"Did he really say that?"

It was ever the Fiend's way that he would query Deirdre about the things that she told him. His inquiries were never delivered in a hectoring or condescending way. His question now, as was his usual, was delivered in a tone that was interested and attentive. Most of the time, the Devil was a damn fine listener.

"Yes. I don't remember his exact words, but it was something like that." She continued in a mock voice, one affecting the chancellor's nasally drone. "Master the rules of the game until you can play it better than they can."

"Any hints on what that game might be?" asked the creature, who at that moment was in the form of Sir Alexis de Vere, the putative guardian of Deirdre and her friend Lady Isabel. As difficult as it might be to imagine, the creature in his true form was something far less savory even than a Gheet knight.

"You know full well." She wasn't certain whether the creature was serious or just having her on. "He was talking about politics."

"And court intrigues?"

"Most definitely."

No one was nearby, so the creature let slip one of his maniac giggles before getting ahold of himself. "You don't believe such twaddle, do you?"

How to answer that? Even after nearly a year as the Fiend's travelling companion, she still very much was learning his ways. In equal turns solemn and demented, the creature always seemed to surprise her. "We don't play by any rules," she said at last, "even though we always pretend to."

The creature smiled and went back to nibbling on the slice of onion bread he had been working on when she'd approached him. She and the Fiend, along with their friend Isabel, were in a small town some days travel north of the city of Westport where the Fiend's alter ego, Sir Alexis, was to oversee the arrival of troops and supplies for the royal army. "You are a wise young woman, Tuppence."

"Can he be trusted?"

"Chancellor Malotte? ... I should .... Well, what do you think?"

It was another few moments before she answered. Life had taught her to think and to weigh her words before blurting things out. "Everyone says the king trusts him. There just seems to be something ... mmm .... I dunno. There's something oily about him."

"Oily is a good word," the creature agreed. "Like so many, the chancellor fancies himself a power broker and the kind of fellow who gets what he wants ...."

"By manipulating the rules," she interjected.

"Yes, among other ways. Did you wonder at all why he's here in Pepperdine and not with the king or the army?"

"Nobody wants to be near war." That had seemed perfectly obvious to Deirdre. "Is there something else?"

"I'm not sure."

"Haven't you gotten your reading of the wind back?"

"Oh, it isn't that. The wind is fine. Reading the wind just isn't always useful in deducing what goes on in someone's head."

"So, is this Chancellor Malotte a friend or an enemy?" she asked.

"Most definitely an enemy, Tuppence. Everyone is our enemy ... or had you forgotten?"

"Okay, is he a friend or an enemy to Baron William and the king."

"That I'm not certain of ... though he most certainly wants everyone to believe he is the king's most loyal supporter. And the chap no doubt is an able administrator."

"I'm sensing a 'but' coming," she said.

"Indeed. Men who make their bread and beans by machinations, especially those who keep the gears turning while men who hold the titles take their leisure, are often those who are hardest to trust."

She took that opportunity to claim a goblet of wine and a slice of the Fiend's bread. "He thinks he's above his station."

"Almost all bureaucrats do, child." The ersatz knight took a ginger bite of bread and a sip of wine. "Alas, he insists on travelling south with us to Westport."

"Oh, damn," she muttered. "So, we'll not have a chance to stop and study the Ways!" There was, according to the Fiend, an especially potent and long-lost pilgrimage route along the road from Pepperdine to Westport, and these last weeks she had set her heart on stopping there to study the place. After the silly affair in which they'd been entangled in the wilderness north of Albion, the universe owed her something.

Damn. Double damn.

"You're not giving up that easy, are you?" the creature asked.

"Well, what is there to do?" was her reply. "He's the right hand to the king."

"King-fling," muttered the creature. "I thought you were past allowing titles and positions to intimidate you."

"Then what do you have in mind?"

"Tuppence, I have it in mind for you to come up with a plan to rid us of this vexatious pencil pusher."

"You mean ...?" She made a discrete motion with her index finger across her throat.

"That is perfectly up to you, child. I'll not interfere in your amusements."

She sat back, took another sip of wine, and thought a moment longer. "Well, it doesn't seem like the chancellor has done anything worth interring him over. ... Perhaps we could just come up with an excuse to part ways with him. It is only a few days steady riding down to Westport."

"We don't leave until the day after tomorrow," said the creature in mild and contented tone. "That should give you plenty of time to ponder the issue. Until then, set back and enjoy the festival. This land offers few things as delightful as wine and onions."

"And who would have thought they tasted so good together. ... I think it's the sweetness of the wine."

"Definitely. ... Speaking of sweetness, to where has our friend Lady Isabel absented herself?"

"She's down to the tilting fields with some of our new friends watching Sir Armand," Deirdre replied. "Do the Gheet have tournaments at every gathering?"

"Nearly so."

"Will Sir Alexis be jousting? Or joining the grand melee?"

"He may just," said the faux knight, "if for no other reason than to keep up his reputation as a fell warrior."

"I would have thought your gesh would keep you from participating," she observed. The Fiend was bound by a powerful and ancient magic the limits of which Deirdre had not yet come to fully understand. The enchantment kept the Fiend from attacking anyone who did not first seek to do him harm.

"No," he drawled quietly. "The gesh doesn't work that way. It only prevents me from seeking to do true harm to a human being. Tourneys are all fun and games."

"People die in those all of the time." She would never understand the penchant the Gheet nobility had for such wanton violence any more than she would ever understand the gesh.

"Of course, they do, Tuppence. But only by accident, not design."

"How can the gesh tell the difference?"

"It simply knows. As I've told you before, it is a powerful enchantment, one that is much like a living being in many ways."

"So, it knows your heart and mind?"

"Something like that."

Deirdre realized the creature was in one of his cryptic moods and decided not to push the issue at that moment. She and her companion were sitting along a hillock just outside the main fair area, and it was a kind and balmy Spring day. Suddenly she felt sleepy and wanted very much to fight that impulse. But damnit, the Fiend's mellow mood was beginning to infect her.

"May I have some more wine?" she asked. That certainly wouldn't ease her sleepiness—far from it. But why not? As the Fiend had said, there was no rush. It was more than a day before they departed for Westport and other points. She would figure out how to slip away from Chancellor Malotte in short order.

The Fiend recovered the bottle that lay in the grass between them and filled her glass to the brim. She couldn't help but give a contented giggle. Maybe just a little relaxation was in order. She certainly ....

That was when she saw him.

She wasn't looking for anything in particular when the fellow entered her line of sight. It wasn't clear at that point who the fellow was—she certainly couldn't name the chap. But she knew he was one of the knights who attended Etienne de Margot, the worst of their enemies, the fellow who led the rebellion against the king and the would-be usurper who wished to rule Albion.

And this fellow was one of de Margot's knights.

The mounted warrior who passed in front of her was a tall and thickset man that she'd seen at the moot nearly a year before, a man who had been at the forefront of the fighting there. He wasn't a handsome fellow, but he had that well put-together form that many Gheet knights had. And he rode an impressive dapple-grey courser, as she'd come to recognize such horses. As far as she could tell, the man was alone. And he crossed the fairground slowly, his mount picking its gentle way amid the throngs.

This was many miles from lands controlled by Etienne de Margot and his wretched crowd of rebels. What was that man doing there so deep in lands loyal to the king?