"If you don't close your mouth," Captain Juan Sanvilobos Ramirez warned, "you're going to start swallowing flies."

Connor Macleoden's mouth snapped shut.

Ramirez smiled and directed his horse around a broken-down cart. Two large men, their veins bulging, strained to move the apparatus out of the way. Traffic had increased steadily over the previous few days, until Ramirez and his apprentice had joined a steady river of people, animals and wares winding toward the Harvest Fair. Past harvested fields and gently swelling hills, the walls of Arborae looked like a gray smudge on the horizon. The sun was barely an hour into the clear blue sky, and the persistent morning chill made Ramirez's breath frost.

"More people than you thought there'd be, eh?" Ramirez asked.

"Yes, Captain, sir. There's at least a hundred!"

"More than that." Ramirez eyed his apprentice critically. "Button up your coat and wipe your nose. You're dripping."

Connor wiped his nose with the back of his glove. Ramirez grimaced. Turning a six-year-old into a courtly gentleman - or someday king, if Cassandra's visions held true - wasn't going to be easy. "Your mother gave you a handkerchief, didn't she? I'm sure she meant for you to use it."

The boy looked down at his pony and mumbled a response.

"Speak up, child. What did you say?"

"I don't want to get it dirty." Connor's cheeks pinkened. "I'm just going to keep it."

Ramirez frowned. Oh. He knew from personal experience that a handkerchief could be more valuable for its sentimental reasons than its sanitary ones. Connor had only admitted to homesickness once, but he obviously still missed the family from which he'd been so abruptly and recently separated. Ramirez added a handkerchief to the list of items he intended to procure for the boy before they headed north to Castle Immortal. He rummaged around in his side bag.

"Take this one. Just don't use your gloves."

Connor blew his nose. Such a loud honk for such a small boy.

"Are you getting a cold?"

"No, sir," Connor said quickly.

Ramirez grunted. Since taking the boy on, he'd done his best to keep Connor warm, clean and well fed. He'd been modestly successful at two of the three, even though the child attracted dirt like flowers attracted bees. And that dunk in the water back at Cassandra's cottage probably hadn't done him much good. Who would have guessed the scamp would try to wade into a raging stream on his own? For not the first time that morning, Ramirez patted the lumps at the bottom of his bag. The money, mail and a sealed royal canister he'd pulled from the dead man were still secure, as was the book of magic Ramirez had reluctantly agreed to deliver for Cassandra.

Connor sneezed again.

"Hay," he said, pointing at a nearby wagon. "Hay makes me sneeze."

The river of travelers carried them forward steadily if slowly towards Arborae, the air filled with conversation, neighs, squeaking carts, occasional music and laughter. Ten thousand people descended on Arborae each autumn, doubling the local population. Ramirez smelled the city long before he saw its walls and turrets. Even from a distance, he could pick out the green and blue pennants flapping in the chill breeze. The tournament games had already begun. No flags of kings, not yet. The royalty would descend later.

Connor sneezed for a third time.

"Goats," the boy said.

The open countryside gradually gave way to the pitched tents and camps of those who found it more economical or advantageous to stay outside the city walls. Filth pooled in puddles, attracting flies. Ramirez saw pilgrims kneeling in morning prayer, gypsies honing their knives, a band of actors practicing one of Briere's greatest plays. He felt a low hum of excitement, the recognition of kindred spirits and blossoming possibilities. The smell of meat sizzling over fires made his stomach rumble.

"Are you hungry, Connor?"

"No, Captain, sir."

Little boys were always hungry, but Ramirez attributed Connor's lack of appetite to the thrill of their arrival. He refused to dwell on the possibility the boy had caught some inconvenient childhood illness. The Harvest Fair was Ramirez's respite from the politics and skullduggery at Castle Immortal. He'd looked forward to good wine, beautiful women and a few weeks of indulgence. Instead he'd gained an unexpected apprentice, picked up secrets that had already cost one man his life and agreed to deliver a book that, if discovered, could lead to being burned alive for sacrilege.

He simply had a talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Nothing proved that theory better than the sight of soldiers searching travelers at Arborae's gate.

The soldiers, all dressed soberly in the black and maroon colors of the Arborae Civil Guard, stood beside the registrars tasked with counting all those who passed beneath the mammoth stone arches. While the pale clerks scratched numbers on large pieces of parchment, the soldiers singled people out of the lines and hustled them to an area where packs, bags, crates and barrels were opened for inspection. Ramirez noted many of those targeted were men traveling alone. He hadn't been to the Harvest Fair in many years and couldn't say if this was a new or merely unfortunate development, but it certainly posed a problem.

The sound of giggling distracted him. Connor had made new friends. Two little girls peeked out of the covered wagon in front of them, their cheeks pink with cold, their blonde pigtails bouncing with every turn of the wheels. Connor would studiously avoid their gaze for several seconds while scratching his pony's neck, then look up, then look away. The corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. That smile, Ramirez decided, would carry him far in the world.

"Hold my reins for a moment." Ramirez dismounted. "I'll be right back."

His boots made crunching noises in the thin frost as Ramirez walked up to find an old man and woman driving the wagon that held Connor's twin admirers. "Kind sir," Ramirez said, sketching a small bow. "My boy and I grow saddlesore. I wonder if we might ride with you through the gate?"

The old man swept him head to toe with gimlet eyes. "No."

"I understand what an inconvenience it might be," Ramirez pressed on, "but I could certainly reimburse you for your trouble."

The old woman perked up. "How much?"

Ramirez offered ten blackstones. The old man demanded a silverstone. Ramirez would have paid double that, but he offered token resistance so the old man would think he'd made a good bargain. To the delight of the girls and the chagrin of a certain six-year-old, Connor was loaded into the wagon. Ramirez tethered their mounts to the back, made a quick purchase from a roadside gypsy and then climbed in with his saddlebag in hand.

"If anyone asks," Ramirez told the old folks, "you could tell them I'm your rotten drunkard of a son."

The old woman snorted. "Not so far from the truth, that."

Ramirez uncorked the bladder of wine he'd just purchased and doused himself liberally with it.

"You stink," one of the girls said.

"Like daddy," the other offered.

Connor honked into his borrowed handkerchief. "Wine always makes me sneeze, Captain, sir," he offered meekly.

As they drew nearer to the gate, Ramirez juggled contingency plans. He really had no right to jeopardize Connor, the old folks or the young girls. He could try to pass through the gate on his own. If the soldiers pulled him for inspection, he could flash the courier's seal. Under normal circumstances, any such seal guaranteed its bearer free and unmolested passage into the city. If it failed, though, and he was caught with the book of magic, he would be burned alive. The smart thing, then, was to get rid of Cassandra's book. But what if the soldiers were after something else other than contraband, something one man had already died trying to deliver?

Besides, he'd made a promise, and the challenge balanced against risk made him feel young again.

"Captain, sir?" Connor whispered beside him.

"Connor, just call me 'Captain.'"

"Captain?"

"What?"

"Are we in trouble?"

"No," Ramirez said firmly. "We're not doing anything wrong."

"Then how come we're hiding?"

"We're not hiding. We're resting. Now sit here beside me and be quiet."

Connor pressed up against him. Ramirez began to snore as loudly as he could. The wagon rolled forward, stopped, rolled forward, stopped. The wait was interminable. Ramirez's imagination called up an entire squadron of the Civil Guard descending on them. Roll forward, stop. Forward. Stop. The air was full of voices, sharp commands, clatter. Finally someone asked the old man how many people he had with him.

The old man spat and said, "One wife, three grandchildren and a no-good drunk I'm ashamed to call my own son."

Ramirez tipped him five blackstones for the bravura performance.

Once parted from their hosts, Ramirez's spirits soared. Ah, Arborae. The slums just inside the gate had grown denser and more run-down, with muddy lanes full of rats and dirty urchins, but theaters, pubs and rooming houses took over as the thoroughfare turned toward the plaza. Baker's Lane and its enticing aromas marked the beginning of the reputable neighborhoods. The gold-flecked roofs of the guildhalls, Mayor's Hall and Arome churches glinted on the hills overlooking the river. Old Castle Arborae occupied the highest point for miles and miles, and marked the original city that had been founded several hundred years earlier.

"Captain, sir?" Connor asked.

"Yes?"

"Is this the biggest place in the world?"

"Hardly," Ramirez chuckled.

"Is Castle Immortal bigger or smaller than this?"

"Smaller."

"What if I get lost?"

Good question. Ramirez would hate to have to explain to Lord Macleoden how he'd misplaced his youngest son in the marketplace. "Don't get lost," Ramirez said. "But if you do, you'll want to find your way to an inn called The Broken Table. Memorize these instructions."

By the time Connor could satisfactorily recite the information Ramirez gave him, they'd reached an affluent neighborhood near the river. The teeming crowds thinned out to occasional housewives, servants and small children. Gray smoke rose steadily from chimneys, filling the air with a pleasing wood smell. The clip-clop of horseshoes on the cobblestones was the loudest sound Ramirez heard. The weather had warmed up enough for him to loosen his cloak, and he began to look forward to the prospects of a hot lunch.

"Captain, sir?"

"I told you to just call me Captain."

"Captain?"

"Yes?"

"Are we going to stay here a long time?"

"Not very long."

"And then we're going to Castle Immortal?" Connor tripped a little bit over the name of their destination, enough for Ramirez to take note.

"Absolutely. Does that worry you?"

Connor grimly shook his head. Ramirez hid a smile. He knew Castle Immortal's reputation well. Headless ghosts who walked the walls. Evil sorcerers who worked their craft amid fire and smoke. Witches who sailed through the air on brooms, their cackles and screams like the wail of wind. Any little boy who didn't fear Castle Immortal was either brave or stupid, and his young charge was neither.

"I think you're lying again, Connor," he said severely. "What did I tell you about that?"

The boy shifted on his pony and gave Ramirez a guileless look. "I'm not worried because I know you'll take care of me, Captain, sir."

Ramirez couldn't help but laugh out loud.

The address of Cassandra's friend led them to a stone house with a sizable garden. A stable occupied most of the first floor. The doors hung open, and inside they saw a man with dark hair and a long nose talking to a cow.

"Two plus two," the man said.

The cow eyed him balefully.

"Two plus two," the man insisted. He stroked her with stained fingers. "You did it before."

"I once knew a horse that could count," Ramirez offered. "Never a cow."

The man glanced their way. "Bessie's exceptionally smart. She's just stubborn."

Ramirez chuckled. "Most women are."

"Smart or stubborn?"

"Both."

"I agree."

"In fact, someone smart and stubborn asked me to deliver something to a Rebecca dePearson. Would you know if I'm in the right neighborhood?"

"Right neighborhood," the man said. He neither smiled nor frowned. "Right house. I'm Adam dePearson."

"Perhaps I seek your sister?"

"Perhaps you seek my wife." Adam looked at Connor, who had yet to speak or sneeze. "Your boy?"

"My apprentice. His name matters not. I'm Roland."

Connor made a faintly indignant sound, but silenced immediately under Ramirez's stern look.

"I once knew a goat named Roland," Adam said, a glimmer in his eyes.

Ramirez didn't blink. "How interesting."

"Won't you come in?"

They climbed a narrow set of stairs to the second floor, where fresh rushes covered the floor and dark red tapestries hung on the whitewashed walls. A small fire kept the room warm, and sight of two padded chairs reminded Ramirez exactly how saddle-sore he was. A dark-haired boy of ten or eleven sat at a large wooden table, writing on a piece of parchment while kicking his legs back and forth. He looked up at Ramirez with a piercing gaze.

"Who are you?" he demanded in an exceptionally high voice.
.
"That's not your concern, Amanda," Adam said, and Ramirez realized he was looking at a girl in boy's clothing. "Your job is not to challenge guests."

Amanda's mouth turned down into a pout. "But I'm interested."

"And rude," Adam said sternly.

She pushed her bangs off her forehead. "Can I go now? I finished my sentences."

"Let me see." Adam examined the girl's work. Ramirez could see the same sentence written dozens of times in a short, cramped style of penmanship. "Very well. Now go apologize to Cook for stealing her favorite spoon."

"I didn't steal it!" Amanda protested. "It fell into my bag by accident."

Adam didn't waver. "Apologize."

"Yes, father," Amanda replied, placing a bitter emphasis on the word. She stormed out of the room, leaving Adam with a rueful expression.

"My wife's child," he said, confirming Ramirez's suspicion. "High-spirited."

"Maybe she'll grow out of it," Ramirez offered.

"Not likely. I made the mistake of telling her my opinion of her hairstyle one morning, and she chopped it all off."

A woman's voice called down the stairs. "Adam, do we have company?"

"Someone with a delivery for you," he answered.

Two feet in green slippers appeared on the top step, followed by a wide velvet skirt the color of tree moss. Rebecca dePearson had a narrow waist, a full chest and a very pleasing face. Her red hair was bound in a long, loose braid threaded with green ribbons. Whitish-gray powder spotted her hands, her cheeks and the loose apron she wore to protect her cream-colored blouse.

"This is Roland," Adam said. "And his apprentice, whose name is said to matter not."

"How unexpected a pleasure." Rebecca smiled at Connor, who turned suddenly shy and ducked behind Ramirez's coattails.

"Madam," Ramirez said, sketching a slight bow. "The pleasure is ours."

"Tell us, Sir Roland, who sent you on your errand?" she asked, using the most polite form of address.

Ramirez kept a close eye on both their expressions as he replied, "Cassandra Caracan."

Adam grimaced. Rebecca's smile grew wider, but Ramirez sensed a new wariness in her. For all they knew, he might be one of the King's investigators, come to bring accusations of witchcraft. Soldiers might be already be waiting in the streets below, itching to arrest the dePearsons and confiscate their property. Within an hour they might be chained in a dungeon, within a day tied atop a blazing bonfire. Only Connor's presence made that scenario less likely. No royal agent brought a child along while working, and certainly not a child with a runny nose. Ramirez could see Connor struggling against the compulsion to wipe his nose on his sleeve.

"How is Cassandra?" Rebecca asked. "I haven't seen her in years."

"She's quite well," he said. "She sends her warmest regards, and this package."

He handed over the book, which Cassandra had wrapped in brown paper and tied with coarse string. Rebecca took it and slipped it into her pocket without examining it. The tension in her shoulders eased. "My thanks, Sir Roland. May I get you something to drink?"

"We best be getting on our way," Ramirez said, but Connor's sneeze drowned him out. Rebecca instantly proposed a hot drink for the boy. Adam looked unhappy at the prospect, for which Ramirez didn't blame him. Sickness could spread quickly through even the healthiest of households, and it would be better to hustle the child out the door as quickly as possible. But Rebecca insisted, and soon Connor was sitting by the fire with a large mug of hot and spicy cider. Ramirez drank deep from a fine cup of ale, which Rebecca said Adam brewed himself.

"It's just a hobby," Adam said.

Ramirez stifled a burp. "It's quite good."

"And it keeps his nose out of books," Rebecca added.

Ramirez perked up. "Have you a library?"

Adam modestly admitted that he did. Rebecca prevailed upon him to show Ramirez his collection. Ramirez vacillated over leaving Connor alone with Cassandra's friend, but couldn't resist the lure. The two men climbed the stairs to Adam's library, where six rows of leather-bound volumes occupied a finely made bookcase. From the ink pots and quills on the desk, Ramirez guessed that Adam made his trade as a clerk or scribe. His chief interests, judging by a quick scan of titles, seemed to be astronomy, history and medicine. The books he owned had not come cheaply or easily.

"My collection's not quite as large as yours," Ramirez was forced to admit, with a rare pang of envy. "You've spent many years collecting, I see."

"I've done my best," Adam said. "My greatest regret is that I've never seen the library at Castle Glorious."

Ramirez heard the genuine note of wistfulness in Adam's voice. He also recognized a fishing rod when he saw one. "People say wonderful things about it," he offered, with no intention of revealing exactly how many hours he'd spent between the famed library's walls. "I'm sure every true bibliophile would enjoy it."

When they returned downstairs, Ramirez saw Rebecca sitting in a rocking chair and thumbing through the book of magic. The slant of sunlight through the narrow window illuminated dust motes in the air and cast her in a golden glow. She was quite lovely, Ramirez decided, and it was a shame that Adam dePearson had seen her first. Not that Ramirez had any intention of settling down, becoming a stepfather or marrying anyone of Cassandra's ilk. But he enjoyed a momentary fantasy in which Rebecca was a lady in attendance at Castle Immortal, and he was the man who enjoyed her company at night. He wondered how faithful she was to her husband, and how much careful persuasion it would take to bring her to bed for just an hour or so.

A slurping noise drew his attention to the other side of the hearth, where Connor sat devouring a bowl of soup as if Ramirez hadn't fed him for several years.

"I told you we were having lunch later," Ramirez scolded. "You've abused Mrs. dePearson's hospitality."

"I'm sorry, Cap - " Connor caught himself before the word slipped out.

"Nonsense," Rebecca said firmly. "A bowl of soup is hardly an abuse. May I offer you some, Sir Roland?"

"My thanks, but no. We're late enough as it is," Ramirez said. "We have several appointments to keep."

"Will you be staying for the fair?" Adam asked.

Ramirez liked the dePearsons well enough, but he didn't like their curiosity. "For some of it," he conceded. He glared at Connor, willing him to eat quickly, but the bowl was deep and the boy only half-finished.

Adam poured himself a cup of ale. "And you have somewhere to stay?"

"Yes. Everything's arranged."

"Good," Adam said. Silence fell upon the three adults for a moment. Ramirez sensed some unspoken message passing between husband and wife, a code of expressions and lifted eyebrows. He put his hand on Connor's shoulder and squeezed lightly.

"Come along. Any more and you'll give yourself a stomachache." Ramirez gave Rebecca an apologetic look. "He's got a delicate stomach, you know."

"I do not!" Connor said, somewhat belligerently.

"I said, come along," Ramirez scooped the bowl from Connor's hands and put it on the table. "Thank you both for your kind hospitality."

"It was our pleasure," Rebecca said.

Adam saw them to the street. Connor pouted and dragged his feet all the way down. Ramirez ignored the childish snit until they reached the end of the street. He stopped both horse and pony and said, firmly, "Stop it, right now."

Connor scowled at him. "Stop what?"

"Being a brat," Ramirez said.

"I don't have a delicate stomach!"

A wisp of memory teased at Ramirez's mind. He remembered Connor standing outside his family's manor and volunteering to serve the king, all the while denying being too young or too frail.

"Maybe you do, maybe you don't," Ramirez replied. "I only said that to hasten our departure."

"I don't!" Connor's fist clenched in his lap.

Ramirez held up his gloved hand. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that you stop pouting. I expect better of my apprentices."

Connor wasn't through, though. "You lied to that lady! You gave her someone else's name."

"I didn't want her to know our real names," Ramirez said, and then stopped to wonder why he was explaining his motives to a child. "And don't ask me why! It's none of your business. You're my apprentice - you do as told and behave yourself. Do you understand?"

Connor gave him a stony look.

"Do you understand?" Ramirez repeated sternly.

Connor lifted his chin and kept his petulant tone. "Yes, sir."

Ramirez turned his back on the boy and led them through the narrow streets toward the guild halls. His ill temper faded the closer they got to their destination. The Broken Table was one of Arborae's most interesting places to lodge, with an excellent kitchen, a well-funded clientele and a choice selection of barmaids. His blood, already roused by Rebecca dePearson, coursed stronger through his veins. He imagined himself at least ten years younger. What woman in Arborae could resist his advances? He would pick and choose only those women able to match him in spirit and endurance. He began humming a favorite tune, and when they reached The Broken Table's sun-dappled courtyard, he practically leapt from his horse.

"Fetch your master!" he told a tall, toothless stable boy. "Tell him Captain Juan Sanvilobos Ramirez has arrived!"

Only a moment or so later, the one-legged innkeeper appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Ramirez! You made it!"

"Of course I made it!" Ramirez growled good-naturedly. He met his old friend halfway across the yard. They threw their arms around each other and pounded backs energetically. "You doubted me?"

"I saved my best room for you, didn't I?' Old Ferd grinned. He'd dressed with his customary flair, and his peg leg had recently been sanded and stained. Ramirez had heard it said they looked like brothers, he and Ferd, although the other man's beard had always been whiter, his eyes brighter. "You didn't tell me you were bringing company, though."

Ramirez turned and saw Connor still sulking on his pony. "My apprentice," he said, choosing to omit any choice words about the boy's continuing bad mood. "Come down from there, Connor, and untie our bags."

Connor glared at him, an effect ruined as he stumbled getting down. The stable boy caught him. Ramirez rolled his eyes but Old Ferd graciously refrained from commenting on the clumsiness.

"Help him with those bags, Moyr," Old Ferd said. "I'll take Captain Ramirez to his room."

The innkeeper had saved him a room on the third floor, away from the din and noise below. Despite his peg leg, he climbed quickly and ably up the twisting staircase. Only fatigue kept Ramirez from keeping pace at his heels, or so he told himself. With a grin, Old Ferd swung open the door to the corner room. A large bed with a red brocaded cover took up most of the room, and a busty woman with dark curls and a wide smile took up most of the bed. Her legs were splayed open in a most unseemly fashion, and he recognized the expensive white stockings she wore as ones he'd given her years earlier.

"Hello, Juan," she purred. "I've been waiting for you."

"Vella," he said, and the sight of her was like a long draught of fresh water.

Old Ferd laughed and clapped him on the back. "There's nothing I like better than to see old friends reacquainted."

Ramirez heard the innkeeper retreat with a solid thump-thump-thump. He kept his eyes solely on Vella deTeran's flushed cheeks and ample bosom. She was no longer young, but neither was he. He walked to the edge of the bed and ran his hands up her strong legs to her thighs and hips.

"You, my dear, look marvelous," he said.

Vella reached up, cupped his head, pulled him down. "Tell me just how marvelous, Juan."

He kissed her and fell into the cinnamon spice of her lips, the faint flowery smell that rose from her hair. Her own unique scents, unmatched by any other woman he'd ever met. Any lingering thoughts of Rebecca dePearson fled, replaced by vivid memories of exactly how marvelous Vella had been in years and nights past. She moaned softly beneath him, a noise guaranteed to raise his spirits even higher, and her hard nipples brushed his chest.

"Vella . . . " he said, and although it seemed to him that he other responsibilities, including a sulking apprentice, nothing delighted him more than the prospect of spending the next few hours in her company. "It's been far too long - "

Someone sneezed behind him.

Ramirez pulled back and turned to Connor, who stood in the doorway with a scowl on his face.

"Go eat lunch," Ramirez ordered.

"I already ate," Connor said sullenly.

His temper started to rise. "Then go amuse yourself some other way!"

Connor dropped the saddlebags in the corner and went back to the hall.

"And close the door!" Ramirez shouted.

A small hand reached back, closed around the knob and pulled the door shut.

Vella nipped him gently on the chin. "You were telling me how wonderful I am."

"Let me prove it to you." As her legs wrapped around his, Ramirez bent to untie the strings of her blouse with his teeth. But his saddlebag had made an odd thumping noise when Connor dropped it, and the detail nagged at Ramirez's concentration. He remembered the dead courier, the royal pouch, the sealed canister. And the boy. He might be an annoyance at the moment, but he was still Ramirez's responsibility.

"My darling," he said, planting kisses on her mouth and cheeks. "Would you do me the grand favor of waiting just an hour or so for my return? There's an appointment I must keep above all others."

Her mouth opened in an astonished circle. "An appointment? Something more important than this?"

"Not more important," he hastened to assure her. "A duty of office. Forgive me?"

"Juan Ramirez," she said, shaking her head. "I don't forgive you. You'll have to apologize profusely when you come back. I may even make you grovel and beg."

"For you, I would grovel ceaselessly," he promised. More kisses ensued. Ramirez debated putting off his errand, but discipline finally won over and he rolled off her with a heartfelt groan.

Vella stood and straightened her clothes. "Come find me when you return," she said with a smirk. She sashayed her way out the door. "I should be around - if someone more handsome or rich doesn't come along first."

Ramirez caught her by the waist and gave her a kiss to remember him by. "Be here," he growled. "I'll make it worth your while."

She laughed and retreated down the hall, sparing a brief disinterested glance at something outside Ramirez's door. The captain found Connor sitting with his back against the wall and his knees to his chest. The boy didn't meet his gaze.

"When I told you to go amuse yourself," Ramirez said gruffly, "eavesdropping wasn't what I had in mind."

"Sorry, Captain, sir." Connor wiped at his eyes.

"What is that, tears?" Ramirez asked. "Why are you crying?"

Connor put his hands over his face.

"Come along inside, then. You can polish my buckles while I'm gone. That sounds like fun, doesn't it?"

He pulled Connor up and steered him inside the room. Under his broad hand, Connor's shoulder shook. Ramirez sighed at the unsteady emotions of little boys. He sat him in the corner and crouched to his level.

"Now, now," he said, and cast around for a way to make the boy feel better. "I'm not mad at you. There's no reason to be upset."

Connor wiped his nose with his sleeve. Ramirez rolled his eyes.

"Are you homesick? Is that it?"

Connor shook his head, then nodded, then leaned toward Ramirez. The captain bit back another sigh and hugged the boy. Tears poured out freely. Women and children, Ramirez thought. Alike in so many ways. He noted that Connor's face felt unusually warm against his chest, and after a moment or two of comforting pulled the boy back to look at him more closely. Connor was pale except for two faint blushes of color on his cheeks.

"Do you feel poorly?" Ramirez asked. "No lying."

"Just a little bad," Connor admitted, his eyes still watery. "I'm sorry. I'm not frail or delicate, honest."

"You should have told me."

"You were mad at me," was the boy's timid reply.

"Even when I'm mad at you, if you're sick or injured, you have to tell me." Ramirez poured a cup of water from the pitcher on the table and made Connor drink some. "Would you like to lie down for a little while?"

Connor nodded. Ramirez pulled back the covers on the high bed and helped him climb up. He unlaced the boy's muddy boots - such small feet he had! - and lined them up under the bed. He tucked Connor in beneath a sheet and two blankets, noting how little he looked against the large pillows which still bore Vella's scent. Ramirez moved to the window and closed it a little, certain that fresh air was good for sickness but afraid of giving the boy a chill. Horses passed in the street below, their steps echoing off the buildings.

"You rest," Ramirez said, patting Connor's arm. "I'll only be gone a little while."

Connor nodded and closed his eyes.

Downstairs, Ramirez sought out Old Ferd and found him supervising the roasting of a pig in the kitchen. "I didn't think I'd see you for quite some time!" the innkeeper said. "Don't tell me you've quarreled with her already."

"Of course not." Ramirez eyed a pretty serving girl and then grabbed a fresh loaf of bread to satisfy his growling stomach. He had no qualms about taking such liberties in his old friend's kitchen. "I need to go out for a little bit. Connor's sleeping. I think he's caught a cold. Will you send someone up to check on him in a little bit?"

"He's not very ill, is he?"

"No. You know how children are. One sneeze and they're whining."

Old Ferd grinned. "That's one thing I never expected to see - you with a child in tow."

Ramirez clapped him on the back. "They only entrust apprentices to the very best, you know."

He thought about riding but decided to enjoy the walk to the King's offices near the old fortress. Chewing on the bread as he went, Ramirez set off in the brisk air and steady sunlight. Church bells rang the noon hour across the city. Street peddlers entreated him to buy their wares, beggars pleaded for a coin or two. He indulged the latter but not the former. Horses, carriages and wagons competed for space on the street, leaving him to navigate the bustling sidewalks. Castle Immortal and her surrounding town amounted to nothing against the crowds and infrastructure of Arborae, and he felt the thrill of new sights, unfamiliar faces, widening possibilities. The mammoth façade of the Merchant's Guild appeared before him, followed by the smaller yet equally distinctive halls belonging to the Stonemasons and Artisans. Public steps took him up through a series of gardens and terraces until he could overlook most of the marketplace, and three blocks later he found the headquarters of the Arborae Regiment and the royal offices he sought.

"Official business only, sir," a guard told him.

Ramirez flashed the royal seal he'd recovered from the body of the dead courier. "This is most definitely official business. Who's in charge here?"

"Captain Endarius, sir."

Ramirez had never heard of him. Then again, Castle Immortal wasn't always on the fastest route for gossip or news of military appointments. He stepped inside the dim, cool building and asked for Captain Endarius at the front desk.

"I'm sorry, sir, he's not available," a young corporal said.

"He's available for me," Ramirez said. "Tell him Captain Ramirez of Castle Immortal is here with a delivery from the king."

The corporal stepped into a side room for a moment and murmured instructions to someone. Footsteps hurried somewhere in the building. While Ramirez waited, he cast a critical eye at the large boar's head that hung on one wall. The fur was covered with a thin layer of dust. The matting on the floor needed cleaning, and old ashes had built up in the hearth. Captain Endarius, whoever he was, did not place a premium on housekeeping. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the counter, tilted his head at the sound of a distant door slamming and then watched the corporal return.

"Sir, I'm sorry," the corporal said. "The captain's at the castle. Would you like to wait? Or I could get Sergeant Ryan for you."

"No," Ramirez said. He had no intentions of waiting however many hours it took until Endarius returned, and no desire to leave his discoveries with a mere sergeant. "I'll return later."

He stepped outside and blinked in the sunlight. The guard gave him a sideways look. The stillness of the plaza made Ramirez uneasy. Where were the troops, the horses, the bureaucrats? He told himself to stop being skittish. Clutching his bag tightly, he headed down the street. After only a block or so, he felt much better. As he rounded a corner he nearly bowled over a young woman carrying a basket of apples.

"My apologies, sir!" she said, and flashed him a dimpled smile.

"Madam, the apologies are mine," he said, bowing. "Forgive me."

She might have replied. He never knew. Something hard and unforgiving cracked against the back of his skull. Dazed but not yet unconscious, he thudded downward and felt the slam of dirt against his knees and chest and cheek. He blinked up at a swirling mosaic of half-glimpsed images - the sun, the girl, a billy club. The grinning face of one of his oldest enemies, Leuies Horton.

"Hello, Juan," Horton said, and a swift kick to the head sent Ramirez spiraling away from all he knew.

The End     Author's Notes:  Thanks again to Cindy Hudson and Terry Odell for their beta comments! Thanks to Cindy, Rebecca doesn't have size 11 feet in fuzzy green slippers. Thanks to Terry, Connor doesn't switch back and forth between riding a horse and riding a pony. That's just the beginning of the debt I owe them. Any remaining goofs or huge glaring mistakes are entirely my fault.

Your feedback:  Is instrumental when I decide whether to resolve this cliffhanger in a timely fashion or go write another Emergency story instead.

Music: I don't even play video games, but thanks to Napster, the soundtrack to this story is remarkably similar to the Final Fantasy 7 theme.

Next in series:  Connor needs help. Ramirez needs help. Help appears.

 

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