"Season's end catch!" the old fish vendor cried in a cackling voice, "We gots yer river cod and white bass! Season's end!" The figure bent low over the cart, pushing it with seemingly great effort along the cobblestoned street in Palmaris' northeastern section, not far from the great abbey of St. Precious.

"Season's end!" he called again, and he reached up and stroked his long gray beard - subtly shifting it back into proper place.

A pair of brothers wearing the brown Abellican robes moved up toward the cart.

"Season's end, you say, good fishman vendor?" one remarked.

"Aye."

The two monks moved right up beside the cart. "Master Lockless?" Brother Hoyet asked, his face a mask of curiosity.

Roger looked up, called out his fish once again, and gave the monks a wink.

"A grand disguise," said the other brother, Tarin Destou by name. "So many times did I serve as Bishop Braumin's second in the service at Chasewind Manor, and yet even standing here before you, it is hard for me to discern your true identity."

"That's the point, after all," Roger deadpanned. "Wouldn't be much of a disguise otherwise."

The monks looked at each other and grinned, then turned as one back to Roger.

"Ah, the white bass, ye say?" Roger said loudly as a couple of other Palmaris citizens wandered by. He reached into his cart and brought up a sad-looking specimen. "Fine choice, lads! Fine choice!"

Brother Hoyet took the smelly fish.

"What of Bishop Braumin, then?" Roger asked. "I had feared that De'Unnero, if not Aydrian, would have him killed as soon as Palmaris had fallen, but it is my understanding that he has made appearances since the conquest."

"He has spoken on behalf of King Aydrian several times since," Hoyet confirmed.

"To calm the city's populace and prevent wholesale slaughter, no doubt,"

said Roger.

"He has spoken on behalf of Marcalo De'Unnero, as well," Brother Destou added, and Roger couldn't help but wince. Never, under any threat or even for the good of the community he served, would Bishop Braumin Herde willingly stand beside Marcalo De'Unnero - unless they two were standing on a gallows and the noose was firmly about De'Unnero's neck! "He has asked the city to embrace King Aydrian for the glory and good of Honce-the-Bear, and to dismiss their errant notions of Brother... of Abbot De'Unnero, to accept him as the rightful leader of St. Precious at this time, and as the likely Father Abbot of the Abellican Church in due and short order."

"Bishop Braumin would not say such a thing," Hoyet added.

"Not if they held a poisoned dagger to his back," Roger agreed. "Were you close to him when he spoke those words?"

"Three in line to the side," answered Hoyet. "It was no imposter, but Bishop Braumin."

"Or was it an imposter within Bishop Braumin?" asked Roger, who understood gemstone possession well enough to make the connection.

Both monks, who had obviously been thinking the same thing, nodded.

"De'Unnero?" Roger asked.

"It is rumored that the son of Jilseponie is mighty with the gemstones -  greater even than his mother," Brother Destou explained.

"That he would do this marks him as no son of Jilseponie, whatever his physical heritage," Roger was quick to reply. "Know you where they keep Bishop Braumin? Is he well?"

"Beneath the abbey, perhaps," answered Hoyet. "Many new prisoners have been brought to the dungeons since the arrival of the new king. We are not allowed anywhere near to the entry rooms, of course. Only those brothers who arrived with our new abbot can get close to the dungeon stairwell."

"They hold him in chains - he is not well," Brother Destou added. "They drag him out and clean him when they need to use him for their purposes."

"Then you know where he is being held?" Roger asked Destou.

The monk shrugged. "I have seen the shackle marks about his wrist, and he is thinner by far. But I have not seen him taken from the dungeons of St.

Precious."

Roger gripped the fish cart - he needed the support or he might have fallen over. He had suspected that all along, of course. As soon as he had learned that Braumin had not gotten out of the city, and had not been killed, but rather, was being used as a puppet for Aydrian and De'Unnero, he had suspected that his friend was probably not in a good and healthy situation, and likely in the dungeons of St. Precious or Chasewind Manor.

"Where has he spoken?" Roger asked.

"In the square, as is customary for an abbot of St. Precious," Destou answered.

"And has he traveled with the group of brothers from St. Precious to that customary spot?" Roger pressed. "Has he spoken after or during a rain? And if so, were his shoes wet before the entourage emerged from St.

Precious?"

"They were," Brother Hoyet answered suddenly, his face lighting with the revelation. He looked at Destou, who merely shrugged again, apparently having not noticed.

"De'Unnero stays at St. Precious?" Roger asked.

Hoyet nodded.

"And Aydrian in Chasewind Manor?"

Another nod. "Though he is leaving any day now, marching west, by all reports," Brother Hoyet put in.

Roger's head similarly bobbed as he sorted it all out. He knew the dungeons of Chasewind Manor well. Many of his friends had been held there when Markwart had come to the city to battle the disciples of Avelyn, including Braumin Herde and Jilseponie. And of course, living in the manor over the last few years had given the ever-inquisitive Roger the opportunity to scout out the place top to bottom, all the catacombs, dungeons, and many of its secret passages.

"You will go to him?" Brother Destou asked.

"I would not be a friend if I did not," said Roger, and both monks bowed their heads, as if stung by the remark.

Roger appreciated their looks. The two had denounced Braumin to De'Unnero, he understood, else they, too, would have been thrown in chains. No doubt each was carrying substantial guilt upon his shoulders.

A younger Roger would have scolded them for their cowardice, surely, but the man, who had learned so much under the tutelage of Elbryan and Jilseponie, appreciated their torment.

"You did not betray Bishop Braumin," the generous Roger said. "You have risked so much in meeting with me this day." He ended with a wink and began pushing the fish cart on past the pair. "Keep the white bass," he offered.

The two young brothers nodded, Hoyet lifting the fish in a bit of a salute, and then they hiked their robes more tightly about them against the cold wind and headed back toward St. Precious Abbey.

Had they been more perceptive, they might have seen the shadowy figure peering out at them with too much interest from a small window on the great structure's second floor.

Marcalo De'Unnero stood with a large gathering at the city's northern gate as Aydrian led the procession of four hundred Kingsmen out of Palmaris and off to the west. Bereft of his escaped stallion, the young king seemed little diminished. He rode a sturdy To-gai-ru pony, one of the many extras in the Palmaris stables since a group of Allhearts had sailed with Earl DePaunch into the Gulf of Corona.

Wagons rumbled out the gate behind Aydrian; the disciplined soldiers marched in perfect cadence, and half the city, it seemed, had gathered to watch the departure.

De'Unnero fast turned his attention from Aydrian to the clustered citizens, some of whom, he knew, were looking at him with great trepidation. Though a dozen years and more had passed, many in Palmaris remembered well the rule of Bishop Marcalo De'Unnero, short though it had been.

This time would be different, the monk told himself. He and Aydrian had set out a proper course for him within the city, one that would keep the people of Palmaris satisfied at least, if not enamored of their young king and his primary advisor. There would be no public executions. There would be no mass imprisonments, nor any edicts slashing the rights of the folk to go about their daily routines much as they had done through the last ten years.

Furthermore, there would be no formal declaration of De'Unnero as bishop, or even as abbot of St. Precious. As far as the folk of Palmaris were concerned, he was just an abbot from another abbey, serving as Aydrian's representative advisor to Bishop Braumin Herde.

Of course, Marcalo De'Unnero was much more than that. With Aydrian gone and Kalas involved in the control and complete subjugation of the southland, the monk was, in effect, the absolute ruler of Palmaris.

Bishop Braumin was a name, and nothing more; with Aydrian gone, De'Unnero had no intention of even letting the bishop out of his dungeon cell.

De'Unnero would use one of the converted masters of St. Precious to speak the edicts -  proclamations said to have come from Bishop Braumin - but those speeches would be written by none other than Marcalo De'Unnero.

His charge was an easy one. He was to sit out the winter in peace and in control, to rest and be ready for the greater battles that would surely come in the spring.

Well, that was almost Marcalo De'Unnero's edict. He had forced one concession from Aydrian, something that he and Father Abbot Markwart had tried before, to results that proved rather disastrous to De'Unnero. His policy of reclaiming all magic gemstones had angered the Palmaris populace greatly against him, though Markwart and then Bishop Francis had used his fall from grace to further their cause of collection and to further the popularity of Francis. Many of the stones had been retrieved, and were still in Church coffers, but getting the rest of them was something that Marcalo De'Unnero believed to be the most important task he would ever undertake.

For the stones were the province of the Abellican Church, as far as De'Unnero was concerned, and the thought that so many were outside the Church, sold by the former abbots of St.-Mere-Abelle and often converted into easily used magical items by heretical craftsmen and alchemists, made him tremble with rage.

This time, De'Unnero meant to go about collecting the stones in a more diplomatic manner, though, much as Francis had used after De'Unnero's removal from Palmaris. Instead of threats, the monk would use payment to regain sacred and magical items. He had brought bags and bags of unenchanted, though valuable, gemstones with him for just that purpose.

Yes, De'Unnero meant to become a friend to the people of Palmaris, and of all the towns along the Masur Delaval all the way back to Ursal. Or at least, he would become the friend of the important and powerful people.

Wealth could buy back many of the gemstones, or could buy information concerning which merchants and noblemen might be holding a stone or an enchanted item. Once he identified each criminal, De'Unnero would approach the man personally and offer payment.

If that was refused, De'Unnero would quietly return the same night and take the Church's rightful property.

The monk had consciously to remind himself to smile, standing there in the open at the northern gate. He knew that many eyes were upon him and so he fought his more instinctual urges to scowl and tried very hard to soften his visage.

It was not an easy thing for Marcalo De'Unnero to do.

Roger couldn't help but feel a few pangs of guilt as he nodded back to Brother Hoyet, the first in the line of nearly a dozen young monks set in place to escort Bishop Braumin through dark paths all across the city to the river, and then across the river to a waiting coach fast bound for St.-Mere -Abelle. It encouraged Roger to find that so many of the brothers of St. Precious would rally to help Bishop Braumin, knowing full well that, in doing so, they were putting their lives at a great risk.

Marcalo De'Unnero was not a forgiving man! But Roger had prompted them, had coerced them, had met secretly with Hoyet and Destou on many occasions, egging them on. He recounted to them Braumin's own humble beginnings as a revolutionary, along with Viscenti and Brother Castinagis and others who had secretly gathered with Master Jojonah those years ago, in the very bowels of St.-Mere-Abelle -  then Father Abbot Markwart's stronghold - to keep alive the flame of hope that was Avelyn Desbris. Those brothers had faced similar penalties, but had followed their hearts and held true to their precepts. Some like Jojonah, who had been burned at the stake, had paid a heavy price. But all of them had accepted that potential cost for the sake of their conscience.

So it was now with Hoyet and Destou, and the nine others who had helped to organize this attempted escape, Roger knew. They were doing it out of love for Braumin and in trust of Roger.

"I'll not let them down," the man whispered quietly as he moved along the hedgerow that ringed Chasewind Manor. It was an easy enough scramble for him to get over the wall, touching down in the darkened yard behind the manor house.

He saw the silhouette of a man not so far away, as he had anticipated, as Brother Hoyet had arranged.

Elbryan would not have done it this way, Roger couldn't help but tell himself, as he considered yet another man in on the conspiracy. Elbryan would have come in alone to rescue Braumin Herde, and would have left a trail of scattered enemies in his wake, if need be. Roger knew it to be true, and knew that in asking for the help of these dozen men, he had put them in dire straights.

He saw no way around it. He was a decent fighter, but certainly no match for a trained soldier twenty years his junior! And certainly no match for an Allheart Knight! And this place was crawling with both. Even from his perch back here in the shadows behind the house, Roger could hear the men inside, mostly soldiers. And he had seen the guards at the gate, and others marching in formation about the wall, despite the late hour.

"Here now, ye don't be coming in after the sun's gone down," came a cackling old voice, and the thin silhouette ambled toward Roger. "And ye don't come in at all over the wall. But through the gate, properly introduced."

The words were correct, as were the quiet tone and delivery. "Illthin?"

Roger asked, and then he ducked low as the sound of marching soldiers echoed nearby.

"Come along then, ye lazy snoozer," the silhouette, who was indeed old Illthin, said to Roger, and he tossed a shovel at the man's feet. "I telled Allheart Desenz that I'd have that tree upturned afore the dawn, and I'm not for getting a beating because a man half me age can't keep his eyes open long enough to dig a few roots!"

"Is there trouble here?" came a call, and the man leading the patrol moved over to Roger and Illthin, eyeing them suspiciously.

"Only because me worker here ain't worth the coins I'm payin' him!"

Illthin grumbled. "Ye think ye might give him a few lashes for me, me good Kingsman?"

The soldier eyed Roger wickedly and reached for a club set on his belt.

"Wait! Wait!" Roger pleaded, holding up his hands defensively. "I wasn't napping. No, I... I had to..." He glanced about to the base of the wall and gave the front of his pants a tug to straighten them.

"All this trouble over a piss?" the soldier snapped at Illthin.

Illthin played his role perfectly, eyeing Roger with an edge of true suspicion. "Long piss, then," he muttered, and he waved the soldier away.

"Get yer shovel, then, ye lazy dog, and if ye got any more in ye needing to come out, ye best do it in yer pants!"

Roger scooped the shovel and fell into a quick step right behind the muttering Illthin. "We'll never get it uprooted afore the dawn," the old man grumbled.

The soldier moved back to his patrol, and they took up their march, away from the pair as Illthin led Roger over to an aged tree by the large back porch of the manor house.

"You almost got me beaten," Roger grumbled.

"Better'n hanged, ye fool," the old man cackled back. Illthin looked to the ground about the old tree and motioned with his chin for Roger to get to work.

"We're really digging it up?"

"Until the change o' the guard, at least," Illthin explained. "And that'll be an hour." He motioned again, more insistently.

It struck Roger as humorous that even though he knew that Illthin was working for his own good, and for the sake of Bishop Braumin, the old man never seemed to be completely on his side. He drove his shovel into the ground, grunting as it clipped a thick root.

Within a few minutes, Roger was breathing heavily, and the strokes of his shovel came more and more slowly.

"Ha-ha," old Illthin laughed at him. "Are ye goin' to fall over dead then, Master Lockless?" he asked. "All yer pampered days taken the fight from ye, have they?"

Roger planted the shovel in the ground and leaned on it, staring at the old gardener. "This is no game," he said. "Though I'm glad that you've found a bit of mirth at my expense."

Illthin's cackling ended abruptly, and the man's thin grin disappeared into a suddenly serious expression. "Mirth?" he responded. "Now ye got sweat and mud on ye. Now ye're lookin' the part of a worker, and so now ye can go into the washrooms about the cook rooms."

Roger stared at him for a moment, digesting the logic, and he could only nod his agreement. The washrooms and the cook rooms - that was the area near to the stairwell to the dungeons.

"Bah, we'll have to wait for morning's light to get the damned tree down," Illthin said suddenly, and loudly, and it took Roger a moment to realize that he was speaking for the benefit not of Roger, but of the patrol marching around the corner of the building.

"Just go and get yerself cleaned and get some sleep," Illthin went on.

"And ye meet me back here at the break o' dawn."

Roger nodded and leaned the shovel over to Illthin's waiting grasp; then, with a glance at the soldiers - none of whom seemed overly interested in him or in Illthin - he moved toward the house.

He got inside without incident and began making his way along corridors and through rooms all too familiar to him. The place was mostly quiet at this late hour, but he heard one group of men rolling bones, and another group arguing about the current politics in the kingdom - though none saying a word against King Aydrian, obviously.

Moving silently, using those skills that he had learned as a young boy in Caer Tinella and had then perfected during the powrie occupation in the days of the demon dactyl, Roger took a roundabout and inconspicuous course that brought him inevitably toward the servant quarters of the great house and the stairwell to the lower dungeon levels.

He came to a door, slightly ajar, with candlelight spilling out from within the room. He put his ear to the door, then dared to push it open just a bit and peek in.

Roger froze in place, for the room was not empty. A pair of large men, Kingsmen, were on guard within, one sitting and seeming asleep - or at least very near to sleep - and the other leaning against a cupboard at the far right of the room.

And there, on the left, was the door that led to the downward staircase.

Roger believed that he could get to it without being noticed by the groggy guards, but how then might he get back out, with Braumin in tow? Roger glanced all around, looking for a solution. His hand went to his belt, where he had a small dagger sheathed, but the thought of attacking the guards was a fleeting one. Once Roger had been a decent fighter.

Once... The thief changed tactics then, inspecting the doorway and the crude lock. With a smile, Roger bent low, moved the door back to its original, nearly closed position, pulled forth a small pick, and worked that mechanism.

Then he peered in again, and quietly slipped into the room. He moved in a crouch, so low to the floor that none of the candlelight spilled over him. A movement to the side froze him in place, but when he finally mustered the courage to turn about, he saw that the source, the man standing at the cupboard, had merely shifted to get a bit more comfortable. Only then did Roger realize that the standing guard, too, was actually asleep, though why he hadn't pitched over, Roger couldn't begin to know.

At the cellar door a few moments later, Roger glanced back once to ensure that the guards were not in any way alerted. Then he reached up and gently tried the handle.

The door was locked.

Roger's pick went to work again, expertly and silently, and a few moments later, he went through the door onto the landing, pausing long enough to secure the door behind him.

He could hardly see the uneven and crude stairway stretching out below him, but there were fires burning below. Roger placed his hand on the wall to his right and started down slowly, grimacing every time a rickety old stair groaned beneath his weight. Soon enough, he was moving along an earthen-and-stone tunnel, speckled with puddles and echoing with the sound of rattling chains and of hammers beating on metal.

Apparently, King Aydrian and his cohorts had reinstated the old practice of having prisoners put to hard labor.

Roger heard the swish and crack of a whip, followed by a pitiful groan, and he knew that other practices had been reinstated, as well.

His stride increased in tempo as he considered that Braumin, his dear friend, might be among those tortured men, and around a few bends and down a couple of side passages, Roger looked upon the jailor and the prisoners. They were in a long earthen room, several standing, chained in a line along a stonework dais and standing before respective anvils. A great hearth blazed before them, and two other prisoners, wearing heavy gloves, moving the rods of metal to the hearth and, when they were heated to an appropriate glow, to the next freed-up anvil.

The jailor, a huge and heavily muscled man, paced up and down behind the dais, a whip in one hand, a short and thick sword in the other. He hurled an insult and then cracked his whip at one of the hammer-wielders, and the poor wretch cried out and fell forward to one knee.

"Bah, get up, ye traitorous dog!" the jailor roared at him, and the whip cracked again, laying the man even lower - which only infuriated the jailor even more.

"I telled ye to get up!" the jailor yelled again, and he lifted the whip to strike, but then swung about reflexively instead, sensing movement.

The burly man almost got his hand up in time to block the downward chop of one of the extra hammers. Almost, but he got hit squarely on the chest instead, and he staggered backward, tripping over the raised stonework and falling to his back.

Roger was over him in an instant, the hammer raised to keep him at bay.

"Where is the key?" the small and dangerous man demanded.

The jailor held up one hand to fend any forthcoming blows, and shook his head with fright, his breath coming in short and raspy gasps.

"The key!" Roger demanded.

"There is no key!" one of the prisoners cried.

"Oh, ye've doomed us all!" said another, and the cries rose along the line - or started to, until one voice familiar to Roger rose above the others.

"Master Lockless?" Bishop Braumin Herde asked. "Roger?"

Roger looked up at his friend, but had to turn his attention back immediately to the jailor, who suddenly grabbed at his leg. Down came the hammer, but the jailor managed to deflect the blow, pushing it out wide and forcing Roger either to let go or tumble down.

Roger leaped back, pulling free of the man, who came up fast and charged at the intruder.

Or started to, for he got hit low across the ankles by the flying form of Bishop Braumin, and he fell headlong to the ground, landing hard right before Roger. He began to get up immediately, but Roger balled his hands together and fell down atop him, driving his hands onto the back of the jailor's neck.

The man fell flat, facedown.

Roger scrambled past him, up to the confused and frightened prisoners, falling into the waiting grasp of Bishop Braumin.

"Why are you here?" Braumin asked. "Roger, we cannot get away!"

Hardly listening, Roger fell to his knees before the bishop and went to work on the heavy shackle latched about Braumin's ankles. This was a more sophisticated mechanism than that on the door above, but there was no more proficient lockpick in all of Honce-the-Bear than Roger Lockless - a name well earned! He had Braumin free in a few moments.

"What about us?" one of the other prisoners demanded.

Braumin looked pleadingly at Roger, who was shaking his head. "There are guards everywhere up above," Roger explained to the bishop. "It will be enough for me to get you out of here; there is no way that I can escort the lot of you!"

"These are not criminals, but men loyal to me and to our cause," Braumin countered. "You cannot ask me to leave them!"

That brought some grateful murmurs from the others.

"Then I do not ask," Roger replied. "I insist."

The murmurs sounded again, more as grumbles.

"And they will insist that I leave them, as well," Roger went on, "if they are truly loyal. This is not about your loyalty to them, or theirs to you, Bishop. This is about the need to get you out of here, and out of Palmaris."

Braumin, his face filthy, looked at him hard.

"While you remain in Palmaris, you are a voice against the people, from all that I have heard, and I know that it is not a voice that truly comes from Bishop Braumin Herde."

That statement seemed to hit the man profoundly, and Braumin slumped forward, his shoulders suddenly bobbing in sobs. Roger hugged him close and patted him across the back for a bit, until he composed himself enough to look up and look Roger in the eye.

"He possesses me," the Bishop whispered. "Aydrian, our king. I am not strong enough to begin to deny him. There is no resistance within me. He is strong, Roger, so terribly strong!"

"And that is why you must flee with me," Roger said, and he looked up so that his determined expression would encompass the whole of the group. "I must get him out of here, to offer a voice against King Aydrian and to stop his voice from speaking for King Aydrian! I ask the greatest sacrifice of you all - that you remain here as prisoners - for the sake of the true kingdom."

There was some bristling, and a bit of discussion, but Roger wasn't waiting for an answer anyway. He looked at Braumin, who seemed to agree, and then Lockless pulled the bishop away, suddenly, ignoring the protests and dismissing his own guilt.

Truly it bothered Roger Lockless to leave the men in that predicament, but he knew that there was simply no way he could get them out of Chasewind Manor. He considered unshackling them, just for a moment, but he dismissed that, as well. What would he accomplish by doing so? No good for the men, certainly, though any distraction they provided in their futile flight for freedom might have helped him.

But no. He would not sacrifice them.

He got Braumin back to the stairway, and then up to the door. Roger bade him wait, then slipped into the room.

A moment later, he returned, pulling wide the door and bidding Braumin to follow.

The bishop froze in place, though, watching the writhing of the soldier on the floor, the man grasping futilely at his torn throat.

"Roger, what have you done?" Braumin asked, or tried to, before Roger hushed him, pointing at the second guard, who was sound asleep at the table.

"Do not make me kill another man," Roger whispered, great regret evident in his cracking voice. "I beg of you."

The two went through the room, and moved along the darkened corridors of Chasewind Manor, Braumin following Roger's every movement, often ducking behind drapery or into crannies to avoid the occasional soldiers.

They had almost gotten out of the house when a commotion erupted behind them, first the shout of the jailor, then the cries of, "Murder! Murder!"

"Run on!" Roger bade the bishop and he shoved the man ahead, driving him toward the back door, then out into the night, pursuit growing all about them.

They ran to the back wall. "Go! Go!" Roger told the man, pushing him up the wall as he grabbed its top.

Braumin, who had gained far too much weight over the years, struggled mightily to pull himself over, with Roger pressing behind him. "Brother Hoyet is in the shadows awaiting you," the man explained. "Run to him!"

With a final heave, Roger got the bishop atop the wall.

Braumin hesitated, looking back at him and reaching down to offer his hand.

But Roger shook his head and moved away. "Go!" he bade the man. "Go and be quick!"

Roger turned and ran the other way, and before he had gone halfway across the yard, he heard the cries of the guards and knew he had been spotted.

So he kept running, putting as much ground between himself and Braumin as he possibly could. He rushed about the front corner of the great building, only to turn about and scoot the other way after nearly running into a group of guards.

He headed for the nearest wall, but had to turn again as another group appeared, angled to cut him off. He veered back to the other side, but those directly behind him were peeling wide that way, sealing him in.

"Wait!" Roger bade them, turning about and stopping fast, holding up his hands defensively. "Wait! I can explain!"

A soldier rushed in past the intruder's upraised arms, lifting his short sword as he came on, and Roger felt an explosion of agony across his skull.

And then he knew no more.

* * * As soon as word of the escape reached him in St. Precious, Marcalo De'Unnero knew exactly where to turn. He had known something was brewing, for his spies had watched Destou and Hoyet, and had quickly identified the other brothers who were in with the potentially traitorous pair. But the brazenness of their move - breaking Bishop Braumin out of the most secure prison in the city! - surely surprised De'Unnero. He had thought that the monks had been planning their own escape from Palmaris.

De'Unnero was out of the abbey in moments, and given the movements of those watched monks over the previous days, he had a fairly good idea of where to look.

All the city was coming alive by then, with soldiers running about the streets and others riding hard to and fro, calling out.

De'Unnero ignored the clamor and moved into the shadows of an alleyway.

He felt the beast rising within him, and he did not try to fight it.

A great cat came out of that alleyway, speeding for the riverbank area where Brothers Hoyet and Destou had been spotted two nights earlier. He knew that they would try to get Braumin out of the city as quickly as possible, across the river and on his way to St.-Mere-Abelle.

Along the bank, the tiger slipped into the shadows and noted the approach of a small craft. The part of him that was still a reasoning being resisted the urge to leap out into the water and overtake the small boat, slaughtering the boatmen. His caution was rewarded a few moments later when three forms came scrambling down the bank, two pulling the third along.

They splashed into the water and toward the boat, then cried out in terror as the great cat charged toward them, leaping for the haggard form in the middle of the trio.

Without the slightest hesitation, the other two, Hoyet and Destou, shifted to intercept, pushing Bishop Braumin away. The pair of younger monks lifted weapons to defend, but the weretiger crashed in hard, sending all into the river.

"Run on!" Hoyet cried.

Bishop Braumin eyed the approaching boat, but hesitated, looking back at the pair, who were struggling wildly to keep the tiger engaged.

"Make not my death irrelevant!" Destou cried, and his last word was jumbled as the cat reared before him and swatted him across the chest with its killing claws.

Braumin cried out and staggered ahead, crashing against the boat, which started away before he had even managed to scramble aboard, one man grabbing him to hold him fast against the hull, the other working the oars furiously to get the craft out into the faster current.

Bishop Braumin looked back to see one man, Hoyet, standing before the cat, a small sword flashing before him frantically.

And then he was down, the tiger leaping atop him and bearing him beneath the dark water. All was quiet for just a moment, then there came another splash as Brother Hoyet's lifeless body bobbed up suddenly, then settled, floating on the current.

The tiger leaped forth right after, hitting the river with a rush and swimming powerfully out toward the small boat. But they were in the currents now, being swept along more quickly than the cat could hope to swim.

Braumin was free.

But he felt trapped, surely, as he looked back at the river's western bank, as he imagined the waters running red with the blood of Hoyet and Destou, and he imagined the torn bodies of the two loyal men bobbing along. He thought of Roger, too, and knew the man had not escaped.

So many had died for him this night.

A large part of Bishop Braumin wanted just to let go of the boat and slide back into the water, letting the river take him.

But another part would not let him dishonor the heroic sacrifices of the brave men who had rescued him. They had freed him because they knew that as a prisoner of King Aydrian, he was unwittingly working against the cause of justice. A captured Braumin was a mouthpiece for a usurper king.

A freed Braumin could speak against that imposter king and help rally men to the cause of Prince Midalis.

Braumin knew all of that logically, and he hoped that if faced with a similar situation, he would have found it within himself to act as bravely as Roger and Hoyet and Destou and all the others had this night.

But that didn't make their deaths hurt any less. Hanging on the side of the boat, no longer even trying to scramble in despite the numbness that was creeping into his body, the former bishop of Palmaris lowered his head and wept.