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the circumstances. Dondo clearly had hoped to cling to his body, and let
Cazaril s soul be ripped away. Leaving Dondo in, so to speak, possession.
Dondo s goals and those of the demon were, it seemed, slightly divergent. The
demon would be happy if Cazaril died in any way at all. Dondo wanted a murder,
or a murdering.
Sunk strengthless to the stones, tears leaking between his eyelids, Cazaril
became aware that the noise had died down. A hand touched his elbow, and he
flinched. Foix s distressed voice came to his ear,  My lord? My lord, are you
wounded?
 Not . . . not stabbed, Cazaril got out. He blinked, wheezing. He reached out
for his blade, then jerked his hand back, fingertips stinging. The steel was
hot to the touch. Ferda appeared on his other side, and the two brothers drew
him to his feet. He stood shivering with reaction.
 Are you sure you re all right? said Ferda.  That dark-haired lady in
Cardegoss promised us the royesse would have our ears if we did not bring you
back to her alive.
 Yes, put in Foix,  and that she would have the rest of our skins for a drum
head, thereafter.
 Your skins are safe, for now. Cazaril rubbed his watering eyes and
straightened a little, staring around. A sergeantly-looking groom, sword out,
had half a dozen of the toughs lying facedown on the slates in surrender.
Three more bandits sat leaning against the stable wall, moaning and bleeding.
Another servant was dragging up the body of the dead crossbowman.
Cazaril scowled down at dy Joal, lying sprawled before him. They hadn t
exchanged a single word in their brief encounter. He was deeply sorry he d
torn out the bravo s lying throat. His presence here implied much, but
confirmed nothing. Was he dy Jironal s agent or acting on his own?
 The leader where is he? I want to put him to the question.
 Over there, my lord  Foix pointed  but I m afraid he won t be answering.
Bergon was just rising from the examination of an unmoving body; the grizzled
man, alas.
Ferda said uneasily, in a tone of apology,  He fought fiercely and wouldn t
surrender. He had wounded two of our grooms, so Foix finally downed him with a
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
crossbow bolt.
 Do you think he really was the castle warder here, my lord? Foix added.
 No.
Bergon picked his way over to him, sword in hand, and looked him up and down
in worry.  What do we do now, Caz?
The female ghost, grown somewhat less agitated, was beckoning him toward the
gate. One of the male ghosts, equally urgent, was beckoning him toward the
main door.  I . . . I follow, momentarily.
 What? said Bergon.
Cazaril tore his gaze away from what only his inner eye saw.  Lock them  he
nodded toward their surrendered foes  up in a stall, and set a guard. Whole
and wounded together for now. We ll tend to them after our own. Then send a
body of able men to search the premises, see if there are any more hiding. Or
. . . or anybody else. Hiding. Or . . . whatever. His eye returned to the
gate, where the streaming woman beckoned again.  Foix, bring your bow and
sword and come with me.
 Should we not take more men, lord?
 No, I don t think so . . .
Leaving Bergon and Ferda to direct the mopping-up, Cazaril at last headed for
the gate. Foix followed, staring as Cazaril turned without hesitation down a
path into the pines. As they walked along it, the cries of the crows grew
louder. Cazaril braced himself. The path opened out onto the edge of a steep
ravine.
 Bastard s hell, whispered Foix. He lowered his bow and touched the five
theological points, forehead-lip-navel-groin-heart, in a warding gesture.
They d found the bodies.
They were thrown upon the midden, tumbled down the edge of the crevasse atop
years of kitchen and stable yard waste. One younger man, two older; in this
rural place it was not possible to distinguish certainly master from man by
dress, as all wore practical working leathers and woolens. The woman, plump
and homely and middle-aged, was stripped naked, as was the boy, who appeared
to have been about five. Both mutilated according to a cruel humor. Violated,
too, probably. Dead about a day, Cazaril judged by the progress the crows had
made. The woman-ghost was weeping silently, and the child-ghost clung to her [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]