"A cabin!" Matt cried.
"A cottage, at least." Sir Orizhan frowned at Matt. "What is a 'cabin'?"
"A cottage by any other name. Hasn't been used in a while, has it?"
That was obvious at a glance. The thatch was moldy and patchy, missing in several places, and the windows and doorway gaped empty. The shutters hung at an angle, leather hinges broken, or lay beneath the window. The door was gone completely, probably chopped up for firewood. The area around the little house was clear, but only because the shadow of the trees was too deep for anything to grow.
"It will give us shelter for the night, though," the knight said. "Come, let us rid the place of any unwelcome dwellers."
He advanced, sword out, ready for anything from badgers to bears. Matt and Brock drew and followed.
They didn't need their blades, though. The cabin was a single large room, empty except for the refuse of years. Bears obviously had lived there in the past, or some sort of carnivore, and lesser woodland creatures had been there before or since. A pallet of musty straw lay against one wall, but there were, of course, no blankets. There was no other furniture. Like the door, it had been chopped and burned by other travelers who had used the abandoned cottage for a night's shelter. The ashes in the fireplace were old, though, and crumbled to a bed of soot.
"Empty, but filthy." Sergeant Brock sheathed his sword. "I'll find a dry branch and some green leaves for a broom."
"I shall gather firewood," Sir Orizhan said.
"You've got all the tinder you need right here." Matt nodded at the moldy pallet. "I'll gather up the bones and toss them out."
They went, each to his own task. Matt hauled a double armful of cow and deer bones out to the edge of the trees. When he came back, he found all the old straw stuffed into the fireplace, and three pallets of fresh straw in its place. He was pleasantly surprised, and wondered which of his companions had managed the trick while he was out. Then he pulled his leather camp bucket out of his pack and set off to find a stream.
There was enough dry wood under the trees so that they had a fire burning brightly before it was dark. Dinner was stewed jerky and toasted journeybread. As it cooked, Matt said, "It was really nice of you to bring in fresh straw."
Neither man answered, but each glanced at the other, obviously waiting.
Matt frowned. "Okay. Who brought it?"
"I thought it was one of you," Sergeant Brock said.
"And I thought one of you two had done it," Sir Orizhan said, very confused.
Matt felt his personal alarm bell ringing all the way up his spine. In this universe, unexplained phenomena usually wound up being explained by magic. What magus was trailing them—and why did whoever it was want him to know about it?
But he couldn't let his companions know, of course. He didn't need to have them staying awake all night waiting for the spell to fall. "Guess I must have wished too hard." He stabbed a piece of jerky with his dagger and offered it to Sir Orizhan. "Think that's tender enough?"
It was, and the aroma from the stewpot had revived Sergeant Brock's appetite, sort of. As they ate, Sir Orizhan asked, "How shall we find the trail of this murderer, Lord Wizard?"
"I'll be using what spells I can," Matt said, "but I think he magicked himself back to Bretanglia, and so far, all my own charms can do is verify that." His enchanted compass needle had pointed north. "At the moment, I'm trying to find him from another direction—by figuring out who else was in on the conspiracy to kill the prince, and hoping they'll lead us to our assassin."
Sir Orizhan frowned. "But I thought you knew of only the one murderer—the footpad who went out the window, and whom you chased and fought."
"He denied it," Matt said, "though he would, of course. That means I have to prove it."
"If he slew the prince by casting a spell, proving will be difficult," Sergeant Brock pointed out.
"Right. As it is now, I can't even make a convincing case that he had a reason to do it."
"To draw Merovence into war!" Sir Orizhan exclaimed.
"Well, he did challenge me to try to keep us out of it," Matt admitted, "but that might be only one part of an overall strategy. Could be he was just a hired hand—and if he's something more, what is he?"
Sir Orizhan stared at Sergeant Brock and Sergeant Brock stared at him. Then both stared back at Matt.
"Yes," Sergeant Brock said, "what, and who?"
"Do you mean to say this Man Who Went Out the Window is not the only one to have a reason for slaying Prince Gaheris?" Sir Orizhan asked, scandalized.
"It is mean to say it, I know," Matt said sympathetically, "but it's probably true. In fact, he might have been hired by another one of the people who had a reason. Let's start with Brion and John."
"You cannot mean his own brothers would slay him to gain the throne!" Sir Orizhan demanded.
"Yes I can," Matt said, "and so can you; we've heard of it happening in other countries."
"If I did not know Brion to be so honorable, I would say that he might; he would thereby become heir." Sir Orizhan gazed off into space. "John would not gain by it, though."
"He would now," Matt pointed out. "Whether Brion had Gaheris assassinated or not, they're probably both thinking up ways to kill each other this minute."
"Yes, John to gain Brion's place as heir, and Brion to save his own life," Sir Orizhan said. He shuddered at the thought, but pursued it relentlessly. "Even then, Brion is too chivalrous to strike before he is attacked, or to attack by treachery. John though, would gain not only the throne, but Rosamund, too."
"And Rosamund wouldn't like that," Matt said, "unless she has very odd tastes."
Sir Orizhan stiffened, eyes glinting dangerously. "Do you accuse my princess of murder?"
"Of course not." Matt backpedaled quickly. "Of course, if she did, she'd be planning the same little surprise for John—but since she didn't, she isn't."
"If she did, I could sympathize with her," Sergeant Brock said darkly.
"Indeed, so could I." Sir Orizhan shivered, the bodyguard gaining ascendancy over the honor guard for a moment.
"The only one of those three princes who was never repulsive in either looks or personality was Brion," Matt said, "and he's so arrogant that I can't say I was surprised when Lady Rosamund showed flashes of irritation with him."
"He is justly proud of his prowess as a warrior and troubadour," Sir Orizhan said slowly.
"But such arrogance might disguise weak self-esteem in other areas," Matt pointed out. "Sometimes the second child feels he can't possibly measure up to the first. Of course, when his mother favors him as obviously as Petronille favors Brion, that shouldn't be much of a problem."
"What if his father does not?" Sergeant Brock asked.
"Yes, let's think about Drustan for a minute." Matt turned to Sir Orizhan. "Rosamund didn't seem too happy about his attentions at dinner last night, nor did her fiancée, Gaheris."
Sir Orizhan stiffened again, and Sergeant Brock protested, "You cannot mean the king could desire Rosamund for himself!"
"In a country in which noblemen still practice the droit de seigneur, bedding each virgin on her wedding night?" Matt countered. "I'd say it's quite possible."
"But his own son's bride, milord!"
"I do not like to speak of such things," Sir Orizhan grated, "but I have indeed heard of men who have such feelings, and in an unscrupulous king who is accustomed to having whatever he wishes, such lust might be reason enough for him to have his own son assassinated."
"So." Matt looked directly into his eyes. "You've had to protect Lady Rosamund from her betrothed already, haven't you?"
"Young men are apt to be overeager," Sir Orizhan said stiffly.
"Meaning you never left her alone with Gaheris if you could help it. Bet you even used the pretext that a princess has to learn swordplay, too."
"Every woman who will grow to be a chatelaine must," Sir Orizhan countered, "for she must defend her husband's castle in his absence."
>
"But you couldn't defend her from her new king," Matt said quietly.
"There was no such need," Sir Orizhan grated.
"Only because you made sure there was no opportunity."
"My king is not such a villain!" Sergeant Brock rested his hand on the dagger under his tunic.
Matt turned to him and locked gazes for a minute. Then he bowed his head a little. "Of course not. I'm sorry, Sergeant—I was carried away by my zeal for finding Gaheris' murderer."
Sergeant Brock stared, completely at a loss; he had never heard a nobleman apologize to a commoner before.
Even Sir Orizhan seemed to be unsettled, and took refuge in duty. "Besides, with Gaheris dead, Rosamund will soon be betrothed to Brion."
"Which, as we pointed out, is a reason for Brion to have Gaheris killed," Matt said.
Sir Orizhan threw up his hands. "Why do you not indict Queen Petronille while you are about it?"
"Not a bad idea." But one glance at Sergeant Brock's expression was enough to persuade Matt to drop the issue. "Of course, it's possible that the Man Who Went Out the Window did kill Gaheris on his own, and for his own reasons only—but one way or another, we have to be sure."
"Yes, quite so." Sir Orizhan frowned. "At the moment, we do not know if this sorcerer-footpad even committed the murder."
"No, we don't," Matt agreed. "At the moment, though, he's the most likely candidate. Of course, any of the soldiers in that inn could have slipped behind the prince for a few seconds. It had occurred to me that the wound could have been made by a spear point."
"It is the right length," Sir Orizhan said, gazing off into space.
But Sergeant Brock shook his head. "I'll warrant that no soldier, Merovencian or Bretanglian, bore a spear or halberd into that inn. We leave them behind when we have liberty."
"Yes, it would be rather cumbersome hauling an eight-foot shaft through the streets," Matt agreed. "I don't suppose a man might have cut a spear point off with a foot of shaft for holding it?"
Knight and soldier exchanged surprised glances. Then Sergeant Brock said slowly, "It would have been possible, and such a sawn-off spear could easily have been hidden under a soldier's livery—but it would be quite unlikely."
"So is the killing of a prince, though," Sir Orizhan said. "You amaze me by your ingenuity, Lord Wizard."
"Thank you," Matt said with a wry smile, "but as the sergeant points out, it's more ingenious than probable. Our hypothetical soldier would have had to carry that weapon around every time he went to a tavern on the off chance that the prince might stop by for a brawl."
"No, for some wenching, no more," Sir Orizhan pointed out. "You yourself have shown that the theft of the purse was done deliberately to start the brawl."
"Why, so I did, didn't I?" Matt said in surprise. "And that the murderer waited until the royal family was on Merovencian soil. Once they checked in at Alisande's castle, it wouldn't take much imagination to realize the princes would probably check out the high life in the continental capital."
This time knight and soldier exchanged glances of puzzlement. "Your terms are difficult to understand, Lord Wizard," Sir Orizhan complained.
"You get the gist, though, don't you? Once our murderer knew the royal family was going to visit Merovence, he saw his chance. Sawing off his hypothetical spearhead and taking it along on a night's carousing would have been easy then."
"So was the blow struck by magic," Sergeant Brock asked, "or by a stealthy hand?"
"Yes," Matt said, "one or the other. We can't tell which until we catch up with the Man Who Went Out the Window, catch him at a disadvantage, and cadge a few more facts out of him."
"You truly think you can defeat him?" Sir Orizhan asked in disbelief.
"Sure, now that I know I'm up against another magic-worker." Matt spoke with far more confidence than he felt. "I'll go in with a round of spells prepared this time—and directions for you guys to knock him over the head while I've got him distracted."
"So we are not here merely because Queen Alisande wished you to be guarded," Sir Orizhan said, staring into Matt's eyes with sudden intensity.
Matt grinned back. "She had her reasons for insisting, and I had mine for accepting. What better company could I have than two men who have their own very strong and very personal reasons for wanting to catch the same man I'm after?"
The dungeon door grated open and Papa stepped into the cell. Pargas jerked upright from the moldy pile of hay on which he'd been lying. The guard who'd come with Papa took a very obvious and very menacing station by the door, spear very much in evidence. There wasn't much light coming through the little barred window high on the wall, but the guard managed to make his spear point catch it.
Papa unfolded his camp stool and sat down five feet from the pimp. "Good morning, Pargas. Did you sleep well?"
"If you don't count the bedbug bites and the rats scurrying by," Pargas grunted.
"Like will to like," Papa said grimly. "I am Dr. Mantrell, a wizard in the service of Her Majesty. I would advise you to tell me the truth, Pargas, so that I will have no reason to try to ferret it out of you."
Pargas locked glares with Papa, then shuddered and looked away. Papa didn't like pimps. Then, too, Pargas had no doubt been thinking what manner of ferreting a wizard could do.
"I see we understand one another," Papa said. "Now, tell me—who cut your shoulder so badly as to make you drop one club?"
"That corrupted prince who had disguised himself as a commoner!" Pargas spat. "If he'd been honest as to what he was, I'd never dared fight him."
"Perhaps he likes your trade no more than I do, and welcomed the excuse to punish you," Papa said.
"Welcomed the excuse to punish anyone! Laetri told me what he did to her. He enjoyed his cruelty, that one. I'm glad I had the chance to give him a knock or two before he died." Pargas glared at Papa in defiance.
"So you took pleasure in giving the prince what you thought he deserved?" Papa asked.
"That I did! But I didn't kill him, if that's what you're thinking."
"You must have seen who moved behind his back, though."
"If you think I noticed much but the man who came against me, you've never been in a fight," Pargas said with contempt.
"I have been in combat," Papa said, his voice neutral, "but I was trained to perceive all that went on about me, in case some second enemy should attack from the side. If you have not, you have shown more luck than skill in your fights."
Pargas darkened with anger and embarrassment. "I'll fight you any day of the week, old man, and with no more weapons than these!" He held up his fists.
"Don't tempt me," Papa grated. "So you saw no sign of anyone who came behind the prince?"
"There was a Merovencian soldier fighting a Bretanglian," Pargas said, "but they were busy enough with each other. The Bretanglian must have won, for he turned his back to the prince and fought there awhile, guarding the rear, until someone knocked him away."
Papa tensed. "What kind of man did the knocking?"
"A Merovencian soldier, but he went right on by with two more behind him. If he stuck a knife into the prince's back, he must have done it awfully fast. Besides, it was a good minute or two later that the prince screamed and snapped bolt upright, then leaned back to fall."
"So." Papa frowned. "A Bretanglian guarded the prince's back until a Merovencian knocked him aside—but you saw no one behind him when he cried out."
"None, and none after he fell," Pargas assured him. "Me, I was fighting him one-handed the whole time, and hard put to keep him from sticking me with that rat-tail dagger of his. Whoever came at his back must have come in low and run away fast."
"Or not been there at all?" Papa gave him a hard smile and stood up. "Well, we'll see if anyone else saw what you claim, Pargas."
"And won't find any, I'll warrant," Pargas snarled. "I know how these things go."
"Do you indeed," Papa purred.
"You learn the ways of the world fast,
in the gutter," Pargas said, "and I know none of your lordly kind will take the blame for a prince-killing. You have to have a goat, someone to take the blame for it, no matter who really shoved the shiv between his ribs. You'll pin this murder on me somehow."
"We will not," Papa contradicted. "Much as I hate to say it, Pargas, I'm convinced you're guilty of no more than striking a prince with a stick."
Pargas stared, and hope flared in his eyes.
"There's a heavy enough punishment for that, of course," Papa said, "but Prince Gaheris was disguised. The judge might take that into account."
"You don't mean I'll go free!"
"I don't mean that at all," Papa said. "There still is the charge of pandering against you."
"Oh, I'm not worried about that." Pargas relaxed with a grin. "No man will punish a pimp too hard, or leave him in gaol too long. Judge or nobleman, respectable or chivalrous, he'll know he might want my services someday."
"Thank you for the tip," Papa said as the guard opened the cell door. "I'll see that you're judged by the queen herself. Rest well while you can, Pargas, for I'm sure you'll begin hard work soon enough—very hard, and for a very long time."
Pargas' face fell. Papa smiled and went out, listening with satisfaction as the guard closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER SIX
The cell door opened, and Laetri jumped up off her bunk to push herself against the wall, trembling, face pale.
Mama stepped in, frowning. "Do not worry, child, I shall not—" Then she saw the bruises on the girl's face and cried out. "Who has hurt you so?" She stepped close, reaching up to turn Laetri's face so that the light from the single window showed the purpled aura around the eye, the dark blotch on the forehead, and the lavender spot on her cheek. "Surely the prince could not have done all this to you! Tell me who did! At once!"
"I dare not." Laetri's voice caught on a sob.
"I can guess." Mama whirled to the door and called, "Gaoler!"
Slow steps approached, and the gaoler pushed the door open. "Yes, milady?"
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