Aliphor

CHAPTER THREE
By Beck McLaughlin

The Blades were taking no chances with her desperate self. Elfie flexed her wrists in the steel manacles and tried not to give in to despair. To be arrested over a half-loaf of moldy bread was the ultimate in humiliation for a respectable Guildswoman. No -- not the ultimate. That had come last night. Her face heated at the memory. At least that fop hadn't figured she was female. He looked the sort that enjoyed ravishing young girls. She's seen his kind often enough in the Quarter, prowling the narrow streets with their hired guards and twisted lusts.

"Storchi?"

No answer. The hell with him.

Someone was coming; heavy, nailed boots thudded on stone just outside the cell. Her stomach tightened painfully. The door opened. A Blade looked down at her, grinning, arms akimbo. Behind him were the two men Elfie now recognized as her personal nemeses ... Kelblade and mage. Identifying her, probably, to make it official. To her surprise, the guard strode in and, instead of kicking her or something equally predictable, unlocked her chains.

"You've been released into their custody, wench," the man said. "And until you're beyond our border, you mind your manners."

Rubbing her wrists, stunned at this incomprehensible turn of events, Elfie could only nod. The fair-haired Blade moved quickly to take up a position beside her. Hard fingers locked discretely - and tightly - around her forearm.

"Girl or boy -- run and I feed the sword," came the soft, deadly threat. "Understand?"

Elfie nodded earnestly. The hand was removed. Then, as they rounded the gaol, she saw not only her companions' horses, but a third animal, saddled and waiting. She turned to the mage, in whom she had earlier detected some sympathy, and looked a question.

"We're in a hurry," the Doctor explained. "On foot, you would slow us down."

So she was accompanying them after all, was she? Elfie began sorting through various plans of escape. Aloud, she asked: "Where are we going?"

"Seroult."

"Oh. Why bring me?"

The two men exchanged glances. "Isn't that where you're going?" asked the mage.

Denial trembled on her lips, but Elfie - remembering the powers attributed to mages, replied: "What if it is? Why should I come with you?"

"Because you would rather not hang?" suggested the Blade with a sweet smile.

"That's a good reason," Elfie admitted.

They mounted up - her two companions with grace, she with less so. Equestrian skills had never been a high priority of hers - nor particularly easy to acquire in the slums where she grew up.

They left the post, heading north. The mage took the lead, guiding his pretty bit of horseflesh down an overgrown lane that led, Elfie suspected, around the village rather than through it. Good plan. They rode in silence for awhile. Then the mage asked: "What's your name?"

"Elfie ... Elfira."

"How long have you been able to move things around with your mind, Elfira?"

"What you're talking about?"

"That little display on the beach."

"I didn't do that," Elfie retorted sullenly.

"Who did?"

"Storchi."

The Doctor's eyes gleamed. "Who's Storchi?"

"A ghost."

"I told you so," Reven smirked, but the Doctor bit back on what sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. Elfie scowled.

"Laugh if you like. If he decides to be seen, you'll know soon enough."

"I look forward to it." Amusement glinted in the blue eyes.

Their road wound northwest, taking them back to the coast. On their left was the sea, cold and unfriendly even under the bright morning sun. The mountains rose sharply on their right. It was isolated country; they met no other travelers. To Elfie, whose entire life had been spent in a crowd, the emptiness continued to be unsettling. The Doctor, seeing her unease, drew back on his horse to ride with her.

"What made you leave l'Sanjil?" he asked. "There is no better city for thieves in Aliphor."

Elfie's heart began its irregular, painful lurching whenever she thought of the massacre, the fire and the screams. She said through stiff lips: "It seemed like a good idea."

"What's wrong?"

The girl heard sharp concern in the mage's voice. She fought it, but the need to tell someone was too great. The words tumbled out when the images refused to fade. "The prince ... Ankaran ... they shut off the Quarter -- said there were traitors hiding there. The Blades came at night ..." Breath failed and, for one horrible moment, she was back in the street, eyes stinging from the smoke, looking desperately for a way out.

"Go on."

The horses had stopped. Even Reven didn't look impatient.

"The Queen sent her own steward to meet with the Guildmasters. He told the Masters that there was a traitor, a murderer, hiding in the Quarter. He offered them a choice -- hand over this man or the Blades would kill everyone. When the Masters couldn't -- or wouldn't -- obey, the Kelblades came. They did what she promised. They killed everyone. Everyone! Children, old people, fortune tellers, the artists and poets -- not just thieves. Death was everywhere!"

"Rassilon!" whispered the Doctor, profoundly shaken.

Reven, hard-eyed, stared at Elfie. "You made it out, didn't you, rat? Surely, others did, too?"

"Maybe ... maybe. Storchi helped me. He found an old sewer under the wall."

"Storchi? Your damned hell-shade?"

"Enough!" The Doctor drew a long breath. "That's grim news." His blue eyes met the kelblade's dark ones. The warrior looked away, jaw clenched. After a moment, looking troubled, the mage nudged his horse forward and continued on.

Late, they stopped for an absurdly delicious luncheon of oats, raisins and nuts sweetened slightly with honey. The sky had gone heavily overcast, the clouds racing along, propelled by a brisk wind. A few splatters of rain hit them. Did it do nothing but rain in this benighted place?

"We're almost to Shale Beach," the mage said. "If we hurry, we can get there before the storm breaks."

It was unwarranted optimism. Wind gusted across their saddles. The rain started in earnest, gray sheets of it obscuring the road before them. Within moments, they were soaked. Suddenly, ahead, a narrow gate loomed, and beyond it a rambling structure with gabled roof and weatherbeaten countenance. A high stone wall defended it against the worst of the sea-winds, but even so, the blasts coming in over the water nearly unhorsed Elfie

At first glance, the inn seemed abandoned, its courtyard empty, windows shuttered fast against the storm. Then there were shadows emerging from the greater dark around them. Reven made a sound and reached for his sword, but the Doctor shouted: "They're friends!"

Men in leather and mail stepped forward to take their horses -- a perilous business until Reven brought Jihadran around with a sharp command. Hands reached to help Elfie to the ground. Someone held aloft a lantern. The light bobbed and jittered about, revealing the crest belonging the fancy noble from whom she'd stolen that ill-fated dagger. Elfie swore, softly.

No one moved to lay hands on her, but the press of men around the girl was so great that escape was, for the moment, impossible.. As for the Doctor, he was deep in conversation with a tall, rangy guard all too familiar to Elfie -- the one the fine lord had called "Anton." It seemed they were expected.

Legs wobbly from a day on horseback, Elfie was propelled across the wet cobblestones and into the inn. The sudden light and warmth made the girl dizzy. She was pushed to the side where, fortunately, a comfortable bench waited against the wall.

Inside, the inn was considerably more impressive. Flagged stones were polished to a mirror shine. Rugs from the Veenerian mountains lay across it in bright patches. A chandelier dripping crystal filled the foyer with a soft radiance. The din of voices settled into a pleasant buzz. Elfie's eyelids grew heavy.

"On your feet, wench."

Else started awake at the swordslave's not unsympathetic voice. Shaking off the Blade's hand, she got up and walked into the taproom. It was obvious that the lord had appropriated the entire inn. Red and black were everywhere. The Doctor took a seat at a table near the great fireplace. He waved cheerily to the thief and Kelblade. Uneasily, Elfie looked around, but there was no sign of the fancy lord.

"We're not too late for dinner," the mage announced. "There are crab cakes, an artichoke soup that's legendary ..."

"Doctor, these are Marrowcroft men!" burst out the Blade.

The mage looked around. "Yes," he agreed, "they are."

"The Kel sent the Duke to meet us?"

"No ... not precisely ..."

"Moric? You cannot be serious! That profligate is ..." He fell abruptly silent, his reaction as good as an announcement. Twisting about, Elfie saw the infamous Viscount of Dren, only son of the equally notorious Duke of Marrowcroft, moving gracefully through the crowded taproom. At his jeweled heels was the tall guard who'd done his bidding the night before. The latter did not look very happy, glowering first at the Doctor, then at Reven. The grim expression lightened somewhat when his gray gaze lit on Elfie. The girl's heart thumped into her throat.

"Anton, it's the little thief!" Lord Marrowcroft reached the table. He extended a long, beautifully manicured hand to the Doctor who jumped to his feet, eyes alight with welcome "Arrest him."

Anton snorted and didn't move.

"You've met Elfira, have you? Good!" The Doctor shook milord's hand heartily. "May I introduce Revenant Avril?"

"Oh, we're old friends, too." The viscount's eyes flashed briefly.. "How are you, cousin? Nice sword."

Reven's mouth twisted. "You're far from your clubs, Moric. How ever are you enduring the hardships of the road?"

"It's been a trial," the Viscount admitted candidly. "There are so few decent inns this far south. Next time, I bring my cook." A servant appeared to pull out his chair. The tall watchdog moved to lean against the wall behind the Doctor. "However, duty demands sacrifices. How did you come upon the thief, Doctor?"

"Our paths crossed in Kirmil. She has an interesting tale."

"She?" Well-shaped brows arched. Elfie's head came up defiantly. "Are you sure?" he added wickedly. "Perhaps we should check."

Elfie stiffened. The Doctor set a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. "Don't be an ass, Moric," he advised shortly. "Tell him, Elfira."

She took a deep breath and once again described the terrible night. It was easier on the second telling, her voice didn't wobble.

"By the gods," the Viscount said after she finished, mockery gone from his face. "How could we have heard nothing of this?"

"What do you hear?" the Doctor asked. "Reven and I've been -- out of touch."

"Not much, although I admit I'm not privy to the counsel of the High Kel. An official messenger was dispatched shortly after you left. Three days ago, when I departed Seroult, he'd still not returned. There are unofficial reports of mercenaries massing outside the wall, and some rumors that the l'Sanjil Kelblades attempted a coup. All the while, their ambassador and ours insist is all is well."

"Lies!" exploded Reven.

The young nobleman regarded his cousin with a troubled countenance. "I would love to hear the story," he said, "but I'm merely the messenger boy. The council is anxious for the Doctor's return. I've asked the innkeeper to prepare a cold supper -- then we must be on our way."

Elfie's heart plummeted. Even Reven looked daunted. The Doctor gave his companions a sympathetic grimace. "A few hours rest wouldn't make that much difference, would it?"

Moric shrugged. "If it were up to me, Doctor, we would spend several days at this delightful resort. Sea air is so fortifying. Unfortunately, you are already a week late, which has given your foes plenty of time to bend Prince Kellin's ear. All this manpower," he waved carelessly at the soldiers around them, "is as much to see you safely to Kellin's side as to protect you from Ankaran."

"Surely no one would dare move against us in the prince's own city?"

Shaking his head, the young viscount shrugged. "Word got out that Kellin sent a mage to spy in l'Sanjil. It caused quite an uproar. His Highness is concerned for your safety."

Elfie thought of the wind and rain. She sighed. Clear, dark eyes rested on her a moment. "There is room in my carriage for the brat," he said in long-suffering tones. "Although I would insist upon a quick wash-up."

"No!" she snapped, miserably aware that it had been a very long time, indeed, since she'd bathed. "I prefer to ride."

"And slow us down by toppling from your horse at the first opportunity." Moric shook his head. "I think not, poppet. Where's that damned innkeeper?"

The cold supper arrived. Elfie forgot her resentment at the feast laid before them. She gave her captors a furtive glance and, seeing that they were just as hungry as she, helped herself to a large, cheese-stuffed roll. As she licked its crumbs from her fingers, she saw the innkeeper returning to the table with something in his arms. She scowled when he handed it with a bow to the viscount. Moric, in turn, tossed it carelessly over the table to her.

"Goodman Charles has hot water and soap in the ladies' retiring room, brat. You do know how to use them?" He grinned at her furious glare. "Good. And the man has been kind enough to rob his daughter's wardrobe on your behalf. I'll not be seen riding into the city was such a scruffy urchin."

"You can take your dress and stuff it up your ..."

"Elfira." The Doctor's quiet voice cut her off in mid-sentence. "We'd like to attract as little attention as possible. Please do what he says."

She bit back an angry retort, eyes suddenly burning. Standing abruptly, she snatched the garment and marched after the innkeeper.

The retiring room had no windows, only the one door with the burly innkeeper standing without. Elfie threw the dress on the rug and went to the wash basin. The mirror above it showed her a thin, grimy face, eyes sunken, cheekbones too prominent. Lank brown hair swung in greasy clumps above her shoulders. She did look awful -- a revelation that added to her sense of ill-usage. Grumbling, she set to work and, by the time the innkeeper knocked, she'd done a creditable job of scrubbing her face and neck The dress was pretty -- dove-gray and trimmed with pink ribbon. Elfie ran her hands surreptitiously over the skirt, liking the feel of the combed cotton beneath newly clean hands.

Back into the taproom she went, innkeeper beaming at her heels. Reven's eyes widened slightly. The Doctor grinned and jumped to his feet, bowing gracefully. Milord, after a critical examination, pronounced her "tolerable." She would have delivered a scathing rejoinder, but the Doctor distracted her by pulling something from his pocket. It was a wide, pink, satin ribbon.

"Here," he said. "I knew there was a reason I was carrying this about."

Elfie felt her face heat as the mage's long fingers caught up her dirty hair, pulling it back and tying it. The soft whisper of satin brushed the back of her neck. In spite of herself, she smiled shyly back at him.

"Charming," he said with simple sincerity.

"Indeed," replied the viscount in bored tones. "Are we all quite ready?"

The brat had little to say. She sat among the cushions opposite Moric, pressed as far into the corner as possible. The viscount took note of her wary, overlarge eyes, the clenching and unclenching of small hands, and said wearily: "Be easy, brat. My taste doesn't run to starved infants of dubious paternity. Sleep if you can. None of you is likely to get much once we get to Seroult."

He thought briefly that she might fly at him, so furious was her glare, but instead, she tucked bare, filthy feet up under her skirts. Punching a cushion as hard as she could (doubtless wishing it was his nose), she curled up and scrunched shut her eyes.

The rain had stopped. A sharp wind blowing in off the ocean rocked the carriage as it rolled north. Moonlight showed the road before them, empty. The guards cantered in a straggling line behind and before. He saw the mage riding nearby, no sign of fatigue in face or posture. Avril, however, drooped noticeably in his saddle, one hand on the reins, the other over the hilt of his unusual sword.

How the hell had Avril become embroiled in this mess? A Kelblade to the core, that one, stiff-necked and quick to take offense, fanatically loyal to his Guild. The cousins were not close. By the viscount's estimation, Avril was overly serious, moody and dull. Even so, Moric could not imagine him willingly joining forces with the Usurper. The viscount stared gloomily out into the night and wished himself safely in Seroult, tucked up at his club, content to leave political machinations and intrigue to those who enjoyed them

Sounds came from the corner of the darkened coach. Good gods, the brat snored. His night needed only this! He leaned forward to shake her awake, but the sounds came again - whimpers. Even in sleep, her slight body was tense. With a heavy sigh, Moric reached under the seat and pulled out a cashmere rug. Throwing it over the girl, he leaned back against the squabs and closed his eyes.

At least the wench had told him the truth about the dagger. It rested comfortably inside his jacket. Losing it would be disastrous. The hollow grip held a letter, a reply to Kellin from the Mage Guild's Master. That there was direct correspondence at all between Aliphor's High Prince and the heretic Guild was explosive enough. In the hands of the wrong people, the content of that letter could topple the throne. Moric broke out in a cold sweat just thinking about it.

"Your official charge is to meet the Doctor and escort him back to Seroult," Kellin had told him. "Pridelock and his ilk will be so incensed they'll never notice when you meet Kragorn's messenger."

"Kellin, this is absurd. Give the tedious task to Mark or Lewen. This derring-do is more to their taste than mine."

"But you *like* the Doctor, or so you claimed." Kellin's eyes had twinkled in that way his friends and lovers found so appealing.

"I find most eccentrics charming," protested the viscount, foreseeing exactly the sort of discomfort he presently endured. "And you know I despise politics."

"I do, indeed, and so does the rest of Seroult. You are therefore the perfect man for this mission. Don't your people have an estate out there?"

"A tiny farm," Moric had replied, ruthlessly perjuring himself, "and certainly not worth the personal attention of the Marrowcroft heir."

His argument was doomed to failure, as was usual when dealing with Kellin. Against every principal and instinct of self-preservation, he had set out for the coast -- in the rainy season, of all things -- to further his prince's dangerous intrigues. Thank the gods it was almost over and he could return to a more leisurely regimen of parties, cards and racing.

A rapping on the window distracted the viscount from his gloomy thoughts. He pushed aside the drape to find Anton, grim as usual. "My lord, there are riders approaching. Several of them. Please bolt the door and see that the windows are locked."

The outriders drew into defensive positions around the coach Moric's heart thumped. The coach slowed, then stopped. He fell back into the cushions and cursed.

"What is it? Why are we stopped?"

The high, light voice shook a little. He reached to turn up the lamp. The girl, Elfira, clenched the blanket to her breast and stared at him.

"It seems we're not the only lunatics abroad on a night like this. It's probably nothing."

He was promptly made a liar. Outside, the sound of the rain faded beneath sudden shouting and the unwelcome clang of steel. Belatedly, Moric scrambled to bolt the door as Anton ordered.

"You aren't going to help them?"

He looked around at the scornful face. "No," he said shortly, "that's what my father pays *them* for."

"Oh, how brave! No wonder you carry a lady's dagger."

"Which I will use to cut out your tongue, little shrew!" He glared back at her, stung, but anything else he might have said was interrupted by more pounding at the door.

"There's too many of them, my lord!" Anton's voice, rough-edged with panic. "We'll hold them off - you make a run for it!"

Gods! The driver cracked his whip, shrilly exhorting the horses forward. The coach rocked wildly as it turned in the road. Moric was flung across the cab and into Elfira's arms. She shrieked as it rocked again -- this time so violently he was sure they were overset. The two of them tumbled to the floor, entangled in the blanket as, jolting and bouncing, they were off.

It was a nightmarish ride. They were tossed about with bone bruising force until Moric finally got them both wedged in a corner on the floor, bracing himself against the wall and the seat. The girl curled tightly against him when, unexpectedly, the carriage lurched to a stop again. Shouting and the clash of weapons was all around them.

Above the din, Moric heard the mage: "NO! REVEN!"

Something changed. The girl went rigid against him, fingers clawing into his sweat-soaked shirt. He heard music, hideous, howling music that set his teeth on edge and made him want crawl away. Instead, he pushed Elfira aside and clambered back to the seat. He could hear a change in the voices outside -- there were screams now, not blood lust, but fear. Red light leaked through the cracks in the door and tightly-fastened shutters. The music was everywhere.

"No! Don't! Don't look!" Elfira pulled on his arm, sheer terror in her voice, but Moric shook her off. He unlatched the window and pulled it open.

They were on an empty stretch of highway, the stormy dark lit by a hellish glow. There were bodies of men and horses strewn across the road. Others were trying frantically to turn their wild-eyed mounts around, bolting heedlessly into the rocks on either side. In their midst was a figure out of nightmare. Avril!

The enemy's greater numbers were no safety against the blade held aloft in his cousin's bloody fist. Moric watched, sickened, as Reven cut a wide, crimson swathe through the fleeing men. For, as the weapon severed flesh and bone, it seemed to drink in the lifeblood of its victims, drawing the precious fluid to it in a ever-expanding swirl of burning mist. It surrounded Avril, lifting his pale hair, nearly obscuring him in its midst.

The girl finally succeeded in pulling Moric back from the window, but not before the viscount saw the Doctor riding toward the Blade, oblivious to the maelstrom of evil engulfing him. Elfie slammed shut the window and bolted it, falling back on the seat beside him. They sat, shivering, as the sounds of carnage died away and the Doctor's voice overrode the awful symphony.

"Enough! Revenant! Rassilon, man! ENOUGH!"

Abruptly, the horrible feeling was gone, the music quenched. Moric realized Elfira was clinging to his hand, her fingers ice-cold. Gently he pried them free.

"It's over," he managed, his voice shaking as much as he. Ignoring her small sounds of protest, he opened the door.

Reven sat, slumped forward in his saddle, sword sheathed and resting across his knees. Jihadron tossed his head and stamped nervously. Around the coach were scattered bodies, dozens of them, and yet not a speck of blood could be seen. The corpses were husks, shriveled and dry. Moric disembarked, starting at the sound of more horses approaching.

"My lord!" It was Anton. The guard captain swung from the saddle and ran to him, grasping the viscount painfully by his shoulders. "Are you all right?"

"Aye." Moric shook him off. The mage dismounted and carefully helped his cousin from his horse. Reven reached the ground and crumpled to his knees. When several of Moric's men started toward him, the Doctor waved them fiercely back.

"What happened here?" Anton looked about in growing unease.

"I'm not sure." Moric walked to the nearest body and touched it with his boot. He heard a sound like the rustling of dried leaves. Gods. He looked to his cousin. The man had recovered somewhat, regaining his feet with the Doctor's help. For a moment, Avril's face turned toward him, shock white and wet with tears. Then he looked away and leaned against Jihadran while the Doctor spoke softly, urgently to him.

"Bury these," Moric said at last, nodding at the desiccated bodies, "and let's get the hell away from here!"

It was a long time before Elfie's heartbeat returned to normal. Dawn was coming, brightening the windows of the coach. Outside, the viscount's men rode in tight formation around them, everyone but the Doctor giving Reven wide berth. The Blade didn't seem to notice. He sat with shoulders bowed, hands tight on the reins.

The last rags of cloud blew away. As the landscape lightened, the party left the meandering coast road for a proper highway. They began to see other travelers, mostly farmers heading to market who drew aside in alarm when the armed party rode past. A village came up on the right, then receded. For a time, they climbed through forested hills until, at last, they were within sight of Seroult.

Clearing the eastern mountains, the sun poured light into a long, crescent-shaped valley. Winding along its deep curve, the Ser River watered fields and orchards brilliant with spring blossoms. Seroult itself occupied the highlands at the valley's north end. The bluestone towers and domes of the Kel sprawled along the west side of the river; on the east was the disorganized jumble that was the main city. A dense webbing of bridges connected the two, and in many places, were built so close together, it seemed as if the city had simply grown across the water.

Milord was dozing in the corner, so Elfie felt free to push wide the window and lean out. She had never been to Seroult, but had always dreamed of visiting it. An ancient place, Seroult was said to be older than even the Kel, who'd made it their center of power six hundred years ago. It was the seat of The High Prince's Court and the High Kel, entities that had ruled both mundane and sacred Aliphor forever. Seroult had survived the Demon War -- the only city this far north to do so -- and countless other petty conflicts. Of all Aliphor's city-states, only l'Sanjil was its peer.

The Doctor shouted something to Anton and the coach stopped. The mage slid from the saddle and bounded over to it. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he pulled open the door and scrambled in. Milord chose not to be offended by such familiarity, moving over on the seat to make room for him.

"I've been very patient," Moric told the Doctor. "You noticed, I hope, that I did not immediately demand an explanation for that . . . that demonic display?"

"I know." The mage further disheveled his gleaming locks by running a careless hand through them. The twinkle Elfie had become accustomed to seeing was gone. "What is the situation in Seroult, truly?"

Moric opened his mouth, glanced at her, then shut it again. The Doctor made an impatient gesture. "We're past that," he said shortly. "Come on, Moric!"

The handsome viscount bit his lip. "Not good, Doctor. The nobles opposing Kellin's reforms are growing bolder."

"Surely this can't all be backlash against mages?"

"If pressed, I'd hazard that it's the proposed property tax that has the peerage howling. Kellin knows very well that Ankaran will seek to use any discontent to his advantage. Before the south went silent there were stories of treachery in l'Sanjil's Kelblades. There's fear that the same situation may be building in Seroult."

The Doctor regarded him thoughtfully. "His Highness would be looking in the wrong place. The majority of l'Sanjilan's Blades were loyal. Ankaran had been bringing in mercenaries for months, tucking them here and there about the city and countryside. When he made his move, it was only a handful of Blades who let Ankaran's men into the Guild complex. Those men who refused to swear allegiance to the new High Prince were slaughtered, their heads mounted on the complex walls to encourage others not to emulate their fate."

Moric looked sharply at Elfie.

"I ... saw them," she agreed, "a day or two before the Blades came to kill us."

"And which was my cousin?" Moric asked, looking out at the brooding Kelblade. "Betrayer or betrayed?"

"Betrayed," replied the mage firmly. "Some of the Blades, the best fighters, were taken as prisoners to the palace, Reven among them. There, the princess performed certain . . .experiments."

"Then ... those rumors are true! Driade does practice demon magic!"

The Doctor opened his mouth, then shut it again. For a moment he looked discouraged. Then he shrugged. "If you wish to call it that, why not? She had found some artifacts -- very unusual by anyone's standards -- and discovered a way to interface -- er -- bind them to a human host. Reven was one of three who survived the procedure."

"Do they all ... that sword?"

The Doctor nodded. "There are three of them, each with different properties. Besides Bloodsinger, there is Soulstealer and Firestorm. The bearer of Soulstealer is dead. I don't know the fate of the third."

Moric fell silent, shocked. Looking abruptly tired, the Doctor leaned back and closed his eyes. The strengthening light fell across his face. For a moment, Elfie sensed something old and alien in the youthful features. His mouth twitched at the corners and his blue gaze shifted to her. She colored and looked down at her hands.

"You've learned a lot in a short time," Moric said finally. "What was Ankaran's intent for these poor souls?"

"Ankaran? I have no idea: to further his conquest plans, I suppose. I'm more interested in her purpose."

"Driade?"

The Doctor nodded, opening his mouth to elaborate, but at that moment, a shout came from the head of their party. They had reached Seroult's outer gates.

Reven fell back as the viscount's elegant carriage pulled to the fore of the column. Marrowcroft's men tightened their positions, but still managed to keep well clear of him. Anton presented Moric's credentials to the gate guard, who nodded and gave the signal to let them through.

It had been some years since the Blade had been in Seroult, but little had changed. Buildings of stone and stucco crowded narrow lanes. Ancient hands had carved terraces from the hillside and the city proceeded up them in an orderly fashion. At the top was Kellin's castle, a massive fortress softened over the time by the embellishments of its occupants. To the left, still out of sight, was the Ser, wild and treacherous as it hurtled into the valley.

The party slowed to a crawl in the crowd that filled the cobbled streets. Market day, he thought, seeing farmers struggling with their heavily loaded wagons. People scrambled to let them past as they turned toward the river.

Soon there were fewer people. Ahead, he saw one of Seroult's three hundred bridges and his heart sank. Sunlight glittered off a row of pikes; Kelblades blocked their path, blue banners ominous against the sky.

Separating from the wall of steel and leather, the Blade commander approached Anton. Reven recognized him -- Crownlet. The two men spoke. Anton shook his head. Crownlet persisted. Expressionless, the Marrowcroft man wheeled his mount around and rode the few yards back to the coach. He gave Reven a darkling look as he passed.

A tense quiet filled the street. In the distance, a dog barked. From a nearby building, Reven heard a baby crying. Anton dismounted and disappeared into the coach. Looking around, the Blade saw Crownlet staring at him. He was bitterly, acutely conscious of the empty spot on his shoulder where his Guild patch had been.

Anton re-emerged, walking straight to Reven. "Get into the coach, my lord."

"What is it?"

"They have orders -- they say -- to arrest you. On authority of the Guild."

Suddenly very cold, Reven nodded mutely.

"Thanks to the counsel of your friend, the Doctor, his lordship has decided not to honor that warrant."

"But -- we cannot defy the law ..."

"So I told them. However, the mage has pointed out an obscure, but potent edict. The carriage is property of the Duke who is, by rights of succession, heir to Kellin's throne until such time as the Prince produces a son. Royal property is immune from search and seizure. Get into the carriage, Kelblade."

"No. What they demand is lawful. A Kelblade is accountable to the Guild." Reven began to dismount, determined to have a word with the Doctor himself.

The chill in Anton's gaze abated somewhat. He shook his head. "No, my lord. Let's see how the mage's plans unfold. The viscount calls him wise. We shall see."

So Reven clambered into the coach, Bloodsinger in hand, and had the pleasure of seeing two of its occupants shrink from him. He clenched his jaw and pretended not to notice. The Doctor leaned forward and gave him an encouraging clap on the shoulder, then returned his attention to Anton and the Seroultans outside. The two men were arguing, Crowlet growing steadily redder of face. Reven finally said: "This is madness, Doctor. Give me to them and then go straight on to the Prince. He can issue a Royal Warrant -- it supersedes Guild authority."

"They'll take the sword."

Reven nodded and prayed that his fear didn't show. "I'm counting on you to convince Kellin to hear me out as quickly as may be."

"No," the Doctor said shortly. "The chances are too great that you will be "killed while trying to escape" or something equally transparent. If the sword makes it back to l'Sanjil, she will only bind it to another poor wretch. We must prevent that at all costs. It's next bearer might not have your strength of character. Above all, Kellin and the council need to see what kind of weapons Ankaran is willing to use against them. This dithering about can be fatal to Aliphor."

"Aliphor has had new princes by violence before," Moric said drily.

"Aliphor will likely have no prince at all if his wife's plans succeed. There is no ... Elfie!"

The girl had been sitting quietly, almost demurely, drinking in every word. Now, suddenly, she was up and across the coach, flinging open the door. Reven shouted and made a grab for her, but she was gone in a flash of pink and grey, slipping like an eel through the startled outriders. There was more consternation among the Kelblades. Anton said something sharply while the Doctor hauled Reven back in and slammed the door.

"Let her go. She has no reason to be involved in this."

Heart pounding from the surprise, Reven snapped: "Ankaran would likely pay well to know what she knows now, Doctor."

Moric laughed mirthlessly. "Ankaran would pay her nothing. He'd torture it out of her and I wager the brat knows that well enough. What is taking so long?"

Crownlet suddenly wheeled his horse about and shouted angrily. Under his forceful gestures, his men moved to either side of the lane. Anton nodded and motioned for the coach to start forward. Under the officer's stony glare, it rolled past the watchful Blades and up onto the bridge.

"Almost there," muttered Moric. "Gods, what I wouldn't give for a day of wine, wenches and no intrigue!"

"I wouldn't mind a cup of tea and a good book," agreed the mage wistfully. "Let's hope the Council is in a receptive mood."

On the Kel side of the river, the streets were wider and cleaner. Here there were open spaces where gardens bloomed. Most of the local nobility kept townhouses here, tall, elegant structures behind high hedge-walls. Lords and ladies out for morning rides drew their fashionable carriages aside, watching with open curiosity as the soldiers made their way toward the Kel Hall.

At the Hall's front gate, there was more trouble. By law, neither Kelblade nor House guards were allowed within its walls, so Anton and the others remained outside. The Kel Guard, an elite unit outside Guild authority, were protectors to the council, and disinclined to allow a Kelblade -- whether banished or not -- into their domain without prior notice -- especially one armed.

"Bind me," Reven said finally, desperately. "If I cannot draw the thing, it's no threat, surely?"

So they brought chains and fastened his arms behind him. It took all his strength not to cringe when the steel locked around his wrists. Moric glared, handing over his dagger and short sword, and came to stand beside Reven. The unexpected support left the Blade speechless. They searched the Doctor last, but found no weapons. They did, however, discover an astonishing number and variety of items -- far more, surely, than could be naturally concealed in the pockets of the fitted coat. It was quite some time before the Kel Guard permitted the three men into the Hall itself.

They were met by the Hall's Chamberlain, a thin, nervous man who stammered a greeting to Moric. The Prince had just received word of their arrival. He awaited them in the State Room. Would the lords and mage kindly follow him there?

So -- no time to even clean the dried blood from face and hands. Reven stumbled a bit as they walked through shining corridors and up stairs. The mage and viscount walked on either side of him, the Kel Guard behind and before them. Each step took Reven closer to an uncertain, and likely unpleasant, fate. He thought about l'Sanjil, the things he'd done and the justice he might rightly expect. By the time they reached the State Room, he was numb with despair.

The Prince waited at the end of a long, shining table. Late morning sunshine fell across it, glinted off the china cup and saucer before him. Reven bowed as best he could and found himself unable to look the monarch in the eye.

"My liege," Moric greeted him "My apologies for appearing before you in such a state."

Kellin, High Prince of Aliphor, heard the dry rebuke and grinned. "It's good to see you back unharmed, Moric. You, too, Doctor. And this must be Lord Revenant Avril, currently Baron of Derwyn and late of the l'Sanjil Kelblades

"Exactly so, highness," said Moric, "and my cousin."

Kellin's brows drew together sharply. "Cousin?"

"You were expecting him?" the Doctor asked curiously.

The prince nodded. "Not an hour ago, the new l'Sanjilese ambassador presented a warrant for his arrest. Murder is the charge."

"Did they name the victims?"

"Victims?" Kellin's eyes widened slightly. "Nay, victim -- singular. A priest of the Kel Hall."

"I'm afraid," the Doctor said, "that there's rather more to it than that."

Kellin nodded. "I suspected as much. Anything that puts both Belias Pridelock and General Belios at my doorstep bears close examination. Would that you had arrived earlier, Doctor, and with less fanfare. As it stands, I've had little choice but to convene my Council at once." He broke off and looked at his guard. They remained stiffly at attention behind Reven. "Is it necessary to keep the Baron in chains?"

"He would not relinquish the sword, my prince."

"Surely a member of the peerage can be trusted not to draw it in my presence?"

"No," said the Doctor shortly. "Reven doesn't mind, do you?"

Reven did mind, but he had no choice but to bow to the Doctor's superior wisdom in such matters. "No, your highness," he replied reluctantly. "It would be safer."

Kellin was clearly mystified, but the Chamberlain knocked and, at a call from the prince, began to admit the council. Reven recognized a few of them -- older men, wealthy and powerful, with lands not only in Seroult but other provinces, as well. To his relief, Reven did not see General Belios, Guildmaster of Seroult's Kelblades.

Kellin had drawn Moric to his side and was talking low and urgently to the viscount. From the darkening scowl on Moric's face, Reven gathered the conversation was not to his cousin's liking. Nodding shortly, Moric turned and, with a general bow to the council, disappeared.

There was a shifting around the table as Council took their seats. Reven searched each face, wondering whether any of them were working for Ankaran. The Doctor made no move to take the offered seat.

"Ankaran has executed the Kel council," he said, "and destroyed the Thieves' Quarter."

For a moment, no one moved or even seemed to breathe. Then they all spoke at once, some leaping to their feet.

"This is madness, my prince!" One cried, glaring at the Doctor. "Even Ankaran would not dare so much!"

"He's right!" cried Reven, stepping forward. "Every member was slain not a week past! You will not have heard of it because there were only a handful of witnesses -- all of them either dead or allied to the Usurper! Ankaran has sealed off the city, hoping to get a new council in place before you learn of this atrocity!"

"And how do you know this?" wondered one lord..

Reven's courage faltered. He drew a long breath. "I was there, sir. I was one of the murderers."