When Gael reached the bottom of the straight stair, emerging into the artisans’ yard beside the hospital, Carbraes’ messengers were in motion, scattering like a flock of scratching pigeons surprised by a feline. As each boy received his regenen’s orders, he dashed off. No doubt one was headed toward the castellanum, one to the stables, and another to the new march. The boy directed to the brig was already ahead of Gael, disappearing under the arch of the gatehouse between the yard and the bailey.

The brig’s opteon would not be taken by surprise, when Gael removed Keir from his custody. Nor the troll in charge of the stables, when Gael requisitioned horses. Unless Barris had already acquired the mounts to leave in Nathiar’s clearing.

Carbraes had promised to extend his watchfulness to Barris in Gael’s absence, ensuring the cook’s safety and well-being. And the troll he intended to replace Gael in the tally room was someone who would protect the denizens of the smithies. Gael could leave Belzetarn with a clear conscience. He’d removed the heavy ring of keys from his fibula and handed them to the regenen, who would bequeath them, in turn, to the new secretarius. The reality of it had still not truly come home to him.

Had Gael’s argument to Carbraes actually worked? Was he about to descend the slope of the bailey and pass out through the lower gatehouse as soon as he released Keir? Really?

The messenger who’d preceded Gael burst out of the front guardroom, sprinting away just as Gael reached the door. Within, the opteon was on his feet, looking perturbed and upset.

“My lord Secretarius!” he exclaimed. “The regenen’s messenger tells me that Notarius Keir has been pardoned and is to be released to you, but Brigenen Dreben declares that he will carry out the sentence for treason as soon as the axe-wielder arrives. It seems the messenger sent to the brigenen has not found him yet.” The troll’s voice wobbled on the edge of hysteria.

“Where is Dreben?” demanded Gael, ignoring the opteon’s incorrect title for Dreben.

“Above, by the cells,” faltered the opteon.

Gael didn’t stay for more, but rushed for the inner chambers and the stair hall. If only the spiral of steps was less tight and less steep, he’d be taking them two at a time. Dreben’s barking voice sounded disastrously from above, echoing in the stone confines.

“Haul the traitor out! Which cell does she occupy? Don’t tell me you don’t know which it is! Lunkheads!”

Gael surged up the last three steps.

The two guards still held their stations at the opening to the corridor, looking uneasily at one another and shifting from one foot to the other. The cell doors remained closed, including Keir’s, thank Tiamar.

Dreben stood on tiptoe at the far end of the corridor, peering through the grating of one of the doors. He wore the brown leather cap that he favored—with its chin strap—and a knee-length tunic of dark orange, secured at the waist by his sword belt.

Gael strode forward, intent on intercepting Dreben before he eliminated the far cells from his consideration and started checking those near Keir. As Gael passed the guards, he murmured, “Stay out of this. It’s likely to get ugly.”

Dreben swung away from the cell door. His wizened face tightened at the sight of Gael. “You!” he snarled.

Gael halted. He was well past Keir’s cell, and it would be prudent to give March Dreben some elbow room. “The regenen has issued fresh orders concerning Keir,” he stated.

“The regenen!” spat Dreben. “I know how to deal with traitors, if he does not!” The march jerked his sword from its scabbard, and charged.

Cayim’s hells! It was just like their encounter on the Cliff Stair two deichtains ago, except Dreben had been armed only with his fists that time. He could do considerably more damage with a blade.

The march seemed to cover the half-corridor length between them in two bounds, jabbing forward with the point of his sword, since the corridor was too narrow to permit a full swing.

Gael, staring at the murder in Dreben’s face, realized he’d been a fool to eschew his magery in his first fight with the troll. And he’d be a dead fool, if he eschewed it now. He barely got his shield of energea up in time.

It was reflexive, not conscious, a remnant from the many times Gael had stood at Heiroc’s side on the battleground, protecting both himself and his king.

Blue sparks sprayed, and Dreben’s sword thrust grated to a halt.

The march adjusted instantly, stabbing high at Gael’s throat, low at his groin, high again at his mouth.

Gael backed hurriedly, slamming his energetic shield up, then down, then up, parrying Dreben’s blows awkwardly. The more comprehensive shield he’d conjured in that last battle—to bring Heiroc and himself safely through the storm of blades—took a deal of concentration and preparation. This more limited buckler required movement.

Dreben’s sword moved like a serpent striking, darting in, here, there, and there. His eyes were intent, and his rage had subsided into a sort of enjoyment. Dreben liked to fight, Gael knew.

The sword flicked in to the left, then the right, then the right again.

Gael found his rhythm, parrying more smoothly, but still backing steadily.

They’d reach Keir’s cell soon, which was worrisome.

Dreben lunged in with his body and elbow, sweeping his blade back and then overhead, just barely missing the vaulted ceiling with its point, which dove down at a steeper angle.

Gael was ready for it, successfully extending the energea of his shield to block both Dreben’s elbow and his sword.

Were the two guards staying out of the conflict as he’d urged them to? Or were they rushing up to strike him down from behind? He couldn’t spare even an iota of attention from the foe in front of him to worry about possible foes behind. Dreben would skewer him like a dead rat, if he did.

Gael met a trio of belly stabs with a thickening of his shield’s energea.

He heard a couple of meaty thuds—someone falling?—behind him.

He and Dreben would emerge into the stair hall momentarily, and then Gael would be in real trouble. Dreben would have room enough to bring his full repertoire as a swordsman to bear. Gael had to do something more than defend himself.

He could unleash the black-edged gold energea that would kill Dreben with a touch, of course. But that was troll-magery. It would slide Gael’s nodes far from their proper locations—the very nodes that Keir had returned to their anchorages just yesterday. And . . . Gael had already killed one march of Belzetarn. He didn’t want to kill another. It didn’t matter that this march had every intention of killing Gael.

He was parrying fluidly now, fully into the rhythm of the fight, his body knowing where the next blow would fall almost before his mind could register it.

The door to Keir’s cell lay at his left shoulder.

He had two more steps backward, and then he would be in the stair hall. He must develop his response before that moment, before Dreben’s options widened considerably.

Gael parried.

Parried again.

And then he stepped back hugely.

Dreben bounded forward, taking that first full swing afforded by the suddenly enlarged space.

Gael dropped his energetic shield to fling a net of energea around Dreben’s blade, ducking as the sword came around in a blow that would take Gael’s head from his shoulders.

Gael twisted the energetic net, pulling the sword from its edge-first orientation to flat-first, and then slammed the weapon to the farthest reach of its arc.

The flat connected hard with the side of Dreben’s head.

The march went down like a sapped wall collapsing.

Only then—as Gael stood panting—did he note that both guards lay in awkward heaps on the floor to each side of him.

Keir’s door burst open, slamming into the corridor wall and vibrating with the force of it. Keir herself emerged before the door was all the way open, leaping into the corridor and then over Dreben’s quiescent form.

“You’re all right?” she gasped, an instant before Gael folded her close. Her hair smelled faintly of summer clover.

“I’m all right,” murmured Gael. Her body felt very good in his arms, but he set her away from him. “You?”

“I could hear the fight,” she said, her breath still rapid, her eyes a little wild. “I was afraid the guards would join in support of Dreben. He is their march.”

Gael smiled. “What did you do?”

She smiled back, calming. “Used a healing discipline on them.”

“Oh?” said Gael.

“When a treatment will be too uncomfortable—or even painful—we sometimes send the patient to sleep.” She knelt beside Skinny, checking his pulse at the neck, then nodding and looking up at Gael. “He’ll awake shortly,” she said. “Shouldn’t we get out of here before he does?”

“Probably,” Gael answered her absently, his attention returning to Dreben. The march’s face was very pale. Was he breathing? Had Gael aimed that sword too hard? Gaelan’s tears! He fell to his knees, reaching for Dreben’s chest. It rose and fell again under Gael’s palm. Tiamar be thanked!

Gael looked over at Keir. “He’s alive,” he said.

She frowned. “That’s a good thing? Gael, he intended to kill you. And me, too.”

“But we will not be here to suffer him further. Or not much longer,” amended Gael.

Her face lit. “Carbraes said yes?”

Gael nodded. “We leave with his full permission.”

*     *     *
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The Tally Master, Chapter 23 (scene 106)

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The Tally Master, Chapter 23 (scene 104)

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