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"No." Jaric lifted empty hands, spoke around the pressure against his larynx.
"Search me. You'll find no coin."
The guardsman spat. He did not lower his weapon, but seized the boy with a
gauntleted fist and hauled him to his feet. "Perhaps I caught you too soon to
find coin, yes?"
Sickened to the core, Jaric stiffened. "Search us both, then! This man was my
friend."
The guardsman bashed him back against the building and raised the lantern.
Flame-light flickered over the sprawled form of the beggar, opened eyes and
bloodied jaw glistening like macabre paint. Jaric turned away.
The guardsman grunted. "Some friend. That's old Nedge. Thief himself, did you
know? The executioner chopped his hand as lawful punishment." He released his
hold on Jaric and sheathed his sword in disgust.
"Kor curse his flea-ridden corpse. I'll have to clear him out before he starts
to stink."
Distastefully, the man at arms prodded the beggar with his toe. "How long's he
been dead, d'you know?"
"No." Jaric rubbed his wrists, outraged by the guard's callousness. No matter
what his crimes, no man deserved to die without the pity of his fellows. As
that thought turned in
Jaric's mind, logic drove him one step further; unless he mastered the Cycle
of Fire, Anskiere would perish similarly, deep under the ice cliffs with no
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friend to care.
That moment the beggar stirred. A snore escaped his lips. Steel flashed as the
guardsman started back with a curse. "Kor, the stupid sot! Got himself drunk,
didn't he? And probably bashed his silly head passing out in the street."
Jaric almost shouted with relief.
He had not caused the beggar's death.
The sudden, lifting rush of departing blame snapped a barrier within him.
Self-doubt imprisoned him no longer. Offered the reprieve of a second chance,
he seized the freedom to choose. He would go to the Vaere. No failure, no
loss, and no fate carried worse penalty than the guilt of a loved one's death.
If he could act to spare Taen, the risk of his father's madness must be
accepted.
"Get on your way," said the guardsman curtly.
Jaric lifted his chin, his hair glinting gold in the lantern-light. "One
moment," he said. With deliberate defiance, he loosened the laces at his
throat, drew off his linen shirt, and spread it over the beggar who lay in the
street. "This man is my friend, thief or not. Let him sleep in peace." And
with a level glance at the guardsman, the heir of I vain Firelord rose and
strode off, to seek
Callinde and the open sea.
Summer haze hung a moon like a yellowed game piece over Cliffhaven when
Moonless returned to her home port. Despite the late hour, her crewmen furled
sail with matchless efficiency. Yet the anchor had barely bitten into the
seabed when signals flashed from the light tower caused Corley to yell for a
longboat.
No man dared delay direct summons from the Kielmark, far less a message coded
urgent.
Blocks squealed in a night of oppressive stillness. The instant the boat
splashed into the harbor, Corley departed for shore with all the speed his
oarsmen could summon. Too impatient to wait until the craft drifted to the
dockside, he leaped a span of open water to the wharf.
An officer with a lantern met him. His skin sparkled with sweat above his
unlaced collar, and his chest heaved, as if he had been running. "Best hurry,
man. Kielmark's in his study, pacing."
"Kor," said Corley sourly. "He wouldn't by chance be in a dicey temper, now
would he?" Without pause for answer, he stripped off his own tunic and shirt
and sprinted through close, late-season heat.
Except for an occasional sentry, the streets by the wharf lay empty. Corley
raced past closed shops and darkened houses with only the echo of his
footfalls for company. The stair which led to the fortress left him winded
after long weeks confined to a ship's deck. Yet when the guards waved him
through the gatehouse, he did not slow down to walk. If the Kielmark sent for
audience demanding all speed, he would be counting every second with
resentment until his captain arrived.
Corley passed the repaired portals of the great hall, then hastened down the
corridor which led to the study. The door burst open as he rounded the last
corner, and the Kielmark thrust his head out.
"Kor's Fires, another minute, and I'd have ordered you spitted, captain." The
Lord of Cliffhaven spun and paced savagely from the threshold.
Corley followed into the candlelit clutter of the study. Breathless after his
run, he bent a keen gaze upon his master. The Kielmark was stripped to
leggings and boots in the heat. He paused before the opened square of the
casement, the muscles of his back and shoulders quivering with suppressed
tension. Throwing knives gleamed in a row upon his belt, and both hands were
knuckled into fists. Suddenly he whirled from the window. The eyes he trained
upon Corley shone ice-pale with anger. "Demons take judgment, man, what were
you doing in the north?"
Corley ignored the question. With an expression of mild inquiry, he lifted his
wrist and blotted sweat from his brow. "What happened here?"
The Kielmark surged forward with a frenetic burst of energy. He drew one of
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