When Gael stepped through the doorway into his chambers, he took one of the rush lights left inside for him by the tower scullions and lit it from the nearest stairwell torch. Then he locked the door behind him, crossed to his bedroom, and kindled two more rush lights.

The stamped leather of the hangings and the golden wood of the chests along the walls looked warm and welcoming in the mellow light, but Gael did not feel the sense of homecoming that both the smithies and the tally room had evoked. These chambers were his, and very comfortable, very pleasant, but they lacked something, he wasn’t sure quite what.

The quick wash at his ewer and bowl, however, together with cleansing his teeth, lacked nothing. After a morning spent in the saddle and an afternoon of alarm and exertion of a different order, it felt wonderful to be clean. Clean and weary, with his inviting sleeping couch awaiting him.

He paused in the act of donning his nightshirt, looking down the compact, olive-skinned length of his body. He did enough shifting of the heavy oxhide ingots in the course of his tallying to keep strength in his arms and pectorals, and he climbed Belzetarn’s stairs with sufficient frequency—even when no ingot thief needed to be tracked down and stopped—to do the same for belly and legs. So what was different?

The bruises from his fist fight with Dreben had faded entirely, but that wasn’t it.

His breath caught on a hope he’d not dared indulge.

What might Keir’s re-positioning of the nodes in his energea lattice do over time?

Shivering slightly, even though the air was mild, he threw his nightshirt on over his head, closed the inner shutters of his casements, blew out the tallow dips, and lay down upon the fleeces cushioning his sleeping couch, suddenly not weary—and no longer sleepy—at all.

With a gentle in-breath, his inner sight opened on the curling silver scrolls of his arcs and the glowing spheres of his nodes—violet through blue and green down to white and silver. They still held their new positions, their proper positions, and they were subtly pulling his arcs into their proper configurations as well.

That was the difference he’d discerned in his body, the flesh and bones of which were governed by these secret flows of energea. Keir was right. The differences might be so small now that no one save he himself could see them. But over time, in his face especially, where his troll-disease was pronounced, he would come to look human again.

Until his nodes drifted anew under the influence of the truldemagar and began pulling his arcs into deformity.

He let his inner sight fade, thinking. He could not destroy the gong, the one thing in the north that might reverse the dread decline of the truldemagar. Keir was right about that too. And yet Carbraes had ordered him to do so. On pain of death.

He must injure the gong. He mustn’t injure the gong. Was there some way to reconcile this paradox?

He brought the panel in Olluvarde to mind—the one showing how the ancient smiths melded the lodestone of Navellys into the gong’s central boss, encouraging the node’s unusual energea to spread throughout its hemisphere. He thought about the structure of healthy nodes versus that of diseased ones, the pattern of each repeated, not only from boundary to boundary, but at depth. Within each lone energetic diamond in a healthy node could be found a further array of diamonds, if only you could look close enough. And within those smaller diamonds were ones yet smaller still. The structure of a healthy node had no real end.

The ancient smiths had devised a way to make the lodestone’s node larger. He was almost certain that a large node could be made smaller, with its integrity intact. Could one also subdivide it? Create two smaller nodes of identical energetic pattern? Or, even better for his purpose, one large node—slightly diminished—and one tiny node?

He reviewed his knowledge of energetic theory from the days when he studied under Korryn. He was almost certain that could work! And if it did . . . there was his solution. When the iron grew soft enough, but before he and Nathiar wrought the necessary destructive transformation, he must separate a droplet from the whole, preserving its lattice of energea intact. Once the droplet cooled sufficiently to crystallize its energea—only a moment or two—he could proceed with the dismantling of the gong’s lattice without harm to the separate miniature node.

If that were feasible, he could serve both Carbraes’ and Keir’s opposing goals for the artifact, without compromising on either. The small droplet, with its lattice of energea preserved intact, could be used to heal trolls in Keir’s hands. While the energetic lattice within the lodestone at the heart of the gong could then be torn asunder, rendering the gong’s resonance harmless as Carbraes wished.

But was that indeed his best course?

Were there any alternatives?

He envisioned stealing the gong—now, in the dead of the night, absconding with it into the wilderness—and snorted. Where would he go? Where could he take the artifact that it would be safe? How would he elude the scouts that Carbraes would surely send after him? It was a ludicrous scheme.

Could he hide the thing within the confines of Belzetarn?

Flee south with it to Hadorgol, hoping to beat his pursuit, hoping King Heiroc would welcome him back?

No, fleeing with the gong intact, or hiding it, was mere fantasy. He could not safeguard the thing unscathed. Subdividing it to preserve the healing lattice apart in a small fragment was his only real option.

But if his attempt to subdivide the node on the morrow failed, what then? Would he destroy it and Keir’s hope—which he shared—for healing trolls along with it?

No.

He would halt the subdual of the gong, giving him time to evolve another plan to preserve the lodestone’s lattice. Nathiar would be annoyed at the abort, and Arnoll bewildered. Carbraes would be seriously angry. But he was certain he could effect the delay and weather the consequences. Better that than destroying the one thing that could reverse—even if only for a limited time—the truldemagar.

With his decision made, all his weariness returned. He pulled his thistlesilk coverlet up over his legs and drifted toward sleep.

The fleeces under him cushioned his torso and limbs. His coverlet caressed his hands like warm air, soft and light. The leather hangings exuded their familiar and comforting aroma. The silent darkness of his room soothed his ears and his closing eyes. His sleeping couch was wonderful, so much more easeful than a bedroll on the forest floor.

But as he hovered there, just at the edge of sleep’s release, welcoming it, sleep did not come.

Instead, each episode in the plundering of his tally room—discovered and revealed almost in reverse order by him—arranged itself in his mind for his review, the whole sequence from start to finish.

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Gael stared a little blankly at the closed door of his tally room and then at the copper ingot in his hand.

Right. He needed to secure the ingot behind a padlock and then check to see where Keir had left the evening tallies. Had she finished before Dreben’s warriors seized her? Had they found her at her desk, quill poised over parchment? Or did they drag her away from the vaults on the level above? Had they permitted her to secure the vault doors?

Shaking himself from his dazed numbness, he hurried for the steps up, following in Carbraes’ wake. Carbraes was likely climbing all the way to the regal chambers at the top of Belzetarn. Gael had merely eight twists around the newel post to go.

Outside the stairwell’s arrowslits, the sky shone a deep luminous blue, but the land below had fallen into dusky shadow. Boys called to one another in the artisans’ yard. The gate guard yelled a verbal salute to a superior officer passing from the yard into the bailey. The long summer evening was winding to its close.

Gael climbed.

What exactly had he hoped to achieve by revealing Theron’s thefts to the regenen? A stop to the thievery? He’d succeeded, if that were so. Theron would not be pilfering from the tally chamber again. Or—if the castellanum ignored Carbraes’ prohibition—his head would shortly be forfeit.

But the collateral damage—the disclosure and broadcasting of Keir’s secret, her imprisonment, Carbraes’ doubt of Gael’s loyalty and his demand for proof—made the entire confrontation a failure.

Even if Gael followed Carbraes’ requirements to the last tally, what would he win? The regenen himself had said that he honored Gael for his integrity. If Gael subdued the gong, as Carbraes ordered and which Keir opposed—well, Carbraes would entirely approve of that. But if Gael abandoned Keir to Carbraes’ judgment . . .

How was that different from life in Belzetarn in general? The fate of every troll within the citadel was—in the end—Carbraes’ to determine. Gael knew this, had always known it. Why did it feel so fraught now?

Because I don’t trust Carbraes. Not with this. Not with Keir, he realized.

So. The lack of trust ran two ways. And Gael could perceive no way to restore it.

If he abandoned Keir to Carbraes, then Carbraes would know that Gael put his regenen first, but he would also know that Gael would throw not merely a friend to the wolves, but a trusted underling who depended on Gael for protection.

The test Carbraes demanded for restoring his trust in Gael would also show Gael to be less trustworthy than before. Gael felt caught between a rock and a hard place.

The corridor outside the vaults was very dim, no doubt because all four doors were shut. They were also locked fast—good—when Gael checked. He unlocked the copper vault to return the ingot to its proper storage and found all in order there. Which indicated that Keir had at least finished checking in the products from the smithies before Dreben’s warriors came for her.

Gael re-locked the vault door behind him. Opening each of the other vaults in turn—just to be sure—he determined that Keir had indeed finished her duties here. He returned to the stairs, heading down again, still sorting out his thoughts. He needed to assess the status of the tally room. And he had some decisions to make, but he could not make them until his thinking was clear.

Regardless of what Carbraes’ test would do to Gael’s integrity or his safety, he could not abandon Keir. That much was a given. For the night, yes. He could trust that Carbraes’ precautions would keep her safe for so long. But for the long term . . . he would make her release a condition for his work on the gong. More than that, he would insist that Carbraes provide her a reliable escort to see her to one of the troll-queens in the northern wastes. She could not stay in Belzetarn. She required some other refuge.

And if Carbraes refused . . . ? Gael felt his jaw harden. He would free her himself. He’d once been a magus, with all the powers that a magus possessed. He would do whatever was necessary to preserve his notarius from Carbraes’ so-called ‘mercy.’ Since when had Carbraes ever been merciful?

The image of the beheaded Ghriana youth flashed before his mind’s eye.

So. He would free Keir, but he would be intelligent about it. Raw emotion and impulsive action would merely land him in the cell next to hers, doing her no good at all. In the morning, he would place his stipulation before Carbraes. And if the regenen acceded to it, then the matter was solved. If he refused . . .

Gael would pretend to meekness, subdue the gong, and then develop the careful plan that would get Keir out of Belzetarn. Her escape should not be impossible to arrange for a magus wielding his full powers.

The tally room, when he let himself in through its door, proved to be as orderly as the vaults: parchments rolled in their pigeonholes in the cabinets, ink bottle corked, quill cleaned and resting to one side of Keir’s desk. Apparently she had completely finished the evening tasks, although she’d left the glass-paned casements open. Through them the sky was darkening at last. Below, in the yard, a few trolls walking from the kitchen entrance toward the well carried torches.

Gael swung the casements closed and wrote a record of the returned copper ingot.

Tomorrow, after he dealt with . . . more than he wanted to contemplate right now; he was weary . . . he would need to supervise digging the rest of the ingots out of that clogged latrine. Were it not for the gong, he’d do it tonight. But the buried treasure would keep one more day. He wondered just how many ingots were hidden in the foul sludge. At least nine more, going by Barris’ tally, but the hunter would have added his loot to that count as well.

Tomorrow, he told himself, bringing his thoughts back to the fallout from his confrontation of Theron. Really he should have expected something like what had happened. Theron was expert at nosing out weakness, and scrambling back into Carbraes’ favor—or tolerance—over Keir’s vulnerability must have given him positive pleasure. That it also divided Gael’s interests from those of the regenen’s would have been a special grace note.

That was the real issue at hand here.

Carbraes had never needed to doubt Gael before, because Gael had always been in solid support of the regenen’s decrees. Had one of his friends—Barris, Arnoll—been in peril, Gael would have sought Carbraes’ protection for him. And received it.

But Theron had found a way to endanger Keir via Carbraes himself, taking advantage of the regenen’s hostility toward the one whose hand had slain Dreas. When Gael had sought protection for Keir, he’d sought in vain. Theron had created a divide in Gael’s loyalties, which seemed to grow ever wider without any effort at all on Theron’s part.

Except . . . was that really true?

Not really.

Gael’s loyalty had remained strong by dint of his carefully narrowed vision. He chose not to think about the war Carbraes prosecuted upon the unafflicted. He avoided dwelling on the violent discipline exerted within the ranks of Carbraes’ legions. He looked past the nasty back-stabbing that went on in the tower hierarchy under the castellanum’s aegis.

Occasionally, such as when the Ghriana spy was captured, the realities of Belzetarn intruded. He’d always managed to press his awareness back down once the incident was finished.

But Keir’s death—if Carbraes decided she must die—would not be something he could ever forget.

He cast a swift final look around the tally room. The cabinets loomed in its gloom, quiescent like standing stones in the forest. The warm scent of the parchment and the flat one of the ink wrapped him round like a comforting fleece. This had been his sanctuary, but it was all illusion. There was no true sanctuary to be had within Belzetarn.

He walked to the door, passed through it, and then turned to lock it behind him. He was done here for the night.

The torches were lit in the Regenen Stair. Climbing the spiraling steps toward his chambers—just one and two-thirds twists around the newel post—he thought back to his arrival at Belzetarn and Carbraes’ demand that he swear fealty or die. It seemed he was back at that choice again. Would he declare himself Carbraes’ ally and partisan, thus accepting such protection as the regenen offered, with all its limits? Or would he declare himself Carbraes’ enemy?

There was no middle ground.

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The Tally Master, Chapter 19 (scene 89)

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The light outside the arrowslits of the Cliff Stair had grown very golden, contrasting strongly with the increasing dimness within the stairwell. The sun must be nearing the tree tops beyond the meadow at the bailey’s gatehouse. Gael, still standing in the latrine and wishing he were not, felt emptied out, as one might after a long day in the open, picking berries or swimming in the river or riding horseback. Except that the evening following a day of satisfying effort would bring a welcome lassitude. Gael felt hollow rather than replete.

Now that Theron had departed, would Carbraes permit Gael to speak?

The regenen gestured him to leave the latrine. Thank Tiamar, since his nose had not habituated to the stench. The air was not much cleaner immediately outside the latrine door, but swapping that close confinement for a sense of the depth to which the stairwell descended, and the equally great height to which it ascended, ushered in a degree of relief.

Carbraes, Gael noticed, lingered long enough to rinse the ingot he still held—as well as his hand—with water from the bucket located in the latrine’s wall niche. He shut the door as he exited. Nodding for Gael to accompany him, he started up the stairs.

“This isn’t the first time Theron has betrayed you,” said Gael, putting together the evidence dropped by Carbraes’ dealings with his castellanum.

“And you wonder why I continue to bear with him,” answered the regenen, climbing steadily.

“He’s skilled at managing the complexities of a large stronghold,” mused Gael. “But how many times may you threaten to cut his head off—and not deliver, given that his head remains attached—before your authority ceases to have meaning?”

“Oh, I delivered. Each time,” said Carbraes.

Gael’s brows twitched.

The next landing, with its passage to the place of arms, came into sight, a cluster of messengers milling about on it.

“My first threat was considerably less than beheading, of course, but it kept Theron in line for some time. As did my second, more serious threat. And my third, more serious yet. His next transgression must be his last.”

They arrived on the landing, and Carbraes sent one messenger to Dreben, another to the prison cells, and three more on various other errands. He directed the rest to precede him up the Regenen Stair. They scampered off through the passage to the place of arms, Carbraes following at a more measured pace and drawing Gael with him.

Bright stripes of sunlight crossed the stone floor of the warriors’ practice place, casting its high vault into deep shadow. The air was blessedly fresh as Gael breathed it in.

“I know Theron’s limits,” continued Carbraes, “and I can work with him so long as I do. I intend to receive his full worth.”

“Until your last punishment brings an end,” said Gael. He quelled a shudder as they entered into the shadow of the passage to the Regenen Stair. The torches were yet unlit, but it was not the dark that provoked the shiver. He knew Carbraes to be supremely practical. He’d seen that quality in action again and again. It was what made him so effective. But this instance of it seemed chillingly cold-blooded.

“I know Theron’s limits,” Carbraes repeated. “But I no longer feel I know yours. Do you?”

The question hit Gael like the gust from a stormfront. Not so long ago—the day before he discovered evidence of a theft in his tally room, in fact—he would have answered it with a ‘yes.’ He was loyal to Carbraes and all else must be subsumed to that loyalty. Now . . . if he had to choose between Carbraes and Keir, he did not know who he would choose.

Cayim’s hells and Gaelan’s virtues!

“Uh, huh,” responded Carbraes, seeing the reaction in Gael’s face, no doubt.

Or maybe Gael did know who he would choose. He would choose Keir. Except he could not. Not if he intended to live under Carbraes’ benevolence.

They emerged from the dark passage into the merely dim stairwell.

“Who will you choose, Gael?” said Carbraes.

He had to choose Carbraes.

“Let this be a test,” said the regenen, starting up the steps. “You will stay far away from the brig, which should be easy if you attend to your duties. You will trust Keir to my justice. And my mercy, in the event that it is required. And you will destroy that evil gong.”

“But—” Gael couldn’t stem that small sound of protest.

“And then I will know where you stand,” concluded the regenen.

Hells! He shouldn’t have been so smug when listening to Carbraes setting forth his requirements for Theron. The regenen had intended Gael to feel that justice would be upheld, and to see that Carbraes could neither be manipulated nor deceitfully swayed, yes. But he’d also intended his secretarius to see the castellanum’s disciplining as a foreshadowing of his own.

The scamper of the messengers’ footsteps echoed from above in the stairwell. Gael wasn’t sure where the rest of the normal traffic was. Had the great halls emptied out entirely while he and Theron and Carbraes clashed? Maybe.

“But if you lose both Keir and myself—” he hadn’t intended to speak the thought aloud.

“Then Arnoll will become my secretarius,” said Carbraes, unperturbed. Did he measure Gael’s limits even now? Undoubtedly.

“Arnoll would never—” blurted Gael.

“How do you think Arnoll’s survived this long?” asked Carbraes gently. “Of course Arnoll will do as I ask him.”

Gael climbed three twists of the spiral stair in silence, a silence of constriction and disquiet. Carbraes climbed beside him, equally silent, but inhabiting a silence of composure. When they reached the landing—the one right outside the tally room—Carbraes halted, and Gael perforce halted with him.

“I know you try to be a man of honor,” said the regenen.

But he wasn’t a man. He was a troll.

Carbraes shook his head, negating any disagreement he perceived. “You have never accepted your truldemagar, Gael,” he said.

The statement felt like a blow. It was true, but he’d also never admitted it to himself.

“I respect you for that,” said Carbraes. “I even honor you for it. Dreas also held to that standard,” he added quietly.

Gael hardly knew how to respond.

Carbraes handed him the copper ingot he still carried. The metal had completely dried, its washed surface gleaming softly in the dimness. “You’ll want to return this to its proper place,” he said.

Gael accepted it, grasping the truncated pyramidal shape firmly and wondering what it was he saw in Carbraes’ face.

“There are limits to honor when you dwell in a troll citadel, Gael,” said the regenen. “Choose yours wisely.”

After Carbraes turned to go, headed for the next flight of spiraling steps, Gael recognized what he’d seen in his regenen’s expression.

It was sadness.

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Gael’s innards felt utterly chilled. Keir would be so vulnerable behind bars, guarded by troll warriors. So many awful things might happen to her there. He had to persuade the regenen to reverse his castellanum’s deed. Immediately.

Carbraes nodded. “Yes, that is well.”

“No, it is not well!” Gael exclaimed.

With effort, he brought his voice under control. “My lord Regenen, your castellanum—a self-confessed traitor and thief—is speculating and guessing. Permitting him to imprison an utterly innocent young woman is just . . . wrong. Please order her release immediately.”

Carbraes heard him impassively, but exhibited little sympathy. “Gael, this matter must be sifted. Someone used magery on those copper ingots and queued them to be distributed to my smithies as tin. Someone with the kind of access possessed only by you. And by Keir. If Keir is a traitor, she could do great damage left at large. It will do her no harm to spend a day or two in confinement.”

Theron said nothing, but his eyes gleamed.

Fine. Gael’s first argument had failed. He would try his second.

“But she suffered a head injury, my lord Regenen. It may well do her harm to bide in confinement, when she requires care in Belzetarn’s hospital under the oversight of a physician. Medicus Piar was attending her. Could you not consign her to him? A guard might be posted outside her chamber.”

One of his brows raised, Carbraes turned to Theron. “Were you aware that she was injured?” he asked.

“No, my Lord Carbraes,” answered the castellanum, veiling his gaze.

“Send a physician to the cells to treat her, along with a messenger to explain that the guards must grant him their full cooperation.” Carbraes glanced at Gael. “Will that do, my lord Secretarius?”

“Send Piar, please.” Gael trusted Piar.

“You hear?” said Carbraes to Theron.

“Yes, my lord Regenen.”

Hells. Gael was running out of persuasions.

“If the guards realize her sex, they will abuse her. I doubt the castellanum”—Gael glowered at Theron—“has been discrete. She may take great harm in this confinement.”

“Well, Theron?” said Carbraes. “To whom have you mentioned that Keir is a young woman?”

“To several trolls, my lord. It was necessary that they know.” He actually sounded prissy.

“And would you say that her guards know the truth?” Carbraes looked as though he agreed with Gael: of course Theron had told them.

“Yes, my lord Regenen,” answered Theron, not in the least shame-faced.

“You and Dreben will answer for the conduct of her guards,” Carbraes stated.

A hint of triumph passed over Theron’s countenance. “Yes, my lord Regenen.”

“Theron.” Carbraes’ voice held menace. “Whatever comes to her, shall come to you. Do. You. Understand.”

Theron stiffened. “Yes, my lord Regenen.” The utterance was sincere, where his others had been pro forma.

“My messengers shall go to Dreben and to Keir’s guards, informing them of my decree.” Carbraes’ tone was pointed.

“Of course, my lord Regenen.”

Gael cudgeled his thoughts. What additional objection could he make? There had to be something. ‘It’s not fair.’ He’d tried that one. ‘It’s not safe. And there’s another alternative.’ That had been his second argument. ‘It’s really not safe.’ That hadn’t worked either.

‘You owe me’?

He shut Theron from his awareness to focus solely on his regenen. “Carbraes. I have served you faithfully for seven years. I have created accurate tallying methods for your tin and your copper and your bronze. Without my improvements, we would never have known that a thief peculated. We would never have known that copper was disguised as tin. I have shepherded your tin and copper in the process that makes them into the swords and the shields and the helms that arm and armor your legions. All my effort I have bent to your aims. Grant me a boon, Regenen.”

He’d have gone down on one knee, if it would have helped. But a troll-lord would not be moved by vulnerability. Gael must present strength, not weakness.

Carbraes looked Gael very steadily in the eye. “Gael. No.”

Gael drew breath to protest yet again. He would not take no.

Carbraes held up one hand. “Gael. No.”

Gael let his breath go. So. Carbraes would not even hear him. Not beyond the audience that the regenen had already extended.

Carbraes turned to his castellanum. “You will cease to meddle in my smithies and in the vaults and the tally chamber that supply them.”

“Yes, my lord.” Theron sounded diligent and reliable, as though thievery lay far below him.

“You will cease to trouble my Lord Gael in any way.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You will attend solely and thoroughly to the regulation and the conduct of my citadel.”

“Of course, my lord.” Theron’s brows both rose in surprise.

“And if I detect any attempt by you to usurp my privilege—” Carbraes ceased speaking altogether, his face grim. “Your reach to pull the tally chamber and its offices under your control was usurpation, Theron. If you do so again, I will sever your head from your body. Personally.” The regenen’s grimness segued into a flat, emotionless expression that was even scarier. “Is. That. Clear.”

Theron’s complacency fled. His voice actually wobbled as he answered, “Yes, my Regenen.”

Carbraes nodded.

“M—may I go?” asked the castellanum.

“Go,” said Carbraes curtly. He stayed silent until Theron had disappeared, ascending around the newel post of the stair.

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The regenen barged in, even though there was scarcely room for a third in the tiny latrine.

Gael twisted aside, and Carbraes’ charge took Theron solidly in the chest, knocking the castellanum back against the latrine bench forcefully enough that he lost his footing. He collapsed onto the seat, luckily not into the clogged hole. Carbraes loomed over him, breathing hard.

Gael studied his regenen’s suffused face and glaring eyes. He looked furious, and yet . . . not quite so furious as Gael had expected.

“Belm’s debt, Theron!” roared Carbraes, unheeding of anyone who might overhear through the still-open door. Not that the stair wasn’t empty at this moment. “Can’t you ever keep your hands on your own key ring! You’re a damn canny castellanum, but this preoccupation you have with ousting your peers is damn inconvenient! What do I have to do to make you behave!”

Now Gael knew what was wrong. Carbraes was angry all right, but angry in the way one was with a friend, not as a regenen to his erring vassal servant.

While Theron scooted farther from the latrine hole and Carbraes panted, Gael spoke. He needed to steer the situation, or Theron would scramble his way to favor in spite of his capital theft.

“Tell my Lord Carbraes what you did and why!” he commanded Theron. “I dare you!”

Carbraes regained his breath before Theron could answer.

“He need not tell me anything. I know him well enough to know exactly what and why.” The regenen stepped back to lean against the door jamb. “So, Theron, do I sever your head from your body?” he asked cordially. “Is that the only way to stem your hostility toward my march and my secretarius?”

Theron was recovering as well. He placed the dripping ingot of tin delicately next to the clogged latrine hole and rose to standing. Amazing how a troll with a hand covered in excrement could assume so disdainful a demeanor nonetheless.

Theron sniffed.

“No, my lord Regenen, you need merely replace your march and your secretarius and your magus with trolls I get on with, and there will be no trouble at all.” The castellanum managed to look down his thin nose, even though Carbraes stood a mere arm’s length away from him.

“I thought you ‘got on’ with my magus!” said Carbraes.

“Oh, I do, my lord Regenen,” replied Theron.

“But you do not ‘get on’ with Lord Dreben?” Carbraes inquired caustically.

“You know that I do, my lord Regenen.”

“Then who would I need to replace my Lord Gael here with to provide for your comfort complete?” Carbraes continued, irony strong.

“That would be for you to choose, my lord Regenen,” answered Theron smoothly, “but anyone would be better than Gael.”

“And yet I like and respect my Lord Gael,” declared Carbraes.

Hells! Gael’s beautifully orchestrated exposure of Theron as a treasonous crook was turning into edged banter between cronies.

He felt a touch foolish.

Just as Carbraes encouraged Gael to believe that between the two of them lay a special relationship—that of one honorable and competent troll to another—so the regenen must persuade others in his cortege to see their relationships with him as special. Carbraes and Theron shared the experience of ruling thousands: the castellanum controlling each and every artisan, apprentice, scullion, messenger, and porter; the regenen governing all of Belzetarn, its outlying camps, and his legions.

There had to be a way to remind Carbraes that the castellanum had pursued a prolonged and systematic series of treasonous acts against his regenen.

Theron frowned and took up the ingot that he had so carefully set down, turning the piece in both hands despite the fecal slime still clinging to the metallic surface.

“There’s something wrong with this,” he said and held the noisome object out to the regenen.

Carbraes looked his disgust and then took the ingot. “I see nothing wrong with it that a good scrubbing would not fix,” he said.

Gael was beginning to have his own suspicion about what was wrong with that ingot. But surely Theron knew that some of the stolen ingots were tin, while others were copper. Where was he going with this diversion? If Gael had anything to say—and he would—the fact of the disguised copper would fall against the castellanum, not the secretarius.

“There’s something wrong with this ingot!” Theron declared again. He took it back from the regenen, turning the piece over, and over again.

Good theater, thought Gael. Theron was really very convincing. Unless . . . was he really not acting?

A huff of irritation broke from the castellanum. “Someone must look at it energetically! It stands as proof—proof!—that the secretarius has not guarded your tin as he should!”

Gael frowned. Surely it stood as proof of Theron’s own further malfeasance?

Carbraes allowed one corner of his mouth to turn up. “Really, Theron. You were the one stealing my tin from my vaults. They are mine, I must remind you. I hardly think that the victim of your larceny—my secretarius—deserves the kind of censure that you do yourself.”

Gael stayed quiet. The regenen was going just where Gael would have guided him, and people always believed their own reasoning over that of others.

“Please, my lord Regenen,” said Theron. How did he manage to combine haughtiness with pleading?

“You know I hate magery!” snapped Carbraes.

“Just this once, sire,” beseeched Theron. Did he blush?

“Gah!” Carbraes stretched out his hand to receive the ingot back, and the castellanum relinquished it to him. The regenen shut his eyes, breathing slowly in and out. “Fah, it’s foul in here,” he muttered, and then fell silent. It was true the open door didn’t help the air much, although it meant they could see.

Carbraes’ brows knit above his closed eyelids. “Belm’s sin! What is this?”

Gael could guess what he was seeing; no doubt exactly what Gael had seen when he examined Arnoll’s ingot—the one meant for Dreas. Gael suppressed an inner twinge that the thought of Dreas produced.

As Carbraes turned the ingot in his hands, the metal under his fingers changed hue, flushing from cold tin to warm copper.

Tiamar on his throne! Carbraes had not merely opened his inner sight; he’d actually manipulated the energea to remove the ingot’s disguise.

The regenen’s eyes opened, and his gaze stabbed into Gael’s. “Explain!” he rapped.

“I cannot, my lord Regenen. I do not know who wrought this magery or why.” And he didn’t.

Theron touched Carbraes’ wrist with his cleaner hand. “He does and can. He merely will not, because he’s a traitor. Don’t you see it, Regenen? He and Keir between them intend to disrupt Belzetarn so thoroughly that it will fall!”

Surely Carbraes would not accept that on Theron’s mere say-so.

“I don’t believe it!” asserted Carbraes.

Nor should he, thought Gael.

“But imagine the turmoil in your smithies when tin is confused with copper! Had not my Lord Dreas, before his death”—Theron glanced significantly at Gael—“reported higher casualties on the field of battle due to weapon failure? I told you that the secretarius should operate under the oversight of the castellanum, did I not? Or the march, if you insist.” Theron’s voice was sweetly reasonable.

“I don’t believe it!” insisted Carbraes.

Carbraes might value Theron more than Gael had realized, but he was no fool.

Theron sighed. “No, I don’t either. He’s always been stupidly loyal. You are right. It cannot be Gael, however much I dislike him.” Theron paused—artificially to Gael’s perception; who knew what Carbraes thought. “But consider Keir. Surely you know that Keir is not so loyal as his master.”

Gael tensed. What?

“He did kill Dreas,” agreed Carbraes, “but it was a mishap.”

“Are you sure of that?” asked Theron.

This was ridiculous!

“No,” admitted Carbraes.

“This is ridiculous!” Gael burst out.

Theron raised his cleaner—but not clean—hand to his chin. He’d need a full immersing before the sauna at this rate. “But if Gael did not do the magery on this ingot—and who knows on how many other ingots—who did? It has to be Keir. And why would he do that unless to disrupt Belzetarn.”

“This is absurd,” said Gael.

“No, I do not think it can be Keir,” agreed Carbraes.

“My lord Regenen—” began Gael, judging the moment as propitious for turning Carbraes’ thoughts to how he intended to rein in his castellanum’s treasonous proclivities.

“But I do!” interrupted Theron. “And furthermore, I have already taken steps to secure both your safety and the safety of the citadel!”

“Oh?” said the regenen.

“First, my lord”—Theron had decidedly regained all his poise—“you should know that ‘he’ is not a he, but a she.”

Cayim’s hells! That ruined all. Even were Keir to be proven innocent of Theron’s awful accusation, she would never be safe in Belzetarn again. Theron would never keep such a juicy tidbit to himself. No doubt he’d already released it to his cronies. Every scullion would know the truth by the morrow.

“Hmm,” murmured Carbraes. Had he already known? Or guessed?

“You’ll admit he did the deception well,” said Theron. “Er. She did. And if she is so skilled at pretense, the possibility is high that she deceives in other things.”

“You know that is untrue,” interjected Gael, serious and steady. He could not let this point of Theron’s stand. “Any woman dragged to Belzetarn would do the same, and grow skilled fast or perish. I’ll wager anything you care to name as a stake that there is at least one apprentice somewhere who is female, and as utterly unsuspected as Keir was until a moment ago.” He gazed gravely at Theron. “You have done very ill, Castellanum, to strip Keir’s disguise from her.” As I know you have, he thought.

“But consider her unique position of trust,” pursued Theron, glancing slyly at Gael, no doubt thinking of their discussion of positions of trust en route to the latrine. “Consider that she did slay Dreas. And right under your nose, too.”

Did Carbraes pale? He was grieving. Gael realized his accusations when he learned of Dreben’s elevation had been unjust. Carbraes—unlike many mortals—would not allow his grief to derail his fulfillment of his responsibilities. And the ruling of a troll citadel came with many. Gael had always considered Carbraes as capable, supremely so. Now he was feeling in his marrow just how deeply that capability ran. Although . . . even Carbraes must suffer his judgment to be affected by sorrow, mustn’t he?

“So what have you done?” the regenen asked his castellanum.

“Thrown her in the brig!” boasted Theron. “Well, I desired Dreben to do so, and he obliged me.”

Next scene: coming April 28.

Previous scene:
The Tally Master, Chapter 18 (scene 84)

Need the beginning?
The Tally Master, Chapter 1 (scene 1)

Gael waited on a landing within the dimness of the Lake Stair where the passage from the great hall debouched. The view through a nearby arrowslit showed the dark shadow of the tower stretching far out across the glittering sunlit waters of the lake, but Gael had his back to the opening. He stood directly in front of the steps leading up. He did not intend to let Theron have unimpeded access to the ascent to his quarters.

The brightness filling the feasting chamber—direct sun through its southwestern windows mingled with torchlight—did not reach so far as the stairwell, but the din of five-hundred trolls eating and conversing carried easily. A steady rumble of shifting chairs and shifting diners sounded beneath the cacophony of voices, while the occasional ting of a knife against a bronze serving bowl sang above it.

The scent of almond cakes made Gael glad that Barris had pressed a trio of meat tartlets upon him before he left the kitchen. Eating held definite appeal, but real hunger remained in abeyance.

Gael had located the castellanum quite simply.

The march’s quarters lay a mere three and one-third twists from the tower’s topmost level. Gael had retraced his steps after his interview with Carbraes, climbing to the battlements and then descending via the Lake Stair, checking each great hall as he went down.

The high table in the upper feasting chamber had lain bare and untenanted. The elite trolls dining at the flanking boards dined without their regenen, their secretarius, their march, or their castellanum—as they did whenever Carbraes chose to eat elsewhere.

The middle great hall had been equally barren of the four officers bearing Belzetarn’s highest prestige.

In the lower great hall, Theron presided alone at the high table, usurping the regenen’s chair and filling the neighboring seats with his cronies. Gael had been gratified to notice a hint of elated satisfaction in the castellanum’s demeanor as he gestured graciously to the steward beside him. Theron’s fall from favor—if one could call the regenen’s tolerance of his castellanum such—to disgrace would be great. As well it should be.

Having found his quarry, Gael had retreated from the passage mouth.

Theron would be the first to summon a server with basin, ewer, and cloths to wash and dry the castellanum’s hands; the first to rise; the first to depart the feast hall. He might invite a few guests to attend him in his quarters, but they would follow at a discrete interval, rather than accompanying him on the stairway. Nor would he retire to some other haunt within Belzetarn. Theron’s evening activities were quite predictable.

Gael raised his chin from his chest when footsteps sounded in the passage from the great hall—leisurely footfalls, those of a troll confident in his power and his position.

Theron rounded the corner a moment later. He reared back, nostrils flaring in his thin nose, when he spotted Gael.

“Really, Secretarius,” came the castellanum’s cultured voice, “I should not have to ask you to stand aside.”

“Walk with me,” answered Gael, gesturing down instead of up, as Theron likely would have preferred.

“Can it not wait?” asked Theron, coldly.

“I believe not,” said Gael, curious to see if Theron would assume that some official concern required his attention—something tangential upon Dreas’ death perhaps, which event Theron surely must know. Or not. It didn’t matter. Gael had additional promptings ready, should he need them.

But Theron fell in with the arc of Gael’s gesture, moving toward the steps down. Perhaps the castellanum’s sense of his own dignity disinclined him to stand brangling with the secretarius barring his way.

Gael took the outside position as they descended, the better to block the castellanum unobtrusively, if he should decide to change his mind.

“You occupy a position of great trust, Theron,” Gael began, a tinge of rigor in his tone. “You have in your keeping the keys to every chamber in this citadel. Except those to my tally room and my vaults, of course,” he added deliberately.

Did Theron quiver just the least bit? Gael knew it rankled in him that the castellanum did not possess those keys, too.

“And you send your boys into every chamber as well,” Gael continued. “I am not convinced that you deserve the faith placed in you.”

They had reached the first landing down from the great hall, one and two-thirds of a twist around the newel post. Gael was tallying—a tally he could make in his sleep, if need be—as he must time his provocations to their progress.

Theron sniffed. “Your own position of trust carries similar requirements. And opportunities.” His voice grew acerbic. “Are you certain that you have not abused those opportunities granted by it to you, Gael?”

Ah! Theron had given him the perfect straight line.

“You shall tell me,” said Gael. “But did not your boys abuse their position of trust? They entered my chambers while I travelled from Belzetarn to Olluvarde, and used their seclusion to pry into my padlocked storeroom. Or was it you abusing the chance offered by your keys and my absence? Did you order those boys to gain access to that gong? Had you nefarious plans for the artifact? Theron?”

They had reached the second landing, another one and two-thirds of a twist down.

“Don’t be a fool, Gael” replied Theron. “I’m no magus! But you once were.”

“The regenen is making changes in his stronghold,” said Gael. “He has appointed a new march.” Gael glanced at Theron to note whether he showed surprise or dismay at this tidbit. He didn’t, which was informative. “How if Carbraes were to appoint a new castellanum?”

Theron snickered.

They had reached the third landing, and Gael ushered Theron into the passage toward the place of arms.

“I wonder that you envision Carbraes replacing his castellanum,” said Theron. “Surely he would prefer to replace his secretarius! Think, my dear Gael! My boys committed a minor peccadillo; your underling killed a troll and perhaps not so innocently. Did you order him to kill Dreas? Your underling was far less trustworthy than were mine. Unless he did your bidding, of course.”

The place of arms was utterly empty, cleared of the practice butts and mats, no warriors lingering. Long rays of sunlight shone in the southwestern windows to their left, and the ornate stairway that wound around the massive center pillar—the channel for the smithies’ smokes—climbed into the shadows of the high vault.

Gael marched straight across the space toward the passage to the Cliff Stair, just a half-step ahead of his companion.

Theron continued with his own brand of poison. “I scarcely believe that Carbraes keeps faith with you, Gael, in the wake of the murder of his dearest friend!”

Gael paused before answering, giving them time to enter the passage. They paced side by side and then began their descent again, toward the next place of arms.

Gael spoke. “Carbraes and I remain solidly allied. I am just come from him, my dear Theron, and he assured me of his forgiveness and his continued support. The regenen will believe me, not you.”

They were nearing the first landing.

“The regenen showed every evidence of his mistrust in you when he presented his new march to me,” parried Theron. “And his new march—” Theron allowed himself a beat of silence “—Dreben, mislikes you in the extreme. I urge you: beware!”

They had reached their destination, two steps above the landing.

Gael stopped.

“I possess reins for Dreben,” countered Gael. He didn’t, but no matter. The surface, not the substance, counted here. “But you, my very dear Theron, are failing in your duties, and there is no redemption from an obligation ill-done. Or omitted altogether.”

Gael threw open the door in the curving wall of the stairway.

The stench from the latrine with the clogged outlet rolled over them. Theron flinched back, astonishment on his face.

“My dear Gael, really? A clogged latrine? Really?” Did the castellanum look the least bit nervous? Perhaps not.

Gael gestured Theron to enter the cramped space. After a momentary hesitation, he did so. Gael followed him closely, shutting the door behind them. The cranny was utterly dark.

Gael gestured with his wrist—a gesture very like the one Nathiar had made in quest of honey.

The pale blue glow of magelight sprang up, illuminating Theron’s pale face. Gael did not think the castellanum’s pallor due merely to the coolness of the radiance. Gleams of perspiration bedewed Theron’s brow. Below him, the latrine hole swam with muck.

“Ah, but it is not within the latrine that the problem lies,” said Gael, his voice genial. “The latrine presents a mere symbol of your foulness, my dear Theron. Smell it, Theron, smell it well! The stink is the stink that pervades your very energea.” Gael shifted from his false affability to pure aggression. “Did you truly believe that I did not know you’ve been stealing my tin ingots, which I hold in trust for the regenen, you vile dastard?”

“You’ll never prove it,” rasped Theron.

“But I have the regenen’s trust,” Gael reminded him. “And you . . . do not.”

This was the crucial moment. Had he rattled the castellanum enough that he would fail to leap immediately to what Gael’s objective must be? Just an instant’s lapse would be enough.

Theron’s voice was shaking—with rage, not fear. “Is he so trustful that he would believe in your innocence when he catches you in the act of counting ingots in your newly padlocked storeroom, that padlock ordered by you, not me? And those ingots stolen by you, not me? Think, you fool! Your underling killed Dreas this very afternoon!”

Theron laughed, an ugly sound, and continued.

“I need merely summon Dreben to beat you senseless, deposit you in your storeroom with the stolen tin, one ingot clutched in your unconscious hand, and summon Carbraes to view the scene. Tell me why I should not!”

Perfect!

“Ah!” breathed Gael, unheeding of the disgusting air. “But I don’t believe you possess those stolen ingots any longer. What if I discovered those ingots in their hiding place?” he drawled. “What if I removed them to their proper place in my vaults? How then will you achieve your careful little scenario? You hold no key to my vaults, and—believe you me!—their locks will fall to no petty energea wielded by a petty thief!”

Theron looked as though he might burst with rage.

The castellanum reposted: “You fool! You never knew where I stored them! I can see that right here!” He jerked his chin toward the brimming latrine hole. “Here, where I did conceal them. Here, where you did not find them. Here, where I have them still!”

In fury, the castellanum plunged his fair hand into the swimming wastes and yanked an ingot of tin out of the liquid ooze. He held the tin up triumphantly, a cruel smile on his lips.

Gael, having entered after Theron, remained close to the door. He rapped its wood sharply with his knuckles, letting the magelight die upon his knock.

Someone on the other side of the door wrenched it open.

The light from the stairwell caught Theron full on.

And revealed Carbraes, the door latch still gripped in his fist, his wrathful gaze fixed on his castellanum with the tainted tin held high.

Next scene: coming April 21.

Previous scene:
The Tally Master, Chapter 17 (scene 83)

Need the beginning?
The Tally Master, Chapter 1 (scene 1)

As Carbraes turned back to Gael, Gael blurted, “You fill Dreas’ boots too soon!”

Carbraes’ icy blue eyes, already cold as they rested on his secretarius, grew colder yet. The good understanding Gael had enjoyed for so long with his regenen had not recovered from its recent extinguishing. “You forget yourself, Lord Gael. Every office within Belzetarn is mine to fill as I will and when I will.”

Gael knew he should drop the matter, but somehow he could not. He had liked Dreas himself, seeing in the march an older Arnoll, seeing himself and Arnoll in Carbraes and Dreas. The regenen’s swift recovery from the death of his friend seemed a betrayal of that friendship. Dreas had been honorable, loyal, almost a paladin, if any troll could aspire to such. Dreben was greedy, power-hungry, and violent. How could Carbraes set him in Dreas’ place?

“You defile Dreas’ memory by your choice of Dreben!” Gael snarled, appalled at his unwisdom, but unable to stay silent.

“Do you court your own death?” asked Carbraes, an edge to his calm tone. “For if you do, I am well able to supply it.”

Gael got a hold of himself. “I beg your pardon, my lord Regenen. My grief for Dreas makes my speech wild and overbold. And”—Carbraes had always valued frankness; surely he could not have changed so much—“Dreben and I have never been friendly.”

Carbraes directed a long unsmiling look at Gael.

Gael met it stubbornly. He was willing to retract a remark bordering on insult. He was not willing to retreat from his true convictions.

Carbraes’ expression softened. “All Belzetarn shall miss my best beloved. There was no one like him, never will be again,” he said gently. “Your sorrow at his passing does you credit, Lord Gael. You have my forgiveness.” Carbraes’ gaze sharpened, and his tone grew sharper with it. “I trust you will find yourself able to respect Lord Dreben, despite your former differences.”

Gael doubted it, merely because Dreben would not fail to push matters, but telling Carbraes so could bear no fruit. “Yes, my lord Carbraes.”

“Good. Good.” Carbraes nodded firmly. “Be about your affairs, Lord Gael.”

That was dismissal, but Gael had not broached his business with Carbraes, even though Carbraes had finished his with Gael.

“Your messenger did not find me to bring me before you,” said Gael. “I sought you on another matter.”

Carbraes stiffened. “You cannot destroy the gong on the morrow’s morn,” he said, disapproval in his voice, “is that it?”

Gael and Nathiar and Arnoll would not be destroying the gong. That lay beyond the heat of Belzetarn’s forges. They would merely disarm the artifact. But now was not the time to remind Carbraes of the distinction. “No, my lord Regenen. The procedure for muting the gong is well in train. I came upon another matter.”

“Oh.” Carbraes relaxed. “Tell me your matter then.”

“Do you recall that before I departed for Olluvarde, I informed you that a thief had been stealing ingots of tin from your smithies?” Gael thought of them as his own smithies, but his ability to be politic had returned.

Carbraes frowned. “That shall be your next duty when you’ve melted down that cursed gong. Catching the thief.”

“I’d prefer to catch him this evening,” said Gael. “It could be done.”

“Who is he?” demanded Carbraes.

“If you are willing to lend yourself to the trap I’ve devised, I shall show him to you,” said Gael.

Carbraes stared an instant, then nodded. “Tell me what you require,” he said, his whole demeanor more friendly than it had been during the entire previous interchange.

Gael went over his plan, explaining the few pertinent details, while avoiding mention of whom he intended to catch. The regenen seemed intrigued with Gael’s provisions and pleased with the chance to take direct action in the matter. Perhaps he tired of always telling others to act while never doing so himself?

“You understand that the timing is critical?” Gael asked, concluding with that question.

Carbraes smiled. “I do. On your knock, I’ll come in.”

“Then I shall see you shortly, my lord Regenen,” said Gael.

Carbraes sighed, a shortened huff of breath. “You were used to address me as Carbraes, Gael. From time to time.”

Gael directed an assessing glance at the regenen. Had he won his forgiveness? “I feared I had trespassed beyond your clemency, Carbraes,” he said, testing the informality.

“Dreas was the heart of my honor,” answered Carbraes. “I shall attempt to retain it in his absence, but already the challenge proves hard. You, too, value integrity, Gael. I’d . . . forgotten that. For an interval.”

Carbraes’ eyes hardened momentarily. “Though your notarius lacks your probity!” The regenen turned away to gaze out the open casement beside him, where a sliver of lake glimmered bluer than ever beyond the rampart below.

He glanced back over his shoulder at Gael again, his eyes softer in the wake of his surge of temper. “Forgive me?” he said, his voice matching his eyes.

Gael nodded, swallowing down the lump forming in his throat. The bulwark of the trust between himself and his regenen—missing from the moment of Dreas’ death—had returned, and it felt like when he’d stepped into his tally room this afternoon. It was Carbraes’ backing that made Belzetarn bearable.

“Go, Gael,” said Carbraes, surveying the view again. “Let us catch this thief!”

Next scene:
The Tally Master, Chapter 18 (scene 84)

Previous scene:
The Tally Master, Chapter 17 (scene 82)

Need the beginning?
The Tally Master, Chapter 1 (scene 1)

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The Tally Master