“I wonder the same,” she said, voice a low growl. “You are not the only one who has been kept in the dark.”

“All right,” Oliver said. “Let’s go ask those questions, then.”

He dressed quickly, grateful once again for the new clothes Coyote had supplied. Hunyadi’s sword hung at his hip and he was surprised how quickly he had become used to its weight and sway.

Oliver opened the door and led Kitsune into the hall. He went to the next room and rapped on the door.

“Blue Jay won’t be there,” Kitsune said. “We were supposed to meet at the front desk.”

“Right.”

Together they went down the stairs. Oliver quickened his pace, anger rising. With all that they had been through together, the idea that Frost had been keeping secrets was infuriating. His father had been horribly murdered. His relationship with Julianna was in shambles, the wedding plans ruined. His life was in constant peril. Collette was in the hands of a monster. Maybe Frost had only come to Kitteridge to try to save them, but he’d been less than completely successful. If there were reasons behind all of this, Oliver deserved to know what they were. Hell, Kitsune deserved to know.

His boots pounded the wooden steps. Out the window in the stairwell he saw the gorge spreading out below, coming alive with the industry of morning. People and legends traveled bridges and ladders; store awnings were unfurling; small boats were bobbing at the dock on the river as goods were unloaded. All of that, he caught in a glance. What was going on in Twillig’s Gorge mattered not at all. Not now.

“Frost!” he shouted as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Oliver, you may want to—” Kitsune began.

His hands curled into fists. He wasn’t listening. Two governments wanted him dead, and now it seemed that those trying to kill the Borderkind had set their sights on him as well. And Frost was keeping fucking secrets? The time to be quiet was over.

“Frost, where the hell are you?” he shouted.

Behind the front counter, the innkeeper shot him a dark look and crossed his arms. “Sir, if you please, some of the guests may still be sleeping.”

Oliver ignored him. Kitsune prowled around the foyer for a moment, sniffing the air, then went toward the tavern. Oliver followed, but she stopped at the door, peering inside.

“They’re gone,” she growled. When she turned, he saw the wildness had returned to her eyes. The fox-woman bit off the words. “Chorti, Cheval Bayard, Blue Jay, and Frost. Just this morning; they’ve been and gone.”

Kitsune slipped past him, fur brushing his hand, electric to the touch. She darted toward the front of the inn again and leaped up onto the counter. The innkeeper snapped an angry curse and raised a finger to admonish her. Kitsune slapped the hand away and grabbed him by the hair, pulling his face close to hers.

“How long ago?”

“Let me go, you myth bitch!”

Oliver drew the sword, staring at the man. “When did Frost and the others leave?”

The innkeeper whimpered, but he opened his mouth to answer. Before he could, however, another voice spoke up from the front door.

“You’ve missed them by half an hour, I’m afraid.”

Oliver and Kitsune both twisted round. Wayland Smith stood just inside the door, fox-head walking stick in his hand. If he had just entered, the door had made not a creak.

Smith nodded toward Kitsune, hat brim hiding his eyes. “You chose your path, fox.”

All of the anger and tension went out of Kitsune. Oliver watched in amazement as she stood straighter, letting her cloak fall around her, and bowed her head in deference.

“As you say, uncle.”

Wayland Smith raised his gaze and stared at Oliver. “You saw last night that there are spies in the gorge. There’s no telling how many of those frogs escaped. Even if the Nagas did not order you to leave, you risk danger from myriad sources every moment you remain. Even if there were no conspiracy, no Hunters, have you forgotten the price on your head? Word is spreading. You ought to—”

Oliver snorted. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He glared at Smith, then at Kitsune. “Kit, this is the guy Frost was talking to, right?”

The fox-woman did not raise her head.

“Bascombe,” Smith began, as though to admonish him.

The Sword of Hunyadi felt warm and light in his grip. Oliver raised it, pointing the tip at the old Borderkind in punctuation.

“Kitsune heard your little chat with Frost this morning, old man. I’m through with secrets. The Falconer was after me and my sister, that’s what you said. The legendary want us dead. You’re going to tell me what it’s all about, or I swear to God, I’ll take your fucking head off!”

“Oliver,” Kitsune whispered. “Don’t.”

He stared at her. “Don’t? My father had his eyes ripped out by the fucking Sandman. The thing has my sister. Come on, Kit, don’t you think I deserve to know why?”

Wayland Smith shook his head slowly. “You fool.” He gripped the fox-head of his stick and glanced at the innkeeper. Something about the look drew Oliver’s attention, and he saw that the innkeeper was looking back and forth between them as though trying to work out a puzzle.

“Now, wait a moment,” the man behind the counter whispered. He pointed to Smith. “He’s the one, isn’t he? Oh, you bastard, trying to keep it so quiet. You clever prick.”

Smith clucked his tongue and shot a meaningful glance at Oliver. “See what you’ve done?”

Then Wayland Smith leaped across the room, twisting in the air. He swung the stick with its heavy, carved head, and brought it down with a sickening crack on the innkeeper’s skull.

The man staggered back, crashed into the wall, and slid to the floor, unmoving.

Oliver stared, sword wavering in his grasp. “Oh, Christ. What the hell did you do?”

Kitsune stepped up, fur brushing him, and grasped his free hand. “We must go, Oliver.”

He gritted his teeth. “Not without the truth.”

“You’ll die here, then,” Smith said, eyes cold and gray. “You’ve said too much. I killed the man for your own safety, but there’s a chance others overhear us even now. And you cannot know how much Coyote may have guessed, or who else he will tell to save his own skin. Word will spread, the truth will out, and it will come to you eventually. It’s safest for you if you do not know.”

“Bullshit! If it concerns me, then it’s my truth! And you’re going to tell me, damn you.”

He started toward Smith, sword up, watching the walking stick warily. How many fencing matches had he won? Dozens, at least. But he had never fought someone with such uncanny speed, not at close quarters.

Wayland Smith removed his hat and set it on the counter. Even as the brim touched wood, he sprang. Oliver raised the sword, parried his attack, then darted the blade forward. Kitsune cried out, but Oliver could not hear her over his own howl of rage. All of his betrayal and fear went into his attack and he twisted inside Smith’s defenses, then drove the point of the sword through his shoulder, puncturing flesh and grinding against bone.

The old man grunted in pain, but grinned.

“Well, there’s proof, eh?”

Gripping the stick with one hand, he shot the other out and cuffed Oliver in the side of the head like he was an errant child. Staggered, Oliver lost his balance. Smith kicked him away, the blade slipped out of the wound, and then the old man stood there, glaring at him, one hand clasped over the piercing in his shoulder. Blood seeped through his fingers.

“Uncle,” Kitsune began.

“I heal,” Smith replied.

Oliver was disoriented from the blow, but determined. Blood dripped from the tip of Hunyadi’s sword as he raised it, ready to attack again.

Wayland Smith rushed at him with the speed of the wind. One hand gripped his wrist, keeping the sword at bay, the other grabbed his throat and he felt himself driven backward. In the span of three heartbeats he was nearly carried across the foyer of the inn. When he slammed into the door, it crashed open, and then they were at the top of the bridge that led to the inn, hanging above the Sorrowful River.

The sun splashed down upon them. Oliver twisted to escape its glare, trying to wrest himself from Smith’s grasp. The old man slammed him against the thick wooden balustrade of the bridge and Oliver was bent backward, a hundred feet above the river, nothing below him but a fall that might kill him.

“You will go,” Smith said, “because you have no choice. To stay is to die, but to go is to have a chance for yourself and your sister. You will see me again, Bascombe. Be assured of it.”

The old man glared at him with stormy gray eyes, then abruptly released him. Wayland Smith backed away, turned, and strode along the bridge, leaving Oliver to gasp to catch his breath. He pulled himself away from the balustrade and stared for a moment at the drop below, at the community of Twillig’s Gorge going about its business, none the wiser.

Kitsune stepped out of the front door of the inn. She raised her hood and looked at him from its depths, jade eyes gleaming.

“You’re fortunate to be alive,” she said. “Shall we be going now, and try to stay that way?”

The fox-woman turned and started along the bridge. Oliver took a deep, shuddering breath of frustration, slid the sword into his belt, and followed.

We’re not alone.

Julianna stood after tying her shoe, Halliwell’s words echoing in her mind. She looked at the detective, but his expression revealed nothing. Halliwell scratched at the back of his neck like a man dying of boredom and regarded her impatiently.

“You all set?” he asked.

“Yeah. Shoelaces. They come untied. It happens.”

A smile flickered across his face and was gone. By silent consent they started walking again. Julianna watched Halliwell, wondering when he would comment further. Obviously there was a purpose to his behavior. He’d said those words and now he was acting as though nothing had happened at all.

But his gaze was restless. Whenever she glanced at him, Halliwell’s eyes were moving, taking in the landscape around them, this copse of skeletal trees, that jutting rock obelisk.

Julianna saw the figure then, perched upon a rock fifty yards ahead. She had looked that way a dozen times and not seen the little man. Now, suddenly, he was simply there. Halliwell had noticed him, obviously. Or had felt that they were observed.

“Keep walking,” Halliwell said softly.

She had slowed nearly to a stop without realizing it. Now she picked up her pace, keeping stride with Halliwell. At the same time, she did not take her eyes off of the figure who sat on the rock slab like a child, knees jutting up, elbows resting atop them. In his hands, the little man held a flute and as she watched, he set it to his lips and began to play a lilting, pleasant tune, as though to greet the morning. The melody swirled and dipped, and in spite of her trepidation, she smiled.

As they came abreast of the rock, Julianna slowed again. Halliwell stopped entirely, so she did the same. The detective stood with his hands at his sides, fingers splayed, as though he expected an attack.

They stood together and listened to the jaunty, winding music, watched the little man play his flute. He was dressed in a gray cloth tunic with a thin black rope around his waist, almost like some kind of monk. His bald pate gleamed in the sun and against the early morning blue of the sky, his nut-brown skin seemed a shadow unto itself. Her first impression, that he was old, was borne out by the many wrinkles upon his face, though his skin was taut against his skull.

But his eyes were young, and alight with mischief. As he played, he watched them, returning their curiosity. When he reached the end of the tune, he took the flute away from his lips and smiled, bowing his head.

“Very pretty,” Julianna said.

“You have my thanks. A very good morning to you, travelers.”

Julianna nodded. “And you.”

Halliwell regarded the little man carefully. “Seems a long way from anywhere, if you don’t mind my saying, sir. A long way to travel to play your flute.”

The old man frowned, brown skin wrinkling even more deeply. “But of course this is not my destination, friend. It is only a place on the road, a spot to rest. But where are you headed, travelers? Forgive me for saying that you seem unlikely mountaineers. You are Lost, yes?”

“Very,” Julianna admitted. It earned her a wary look from Halliwell, but she forged on. “We are attempting to catch up to some friends who are also traveling this way. They followed the river, but we weren’t certain what dangers might be under the mountain—”

“And so you went over,” the old man said, tapping his flute upon his knee. “It is dark down there.”

Halliwell let out an audible breath and at last his hands seemed to relax. His whole body deflated a bit.

“We hoped to cross to the other side, to find wherever it is that the river comes out again.”

The old man looked at Halliwell. He brought the flute up to his lips and blew, a little trill of music drifting off into the air. Then he lowered the instrument and grinned again, his teeth crooked and yellow.

“Ah, but those you seek will not have reached the other side of the mountain.”

Julianna shivered. “What do you mean by that? Is there something in the river? In the tunnel?”

“There are many things in the dark water, lady. But you shouldn’t worry. The river would carry them through Twillig’s Gorge, where travelers are nearly always well met. The odds that the sentries would have killed them are very slim.”

Halliwell had frozen at the implication that Oliver might be dead. Julianna understood. Her own heart had trembled because she loved him, but Halliwell was afraid because if anything happened to Oliver, they had no hope of getting home.

“This gorge,” Halliwell said. “Can we reach it from here?”