The only magic they carried was a garnet, for detecting the use of the enchanted gemstones, and a sunstone, the antimagic stone. In truth, neither of the pair was very proficient with gemstones, having spent the bulk of their short years in St.-Mere-Abelle in rig-orous physical training and in the mental incapacitation necessary for one to truly claim the title of Brother Justice.

The caravan had gone back to the east that morning, while the two monks, changing out of their robes to appear as common peas-ants, had gone south, to the Palmaris ferry, catching the first of its three daily journeys across the Masur Delaval at the break of dawn. They were in the city by mid-afternoon, and wasted no time in going out to the north, over the wall and not through the gate. By the time the sun was low on the western horizon, Youseff and Dan-delion had spotted their first prey, a band of four monsters - three powries and a goblin - setting camp amidst a tumble of boulders less than ten miles from Palmaris. It quickly became obvious to the monks that the goblin was the slave here, for it was doing most of the work, and whenever it slowed in its movements, one of the powries would give it a sharp slap on the back of the head, spurring it to motion. Even more important, the monks noted that the goblin had a rope, a leash, tied about its ankle.

Youseff turned to Dandelion and nodded; they would be able to take advantage of this arrangement.

As the sun was slipping below the horizon, the goblin exited the camp, followed closely by a powrie holding the other end of the rope. In the forest, the goblin began foraging for firewood, while the powrie stood quietly nearby. Youseff and Dandelion, silent as the lengthening shadows, moved into position, the slender monk going up a tree, the heavier Dandelion slipping from trunk to trunk, to close ground on the powrie.

"Yach, hurry it up, ye fool thing!" the powrie scolded, kicking at the leaves and dirt. "Me friends'll eat all the coney, and there'll be nothing but bones for me to gnaw!"

The goblin, a truly beleaguered creature, glanced back briefly, then scooped another piece of kindling. "Please, master," it whined. "Me arms is full and me back is hurtin' so."

"Yach, shut yer mouth!" the powrie growled."Ye're thinkin' ye got all ye can carry, but it's not enough for the night fire. Ye're wanting me to come all the way back out here? I'll flog yer skin red, ye smelly wretch!"

Youseff hit the ground right beside the startled powrie, plopping a heavy bag over its head in the blink of a surprised eye. A moment later Dandelion, in full run, slammed the dwarf from behind, hoisting it in a bear hug and taking it on a fast run, face first into the trunk of the nearest tree.

Still the tough powrie struggled, throwing back an elbow into Dandelion's throat. The big monk hardly noticed, just pressed all the harder, and then, when he saw his companion's approach, he hooked his arm under the powrie's and lifted the dwarf's arm up high, exposing ribs.

Youseff's dagger thrust was perfectly aimed, sliding between two ribs to pierce the stubborn dwarf's heart. Dandelion, holding fast the thrashing powrie, managed to free one hand so he could wrap the wound, not wanting too much blood to spill.

Not here.

Youseff, meanwhile, turned to the goblin. "Freedom," he whis-pered excitedly, waving his hand for the creature to run away.

The goblin, on the verge of a scream, looked curiously at the human, then at its armload of wood. Shaking from excitement, it tossed the wood to the ground, slipped the rope from its ankle and sped off into the darkening forest.

"Dead?" Youseff asked as Dandelion let the limp powrie slump to the ground.

The big man nodded, then went to tighten the bindings on the wound. It was imperative that no blood would be spilling when the pair returned to Palmaris, and particularly not when they entered St. Precious. Youseff removed the powrie's weapon, a cruel-looking serrated and hooked blade as long and thick as his forearm, and Dandelion put the dwarf in a heavy, lined sack. With a glance about to make sure the other powries had not caught on to the ambush, they went on their way, running south, the load proving hardly a burden to the powerful Dandelion.

"Should we not have taken the goblin for Connor Bilde-borough?" Dandelion asked as they slowed their pace, nearing the city's north wall.

Youseff considered the question a moment, trying hard not to laugh at the fact that his dim-witted friend had only mentioned it now, more than an hour after they told the goblin to run away. "We need only one," Youseff assured him. The Father Abbot had made his needs quite clear to Brother Youseff. Any action against Abbot Dobrinion had to either appear as simply an accident or lead suspi-cion in a direction far removed from Markwart; the implications within the Church should St.-Mere-Abelle seem connected in any way, after all, could prove grave. Connor Bildeborough, though, was not such a problem. If his uncle, the Baron of Palmaris, even suspected the Church in Connor's demise, he, in his ignorance of the rivalries between the abbeys, would be as likely to blame St. Precious as St.-Mere-Abelle, and even if he did turn his atten-tion to the abbey on All Saints Bay, there would be little, very little, he could do.

It was hardly an effort for the skilled assassins to get over the city wall and past the eyes of weary guardsmen. The battlefield had been pushed back, and though rogue bands like the one the monks had encountered were still about, they were not thought to be much of a threat by the garrison entrenched in the city - a garrison strengthened in recent days by a full brigade of Kingsmen from Ursal.

Now Dandelion and Youseff changed back into their brown robes and, with heads humbly bowed, made their solemn way through the streets. They were bothered only once, by a beggar man, and when he would not leave them alone, even going so far as to threaten them if they would not give him a silver coin, Brother Dandelion calmly tossed him against an alley wall.

It was long after vespers and St. Precious was quiet and dark, but the monks took little comfort in that fact, understanding that the men of their Order would prove more vigilant than the slothful city guards. Again, though, the Father Abbot had prepared them prop-erly. On the southern wall of the abbey, where the wall was in fact a part of the main building itself, there were no windows and no visible doors.

In truth, there was a single door, carefully concealed, from which the abbey's kitchen workers brought out the scraps from the day's meals. Brother Youseff brought forth the garnet, using it to find the invisible doorway, for the portal, in addition to being magically concealed, was magically sealed against opening from the outside.

The door was also conventionally locked - or should have been - but before the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle had departed St. Precious, Brother Youseff had gone to the kitchen, ostensibly for supplies, but in truth to destroy the integrity of the portal's binding. Apparently the Father Abbot had recognized that they might need a quiet way into St. Precious, he pondered now, and was indeed im-pressed by his master's foresight.

Using the sunstone, Youseff defeated the meager magical lock and carefully pushed open the door. Only one person was inside, a young woman singing and scrubbing a pot over a sink of steaming water.

Youseff was behind her almost immediately. He paused, lis-tening to her carefree song, taking pleasure in the evil irony of that lively tune.

The woman stopped singing, sensing the presence.

Youseff basked in her fear for just a moment, then grabbed her by the hair and drove her face into the water. She struggled and thrashed, but to no avail against the efficient assassin. Youseff smiled as she slumped to the floor. He was supposed to be a pas-sionless killer, a mechanical tool for the Father Abbot's will, but in truth the monk found that he enjoyed the killing, enjoyed the victim's fear, enjoyed the absolute power. Looking down at the dead young woman, he only wished he had been granted more time, that he could have savored the preliminary game, the terror leading up to the death.

Death, by comparison, was such a bland and easy thing.

St. Precious was quiet that night, as if the whole of the place, the abbey itself, was relaxing after the trials of the Father Abbot's visit. Through the hallways stalked Youseff and Dandelion, the Brothers Justice, with powerful Dandelion carrying the sacked powrie over one shoulder. They saw only one monk, and he didn't see them, all the way to the door of Abbot Dobrinion's private quarters.

Youseff went down to one knee before the door, a small knife in hand. Though he could easily pick the meager lock, he scraped and scratched at the wood about it, whittling it down, making it appear as if the door had been forced.

Then they were in, and through another door, this one less sturdy and not locked, to Dobrinion's bedside.

The abbot awoke with a start. He began to scream out, but fell strangely silent when he considered the pair, when he saw the heavy serrated blade waving tantalizingly inches from his face, its metal gleaming in the soft light of the moon spilling in through the room's lone window.

"You knew we would come for you," Youseff teased.

Dobrinion shook his head. "I can speak with the Father Abbot," he pleaded. "A misunderstanding, that is all."

Youseff held a finger to pursed lips, smiling wickedly behind it, but Dobrinion pressed on.

"The Chilichunks are criminals - that is obvious," the abbot spouted, and he hated the words as he spoke them, hated himself for his cowardice. Abbot Dobrinion fought a great battle then, his conscience vying against his most basic survival instinct.

Youseff and Dandelion watched his torment, not understanding the source of it, but with Youseff surely enjoying it.

Then Dobrinion calmed and stared at Youseff squarely, seeming suddenly unafraid. "Your Markwart is an evil man," he said. "Never was he truly Father Abbot of the Abellican Church. I call on you now, in the name of the solemn vow of our Order - piety, dignity, poverty - to turn against this evil course, to find again the light - "

His sentence ended as a gurgle, as Youseff, too far lost to even hear such conscience-tugging pleas, ripped the serrated edge across the abbot's throat, opening it wide.

The pair went to the powrie then, dropping it to the floor. Dande-lion unwrapped and then picked at its wound, removing all sign of scabbing, while Youseff searched about the abbot's quarters. He found at last a small knife, used for cutting seals from letters. Its blade was not as broad as the one of his dagger, but the knife fit fairly snugly into the powrie's mortal wound.

"Take him from the bed," Youseff instructed Dandelion. As the big man dragged Dobrinion toward the desk, Youseff walked alongside, cutting a series of smaller wounds on Dobrinion's corpse, making it seem as if the abbot had put up a great struggle.

Then the two killers were gone, silent death, two shadows flowing out from St. Precious into the black night.

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Word of the abbot's murder spread throughout the city the very next morning, frantic cries sweeping along the fortified walls, teary-eyed soldiers blaming themselves for allowing a powrie to slip past them. Whispers of doom crossed from tavern to tavern, street corner to street corner, each retelling the rumors, embel-lishing the tale. By the time Connor Bildeborough, waking in a bed in the infamous brothel, House Battlebrow, heard the story, an army of powries was reputedly on the outskirts of Palmaris, ready to rush in and slaughter all of the people in their time of grief.

Half naked, dressing as he went, Connor exited the house and flagged down a carriage, demanding that the driver take him at once to Chasewind Manor, the home of his uncle.

The gates were closed; a dozen armed soldiers, their weapons drawn, surrounded the carriage as the horse skidded to an abrupt stop, and both Connor and the poor frightened driver felt the eyes of many archers upon them.

Recognizing Connor, the guards relaxed and helped the noble-man down, then ordered the driver away in no uncertain terms.

"My uncle is well?" Connor asked desperately as the guards es-corted him through the gate.

"Unnerved, Master Connor," one man answered. "To think that a powrie could so easily get through our defenses and slay Abbot Dobrinion! And all of this coming right behind the troubles in the abbey! Oh, what dark days are upon us!"

Connor made no move to reply, but he listened carefully to the man's words, and the unspoken, probably even unrealized, impli-cations behind them. He rushed through the manor house then, down the heavily guarded halls and into his uncle's audience room.

Fittingly, the soldier standing guard beside Baron Rochefort Bildeborough's desk was the burly man, face heavily bandaged, whose nose had been smashed under a magical assault by none other than Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart himself.

"My uncle knows of my arrival?" Connor asked the man.

"He will join us presently," the guard replied, his voice slurred, for his mouth, too, had been battered by the magnetite missile.

Even as he finished speaking, Connor's uncle entered the room through a side door, his face brightening as he gazed upon his nephew.

"Thank God himself that you are alive and well," the man said generously. Connor had always been Rochefort Bildeborough's favorite relative, and since the man had no children, it was a common belief in Palmaris that Connor would inherit the title.

"Should I not be?" Connor asked in his typically casual manner.

"They got in to kill Abbot Dobrinion," Rochefort replied, taking his seat opposite the desk from Connor.

Connor did not miss the effort his uncle required for the simple action. Rochefort was overweight and suffered from severe pains in the joints. Until the previous summer, the man had ridden his fields every day, rain or shine, but this year he had been out only a couple of times, and never two days in succession. Rochefort's eyes, too, showed the sudden aging. They had always been gray in hue, but they were dull now, filmed over.

Connor had wanted the title of Baron of Palmaris since he was old enough to understand the prestige and entitlement that came with it, but now, as that moment seemed to be drawing near, he had discovered that he could wait - and many years. He would rather that he kept his present position, and that his dear uncle, the man who had been as a father to him, remained alive and well.

"How would the monsters even know to look for me?" Connor replied calmly. "The abbot is a clear target for our enemies, but myself?"

"The abbot and the Baron," Rochefort reminded.

"And indeed I am glad to see that you have taken all the proper precautions," Connor said quickly. "You may be a target, but not I. To the knowledge of our enemies, I am nothing more than a common tavern- hunter."

Rochefort nodded, and seemed relieved by the logic of Connor's reasoning. Like a protective father, he didn't fear for himself half as much as he feared for Connor.

Connor, though, was not really convinced by his own words. The powrie slipping into St. Precious at this tension-filled time, so soon after the horrible Father Abbot's departure, seemed a bit too convenient to him, and he only grew more uneasy as he looked upon the broken face of his uncle's principal guard.

"I want you to stay at Chasewind Manor," Rochefort said.

Connor shook his head. "I have business in the city, Uncle," he replied. "And I have been battling powries for months now. Fear not for me." As he finished, he patted Defender, comfortably sheathed at his hip.

Rochefort stared long and hard at the confident young man. That was what he liked about Connor, the confidence, the swagger. He had been so much like Connor in his own youth, bouncing from tavern to tavern, from brothel to brothel, living life so fully, taking each moment to the very limits, of life, of danger. How ironic, he thought, that now, growing older, and with less pleasure, less ex-citement, less life, ahead of him, he should be more protective of his life. Connor, indeed so much like a younger Rochefort, with so much more to lose, thought little of potential danger, felt immortal and invulnerable.

The Baron laughed, and dismissed the thought of ordering Connor to stay at Chasewind Manor, for that, he realized, would steal all that he loved from the spirited young man. "Keep one of my soldiers beside you," he offered in compromise.

Again Connor resolutely shook his head. "That would only out-line me as a potential target," he reasoned. "I know the city, Uncle. Know where to garner information and where to hide."

"Go out! Go out!" the Baron cried in defeat, laughing all the while. "But know that you carry more than the responsibility of your own life with you." He rose with considerably less trouble than he had found in sitting, and rushed about the desk, clapping Connor on the shoulder roughly a couple of times, then letting his big hand rest intimately about his nephew's neck. "You carry my heart with you, boy," he said solemnly. "If they find you as they found Dobrinion, then know that I will surely die of a broken heart."

Connor believed him, every word. He gave the man a hug and a pat, then strode confidently from the room.

"He will soon be your baron," Rochefort said to the soldier.

The man snapped to attention and nodded, obviously approv-ing of the choice.

"Open it."

"But Master Bildeborough, I see no reason to disturb the sleep of the dead," the monk replied. "The coffin has been blessed by Brother Talumus, our highest-ranking - "

"Open it," Connor repeated, locking the young man in his unre-lenting glare.

Still the young monk hesitated.

"Should I bring my uncle?"

The monk bit at his lip, but surrendered to the threat, bending low to grasp the wooden lid. With a look back to the resolute Connor, he slid the cover aside. There lay the woman, her com-plexion chalky blue in death.

To the monk's horror, Connor reached in and grabbed her by the shoulder, lifting and turning the corpse, his face low, impervious to the stench as he studied her intently. "Wounds?" he asked.

"Just the drowning," the monk replied. "In the sink. Hot water, too. Her face was all red at first, but now the blood, and all the life, is gone from it."

Connor gently shifted the body back into place and stood back, motioning to the monk that he could close the coffin. He put his hand to his mouth, running his thumbnail between his teeth, trying to make sense of it all. The monks of St. Precious had been very ac-commodating when he showed up at their gate. They were fright-ened and confused, he knew, and the presence of so important a representative of Baron Bildeborough had helped to settle them.

In Abbot Dobrinion's room Connor had found little in the way of clues. Both bodies were still there, the abbot's cleaned and care-fully placed in state on his bed, and the powrie's right where the monks had found it. The blood of both corpses was liberal about the room, despite all efforts to clean the place. When Connor protested the changes in the room, the monks took great pains to describe the struggle, as they had interpreted it, in great detail: the abbot had been wounded first, and several times, probably taken by surprise while he lay asleep on his bed. One of the wounds was mortal, a slash across the throat, but still the brave Dobrinion had managed to struggle across the room to retrieve the small knife.

How proud were the monks of St. Precious that their abbot had been able to take revenge on his killer!

To Connor, who had battled the tough powries, it seemed un-likely at best that a single thrown dagger could have so perfectly taken one down, and that Dobrinion, given the viciousness of the slashed throat, could even have gotten to the desk. The scenario was not beyond belief, though, and so he kept his thoughts to him-self, accepting the description with a noncommittal nod and a simple word of praise for gallant Dobrinion.

When he subsequently inquired about how the powrie might have gained access, Connor learned of a second victim, a poor girl who had been ambushed and drowned in the kitchen. It remained a mystery to the monks as to how the powrie had gained entrance, for the door was magically sealed against being opened from the out-side, and indeed it was little known, being invisible against the abbey's bricked wall. The only explanation they could find was that the foolish girl had been in league with, or more likely, been duped by, the powrie and had let the dwarf in.

That, too, seemed acceptable to Connor, though a bit of a stretch, but now, in looking at the girl, her skin unbroken, the young noble-man's fears and suspicions rose high about him. Still he said nothing to the monks, understanding that without the guidance of the only man of any authority in all the abbey, they could do little.

"Poor girl," was all he muttered as the monk escorted him from the abbey's cellar - just a pair of stairways up from where the Chilichunks had been held as prisoners, Connor continually re-minded himself.

"Your uncle will help us to secure the abbey from further intru-sion?" one of the monks waiting in the chapel for the pair inquired.

Connor asked for parchment and quill, then scribbled out a re-quest for such aid. "Take this to Chasewind Manor," he instructed. "Of course the family Bildeborough will do all that we can for the security of St. Precious."

He bade the monks farewell then, and swept out into the streets of Palmaris, the place of whispers and rumors, the place where he might truly find his answers.

Questions and images haunted him throughout the afternoon. Why would the powries go after Abbot Dobrinion, who had not been very much engaged in the fighting? Only a handful of monks had gone out from St. Precious to the fighting in the north, and they had been far from decisive in any battles. Given that, and the fact that St. Precious had played more of a healing role in the war, it seemed unlikely that any of Dobrinion's actions would have spurred the powries to such a dramatic action.

The only explanation Connor could think of was that the monks of St.- Mere-Abelle, who had reportedly come in from the north, had skirmished with the monsters, probably destroying many, and thus inadvertently set up the abbot as a target for assassination.

But after his experiences with Markwart, Connor didn't believe that possible scenario. The words "too convenient" echoed in his mind whenever he considered every piece of evidence or any seemingly logical conclusions.

That night, Connor found his way to Fellowship Way, which he had convinced Dainsey Aucomb to reopen the previous night, ex-plaining to her that the Chilichunks would be in desperate straits indeed when they returned to Palmaris - even though Connor didnot believe they would ever return to Palmaris - if their business had not been maintained. The place was bustling, all the locals eager for gossip about what had happened to Abbot Dobrinion and to Keleigh Leigh, the poor drowned kitchen girl. Connor kept quiet through most of the discussion, more interested in listening than in speaking, trying to find someone who might have some impor-tant and valid information - no small matter in this sea of rumor. Though he worked hard to keep a low profile, he was approached often, the commoners suspecting that the nobleman would know more than they.

Through all their inquiries, Connor only smiled and shook his head. "I know only what I have heard since entering the Way," he'd reply.

The night rolled on without progress; frustrated Connor put his back against the wall and closed his eyes. Only one fellow's call of "newfolks," the term commonly applied to visitors who had not been previously seen in the Way, stirred him from his respite.

It took him a few moments to focus his vision, to shift his gaze through the crowd toward the door and the two men, one large, the other small and slender, but walking with the perfect balance and absolute alertness of a trained warrior. Connor's eyes went wide. He knew these men, and knew that their present dress, that of common peasants, was not fitting.

Where were their robes?

The mere sight of Youseff brought back pain in Connor's kidney, and given his last meeting with the two, the nobleman thought it wise to slip even further into the crowd. He motioned to Dainsey first, bringing her to the bar opposite him.

"See what they want," he instructed, indicating the two new-folks. "And tell them that I have not been in the Way all the week."

Dainsey nodded and slid back the other way, while Connor faded toward the back wall. He tried to stay close enough to catch any snatches of conversation between Dainsey and the two as they predictably approached the hostess, but the noise of the packed tavern allowed for very little eavesdropping.

Until Dainsey - wonderful Dainsey! - raised her voice point-edly and called out, "Why, he's not been in here all the week!"

Connor's suspicions were confirmed, the monks were looking for him - and he could guess why easily enough. And now he knew why Keleigh Leigh had not been cut, why no powrie had dipped its beret in her spilling blood, a tradition that, according toeverything Connor had ever heard about the cruel bloody caps, no powrie would ever forsake. He dared to turn about and steal a glance back toward Dainsey, and she looked at him out of the corner of her eye, then "inadvertently" brushed her other hand down the front of her blouse, opening it wide, catching the atten-tion of every man nearby, the two monks included.

Good girl, Connor thought, and he used the distraction to make some ground, slipping, weaving, toward the door. It took him more than a minute to cover the twenty feet, so crowded was the Way, but then he was out in the salty air of the Palmaris night, the wide sky clear and crisp overhead.

He glanced back into the tavern, to see the crowd jostling, as though someone was trying to get to the door.

Connor didn't wait to discern who that might be; if the monks recognized Dainsey's move as a diversion, they would understand where to turn next. The nobleman rushed to the corner of the Way, then went around the corner, turning and peering back to the door.

Sure enough, Youseff and Dandelion burst out onto the street.

Down the alley went Connor, his thoughts spinning. He wasted no time, climbing the gutter work to the roof, then falling flat on his belly, shaking his head as the two monks came around the corner on his trail. He turned away, crawling quietly.

Up here, with the sky seeming so close, the lights of the city night below him, Connor couldn't help but fall back in time. This place had been Jill's special spot, her hideaway from the world. She had come up here often, to be alone with her thoughts, to seek out past events too painful for her fragile mind to find.

A metal scraping sound blew away those thoughts of Jill; one of the monks, Youseff likely, had started to climb.

Connor was away in an instant, leaping the far alley to the roof of the next building, rushing over the peak and sliding down, turning, catching the lip of the roof as he went over, then dropping to the street. He went on in full flight, running scared, thinking of Jill, thinking of all the craziness that had come to his little world.

Abbot Dobrinion was dead. Dead! And no powrie had done it.

No, it was these two, the lackeys of Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart, the leader of all the Abellican Church. Markwart had killed Dobrinion because of the abbot's resistance, and now had set his assassins on him.

The enormity of that line of reasoning at last hit Connor, and nearly laid him low. He considered his course - should he seek protection at Chasewind Manor?

Connor dismissed that, fearing to implicate his uncle. If Mark-wart had gotten to Dobrinion, could anyone, even the Baron of Pal-maris, be safe? These were powerful enemies, Connor understood; if all the legions of the King of Honce-the-Bear were turned against him, they would be no more dangerous enemies than the monks of the Abellican Church. Indeed, by many standards, not the least of which concerned those mysterious and little- understood magical powers, the Father Abbot was a more powerful man than the King.

The scope of this all, the incredible idea that the Father Abbot would order - had ordered! - Dobrinion murdered, assaulted the nobleman's sensibilities, kept his mind whirling as he vanished into the Palmaris night.

But still, Connor knew that he would run out of places to hide. These two, and others, if there were more in the city, were profes-sional assassins. They would find him and kill him.

He needed answers, and he thought he knew where he might find them. Besides, someone else was in danger here, the real target of Markwart's wrath. He did turn to Chasewind Manor then, crossing the gate into the courtyard, but veering from the main house to the stables. There he quickly saddled Greystone, his fa-vorite hunting horse, a beautiful and thick-muscled palomino with a long blond mane. With eager Greystone under him, Connor rode out of Palmaris' northern gate before the night had crossed its midpoint.

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