and Earl Coris were discussing when I arrived-I hope you don't mind that I spent a moment or two listening outside your window before I intruded-it turns out Master Seablanket wasn't the only spy planted on you by the Inquisition, after all."

"He wasn't?" Coris came back to life, his eyes narrowing. He sounded more than a little affronted by Merlin's explanation, and Merlin smiled at him.

"It's not really your fault, My Lord," he said. "As you may know from your discussion with my friend Ahbraim, we seijins have our own means of gathering intelligence. That's how I discovered Bishop Mytchail had decided to insert one of his own agents into King Zhames' household to keep an eye on you. He wasn't instructed to, and his agent reports only to him, not to Rayno or Clyntahn, but I'm afraid he's come to the conclusion that you're ... well, up to something. He doesn't know what, but he's decided it's probably something you shouldn't be doing. So he's sent Father Gaisbyrt to order Colonel Sahndahl to take your own armsmen into custody and replace them with members of King Zhames' Guard ... under Father Gaisbyrt's direct command. Just for your own safety, of course."

"And the King?" Irys asked, gazing at Merlin intently. "Is he party to all this?"

"No, and so far as I'm aware, neither is Baron Lakeland or Sir Klymynt," Merlin told her. "On the other hand, none of them will attempt to overrule Bishop Mytchail, Your Highness. And, to be honest, you can't really blame them, can you?"

"My heart certainly can, Seijin Merlin!" she said tartly, but then she shook her head. "My head, unfortunately, can't. Not knowing what that butcher Clyntahn would do to anyone who helped us slip out of his clutches."

"Slip out of his clutches alive, Your Highness," Merlin corrected gently.

"Correction accepted, Seijin Merlin."

"How much time do we have before Sahndahl moves?" Coris demanded.

"None," Merlin replied calmly. "There are forty Royal Guardsmen on their way right now, along with half a dozen inquisitors. And their instructions are to use whatever force is necessary to make sure none of you go anywhere."

"Forty!" Coris exclaimed in dismay.

"All we have to do is get out of the castle, reach the stable where you've had those horses waiting for a week, and then ride for the rendezvous," Merlin replied with a shrug, as if he were discussing a simple picnic outing.

"Past forty Royal Guardsmen?"

"And the inquisitors, My Lord," Merlin reminded him. The earl glared at him, and the seijin shrugged. "Sergeant Raimair has his people ready, My Lord," he pointed out, "and they're all good, solid men. They'll take care of twenty or twenty-five of Zhames' armsmen if they have to, I'm sure."

"And the other twenty armsmen and the half-dozen inquisitors?" Coris inquired more than a bit acidly.

"Ah, them." Merlin shrugged again. "Well, for them, My Lord, you have me."

.VII.

Royal Palace, City of Talkyra, Kingdom of Delferahk "Father, are you sure this is something we want to do?" Colonel Fraimahn Sahndahl asked.

"Are you questioning the Inquisition, my son?" Father Gaisbyrt Vandaik asked in a gentle, silky tone.

"Never, Father," Sahndahl replied as calmly as he could. "I simply don't have any orders from His Majesty, and it would only take an hour or so to send a messenger after him."