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  After a frenzied scufHe, Deny finally managed to disarm the man and get him into a chokehold. But

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  even as he eased the unconscious form to the ground he realized that he would have to kill the man. He didn't dare leave him in the alley this way, nor could he allow him to talk. The man would have to die.

  Crossing quickly to the first man, he felt for a pulse; but the body was already growing cold, a gaping wound in its side. That, at least, saved one killing. But the other ...

  He dragged the second man over beside the first and turned him face up, then went through his pockets quickly. He found another vial like the one they'd tried to drug him with, some papers He didn't have time to read just now, and some gold coins. Morgan would he interested in the vial, and possibly the papers, so he pocketed those. But the coins he replaced. He wasa't a thief. And whoever found the bodies in the alley later on would hopefully think the men had killed each" other over the money. At least, they would not be looking for a robber. A search of the other man's clothing turned up a similar set of papers and more money, but again Deny kept only the papers.

  The unconscious man moaned, starting to come to, and Derry was forced to silence him again. He found himself feeling rather squeamish as he picked up the other man's knife, for he had never killed a man in cold blood before. But his own life was in danger if he did not; there was nothing else to be done. He must look upon it as an execution.

  Taking a deep breath, Derry pulled the man's head back and placed the blade against the throat, then drew it across in one quick gesture. Then he dropped the knife by the other man's hand, picked up his sword, and fled down the alley. He had seen and heard men die before, and by his own hand. But then it had been in battle, in open warfare. He had never thought he would become a killer in the dark.

  He staggered out the other end of the alley and into tbe street, forced himself to resume his previous role

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  of a drunk. He got about another block before he had to stop and retch over a gutter. Passers-by glanced at him in disgust or sympathy as they walked by, thinking he was just another drunk.

  But Deny knew better. And by the time he reached his room at the Crooked Dragon, he was a very sober young man.

  Morgan leaned back against the tall headrest of the carved chair and closed his eyes. He was in his tower room, and he was alone. He could hear and feel the fire roaring in the fireplace to his right, and if he opened his eyes, he knew he would see the high vaulted ceiling, the seven bars of green glass set in the high walls which gave the place its name—the Green Tower. In front of him was the shiral crystal, shining coldly on its gryphon stand in the center of the table. His hands rested lightly on the chair arms as he relaxed and cleared his mind. There was a knock at the door, but he did not move or open his eyes.

  "Yes?"

  "It's Duncan. May I come in?"

  Morgan sighed and looked at the ceiling, then sat forward so he could turn to glance at the door.

  "The door is open."

  He saw the latch turn, and then the door opened and Duncan slipped through.

  "Lock it," Morgan said, turning and leaning back in his chair once again.

  Duncan crossed to the small round table and sat in the chair opposite Morgan. His cousin's face was calm, serene, and Duncan realized he must already have been casting about for 0611/5 signal.

  "May I help, Alaric?" he asked quietly. "It's still a bit early, you know."

  "I know," Morgan sighed. "I don't want him to try early and get discouraged, though. This is all rather new to him."

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  Duncan smiled. "And it isn't exactly routine to us, either, is it?" he said, leaning his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together. "Are you sure you won't let me link with you and augment your power? It will save energy and another telling. And Deny will have to know about me sooner or later anyway."

  Morgan grinned half-heartedly. 'Tou win. How much longer?"

  "Whenever you're ready," Duncan replied. "Go ahead. I'll follow one step behind you."

  Morgan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then sat forward and cupped his hands around the shiral crystal. Another deep breath keyed the first response in the Thuryn trance, and he closed his eyes. There was a moment of silence, and then the shiral crystal began to glow faintly. At that, Duncan reached across and grasped Morgan's wrists firmly, his own arms resting easily on the table to either side of the crystal. He exhaled—and joined Morgan in trance.

  The shiral crystal glowed brightly, then took on an indeterminate smoky amber hue. Neither man was aware of that fact.

  He's getting ready, came Morgan's clear thought. He's thinking about forming the link.

  I feel it, Duncan responded. Where is he? Do you fcnow?

  "I can't tell. A long way away.

  In a tiny room at the back of a rather dowdy village inn, Deny sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed and doused one of the two candles in the room. He had read the papers he took from His two would-be assailants, and what he had learned had removed some of the taint of having killed in cold blood. For the men had been agents of Torenth, sent on special commission to ferret out information concerning Morgan's troop activities—precisely what Derry was doing, but on the other side. They had only been on

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  their way through Fathane, but that was enough. And they would have killed Deny, had their positions been reversed.

  So now they were dead and he was alive instead. It would take a while for the local authorities to identify them without papers. But once it was discovered that they were royalist agents, the hue and cry would be raised in tiny Fathane, and all strangers would be suspect. Deny didn't see how he could be linked with the deaths, but he must be on his guard. Stranger things had been known to happen, and he was totally alone in Fathane.

  No, not totally alone, he reminded himself, as he laid back on the bed and pulled the medallion Morgan had given him out of his shirt. At least he would be able to tell Morgan what had happened, give him the information he had gathered thus far.

  He cupped the medallion in his hands and studied it for a moment, then closed his eyes and murmured the words of the spell Morgan had taught him. He felt a fleeting sense of dizziness as he slipped into that strange and almost frightening sleep. And then he was aware of a familiar presence surrounding him, backed by another known almost as well. The spell had worked!

  Congratulations, Deny, You're an apt pupil. Did you have any trouble reaching us?

  Morgan?

  That's right. And Duncan too.

  Father Duncan?/

  Are you surprised?

  Surprised is hardly the word.

  We'll explain later. What have you learned?

  A great deal, Deny replied, smiling widely even though he knew his commander could not see the expression. One, Torenthi royalist troops are gathering somewhere north of here—about five thousand strong, if rumor is correct.

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  Where is "here"? Morgan interrupted. Sorry. I'm in Fathane—an inn called the Crooked Dragon, for some reason I haven't been able to fathom yet.

  I know the place. Go on.

  Anyway, they're gathering near a place called Me-dras, about a half-day's ride north and inland from here. I thought I'd ride up that way in the morning. Good hunting has been reported in that direction, too.

  Which is also a good cover for you, Morgan agreed. How about our situation here in Corwyn?

  Ah ... a little rambling about Warm de Grey, but not much. Since the Torenthi have a Deryni ruler, they can hardly be expected to be enthusiastic about an anti-Deryni religious fanatic. He's apparently made a few raids across the border here, but didn't have much success. I'll keep my ears open as I head back west.

  Do that, Morgan replied. Anything else? You've done a fine job, but I don't want to tax your strength any more than ne
cessary.

  Yes/ came Derry's emphatic reply. I had to kill a man in cold blood tonight, m'lord. He and his partner were Torenthi agents, and they were trying to drug me with something.

  Do you know what it was?

  No, but I have it here. I was going to bring it back for you.

  Get it, Morgan ordered. You can open your eyes without breaking rapport. Describe it to me.

  Deny opened his eyes cautiously, then reached across and picked up the vial. He looked at it carefully, then closed his eyes once more.

  It's a small, cloudy crystal vial with a brownish stopper. The fluid inside seems to be orangish and kind of thickish-looking.

  All right. Open it carefully and smell it. Don't spill any of it on you.

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  Right.

  Deny sat up and opened the vial, then took a cautious sniff.

  Again, Morgan commanded.

  Derry obeyed.

  Do you recognize it, Duncan?

  I'm not sure. It could be be"las. The R'Kassans use the drug as a truth potion. But it will only work on humans, and then only when they're very drunk.

  Derry, were you drunk? Morgan asked.

  They thought I was, Derry replied with a smile. Would it have hurt me?

  That depends on whether you're telling the truth about being sober. How do you know the men were Torenthi agents, by the way?

  I took their papers. Garish de Brey and Edmund Lyle, late of His Majesty's court at Beldour. They were on their way to spy on you.

  How inhospitable of them, Morgan retorted. Anything else before we break rapport?

  No, sir.

  All right. First of all, I want you to destroy those papers and the belas. Either could be your death warrant if you're caught. I must go to the Hort of Oreal tomorrow, but I'll listen for your call tomorrow night at this time in case you need to get in touch with me. Don't try unless your information is vital, though, because we can't afford the energy drain on a regular basis. And see what you can find out about the Interdict. Other than that, just be careful and get back in the next two days. Have you got all that?

  Yes, sir. Contact tomorrow night if it's important, and return in two days.

  Good luck, then.

  Thank you, sir.

  Deny shuddered sligKtly as the contact was broken, then opened his eyes and looked around the room. He felt tired, drained of energy, but it was a

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  good tired; and the experience had been much better than he'd expected. He'd apparently been apprehensive over nothing. One of these days he would learn to believe what Morgan told him about magic the first time.

  He looked wistfully at tKe open vial in his hand, then emptied it into the chamberpot under his bed. Then he ground the vial to powder under his heel and put flame to the papers. Ashes followed the drug into the chamberpot, and then he urinated over the entire mess for good measure.

  There. He defied even a Deryni to make sense of that mess—if anyone even thought to look.

  That settled, he unlaced his leather jerkin and pulled off his boots. Pulling back the shabby blanket on the bed, he flopped down on the mattress and covered himself, moving his dagger under his pillow where he could reach it in a hurry. Then, as an afterthought, he tucked Morgan's medallion back inside his shirt.

  Wouldn't want anyone to walk in and see that, he thought to himself as he dropped off to sleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Let destruction come upon him unawares , . .

  Psalms 35:8

  IT WAS JUST past sunup when Morgan, Duncan, and the ducal entourage arrived at the quay to board Rhafallia. The air was chill, damp, heavy with the bitter salt tang of the sea.

  Since the visit to the Hort of Orsal was to be an official one, Morgan was decked out in quasi-formal attire—knee-length black leather surcoat with the Corwyn gryphon blazoned on the chest in green suede, this over light mail encasing his body from neck to knee. Hard leather boots took up where the mail left off, the heels adorned with silver ceremonial spurs—though Morgan would not be going near a horse. A rich green woolen cloak of a nubby texture hung from his broad shoulders, secured rigHt of center with a carved silver clasp. And since this was a state visit and not a military maneuver, the ducal coronet of Corwyn crowned his golden head. His broadsword swung at his side in a well-worn leather scabbard.

  Duncan, too, had made dress concessions for his visit to the Hort of Orsal, finally discarding all pretense of clerical garb in favor of a high-collared black doublet and cloak over mail. He had debated whether he should don the plaid of his McLain ancestors—he knew that Alaric kept one on hand for just such

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  events—but he had decided that such a move might be premature. Few people knew of his suspension as yet. And until they did learn of it, there was no need to advertise the fact. As long as he wore black, he would arouse no attention. People would see what they expected to see.

  But meanwhile, he realized wryly, he would have little difficulty fitting into society as a layman again. Lord Duncan Howard McLain was first and foremost a nobleman's son, well-schooled in the fighting traditions of the aristocracy. And though the new blade hanging at his waist might be virgin just now, there was little doubt in Duncan's mind that it would serve him well the first time the need arose.

  The dense coastal fog was lifting as Morgan and Duncan approached the Rhafallia, and they could see her tall mast looming suddenly in the greyness. The brilliantly decorated and stitched mainsail was furled loosely along the single wide yardarm, and Morgan's black-green-black maritime banner hung limply from a short standard at the bow. As they watched, a sailor ran up Kelson's colors on the mast, a flash of crimson and gold against the grey morning sky.

  Rhafallia was not Morgan's largest ship, though at a mere fifty tons she was one of the fastest. Double-ended and clinker-built like most ships that plied the Southern Sea in trade, she carried a crew of thirty men and four officers, with room for perhaps half that many men-at-arms or passengers, in addition to cargo. When the wind blew and blew from the right direction, she could make .four to six knots with little difficulty; and recent rigging innovations copied from the Bremagni merchant fleets to the south now made it possible to tack as close as forty degrees to the wind with a new forward sail called a jib.

  If the wind failed, or did nor blow from the proper direction, there were always the oars. And even without sail, the narrow and high-riding Rhafallia could

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  easily make the crossing to the Hort of Orsal's island port and back in less than a day.

  Morgan glanced up at the mast again as he and Duncan approached the gangplank and noticed that sailors were already swarming the rigging in preparation for departure. A lookout was supervising from a vantage point in the fighting castle at the top of the mast, and Morgan could just see the bright knit caps of the deck crew scurrying in the slightly lower level of the rowing gallery. He hoped that they would not have to rely too heavily on oars this morning, though. He wanted to be back on land well before noon.

  As he considered the dismal possibility of a protracted crossing, a tall man in well-worn brown leather breeches and jerkin came striding up, his neck and shoulders muffled by a rough wool cloak of faded crimson. He wore the peaked leather cap of a ship's master, with the green cockade of Morgan's sea service jutting gaily from the brim. He grinned broadly as he saw Morgan, and a bushy rust-colored mustache and beard bristled when he talked.

  "Good morning, m'lord!" he boomed, rubbing his hands together briskly and glancing around as though he were thoroughly enjoying the cold, the fog, and the early hour. "Isn't it a beautiful morning?"-

  Morgan raised a droll eyebrow. "It is if you like to sail blind, Henry. Will the wind pick up by the time the tide shifts, or are we going to have to row?"

  "Oh, there'll be wind," the captain assured Kirn.
"It's going to be a beautiful day for sailing. Only one tack out of the harbor. How many are you bringing aboard, by the way?"

  "There'll be nine in all," Morgan replied, glancing around distractedly. "Ah, this is my cousin, Monsig-nor Duncan McLain. Duncan, Captain Henry Kirby, Master of the Rhafallia."

  Kirby touched the brim of his hat. "Pleased to meet

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  you, Monsignor." He turned back to Morgan. "Are you ready to come aboard then, m'lord?"

  "Might as well. How long before the tide?"

  "Oh, a quarter hour or so. We can start casting off and getting sail set as soon as you're aboard."

  "Very well." Morgan turned and gestured to the knot of men standing farther back on the quay, then followed Duncan and Kirby aboard. Behind him, Lord Hamilton and his troupe came trudging down the quay seven strong.

  Hamilton looked much more confident now that he was back in fighting harness. He was a warrior, not a courtier. And his close association with Gwydion and other more cultured personages for the past few days had been nerve-wracking, to say the least. Certainly none had been happier than he to see the fiery little troubadour packed off for Culdi this morning. It had started Hamilton's day most propitiously, and he was now in his element, presiding with singular aplomb as he herded his contingent aboard the ship.

  Master Randolph was the first of the ducal party to go aboard, his handsome face alight with pleasure at the thought of the adventure he hoped awaited. As a physician, he was seldom included in court intrigue beyond that of the sort he had handled at the state banquet. And the fact that Morgan had invited him along on this trip was a constant source of wonder and delight.

  At his side was young Richard FitzWilliam, the royal squire Duncan had brought with him from Rhe-muth. Richard was enthralled with the prospect of seeing the Hort of Orsal's legendary court in person. Further, he idolized Morgan, had trained under his supervision at the court at Rhemuth. Fiercely loyal to the duke, he had risked harsh words and physical danger more than once to warn his mentor of impending danger.