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Crokus held one hand over Challice's mouth as he lay atop her. With his other he removed his thief's mask. Her eyes widened in recognition. “If you scream,” Crokus warned in a harsh voice, “you'll regret it.”

He'd managed to drag her perhaps ten yards into the undergrowth before she tripped him. They'd thrashed about, but he'd won the battle.Advertisement

“I just want to talk to you,” Crokus said. “I won't hurt you, Challice, I swear it. Unless you try something, of course. Now, I'm going to remove my hand. Please don't scream.” He tried to read the expression in her eyes, but all he saw was fear. Ashamed, he raised his hand.

She didn't scream, and a moment later Crokus found himself wishing she had. “Damn you, thief! When my father catches you he'll have you skinned alive! That's if Gorlas doesn't find you first. You try anything with me and he'll have you boiled, slowly-”

Crokus jammed his hand over her mouth again. Skinned? Boiled?

“Who's Gorlas?” he demanded, glaring. “Some amateur chef? So you did betray me!”

She stared up at him.

He lifted his hand again.

“I didn't betray you,” she said. “What are you talking about?”

“That murdered house guard. I never did it, but-”

“Of course you didn't. Father hired a Seer. A woman killed that guard, a servant of the Rope's. The Seer was terrified and didn't even stay to be paid! Now get off me, thief.”

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He let her go and sat back on the ground. He stared into the trees.

“You didn't betray me? What about Meese? The guards at Uncle Mammot's? The big hunt?”

Challice climbed to her feet and brushed dead leaves from her hide cloak. “What are you babbling about? I have to get back. Gorlas will be looking for me. He's the first son of House Tholius, in training to be a master duellist. If he sees you with me, there'll be real trouble.”

He looked up at her blankly. “Wait!” He sprang to his feet. “Listen, Challice! Forget this Gorlas idiot. Within the year my uncle will introduce us formally. Mammot is a famous writer.”

Challice rolled her eyes. “Get your feet back on the ground. A writer? Some old man with ink-stained hands who walks into walls-has his house power? Influence? House Tholius has power, influence, everything required. Besides, Gorlas loves me.”

“But I-” He stopped, looking away. Did he? No. Did that matter though? What did he want from her, anyway?

“What do you want from me, anyway?” Challice demanded.

He studied his feet. Then he met her eyes. “Company?” he asked, diffidently. “Friendship? What am I saying? I'm a thief! I rob women like you.”

“That's right,” she snapped. “So why pretend otherwise?” Her expression softened. “Crokus, I won't betray you. It will be our secret.” For the briefest of moments he felt like a child being stroked and consoled by a kindly matron, and he found himself enjoying it.

“Before you,” she added, smiling, “I'd never met a real thief from the His enjoyment ended in a surge of anger. “Hood's Breath, no,” he sneered. “Real? You don't know what's real, Challice. You've never had blood on your hands. You've never seen a man die. But that's the way it should be, isn't it? Leave the dirt to us, we're used to it.”

“I saw a man die tonight,” Challice said quietly. “I never want to again. If that's what “real” means, then I don't want it. It's all yours, Crokus.”

Crokus stared at her back, her braided hair, as her words rang in his. Suddenly exhausted, he turned to the garden. He hoped Apsalar had remained where he'd left her. The last thing he wanted now was to have to track her down. He slipped into the shadows.

Mallet recoiled with his first step into the glade. Paran gripped his arm.

The healer shook his head. “I'll not approach any closer, sir. Whatever lives there is anathema to my Denul Warren. And it: it senses me: with hunger.” He wiped sweat from his brow, drew a shaky breath. “Best bring the girl to me here.”

Paran released his arm and darted into the clearing. The block of wood was now the size of a table, veined in thick, twisting roots and pocked on its sides with rough squared holes. The earth around it looked soaked in blood. “Corporal,” he whispered, chilled. “Send the girl over to

Kalam laid a hand on her shoulder. “It's all right, lass,” he said, in the tone of a kindly uncle, “you go on, now. We'll join you shortly.” pqdm.com