stopped—”
“Oh, who cares? Look, Smith, I’m sorry about this, but you have to admit your people have needed thinning out lately,” said Lord Eyrdway. “And Daddy has nothing against Children of the Sun personally. But if anyone’s going to own an ancient weapon of fabulous destructive power, it ought to be Daddy. So drop the damned Wall!”
“Shut up, you idiot! You don’t understand!” cried Lord Demaledon. “Svnae, when did you stop?”
“Well—” Lady Svnae bit her lower lip.
“You know, Smith, I think it’s time we got the hell out of here,” said Lord Ermenwyr sotto voce. He glanced over his shoulder at the battlefield, then did a double take. “Uh-oh. Too late.”
The man in black was walking to the Adamant Wall, unhurried. He looked up at the gallery. His gaze was blank and mild as a sleepy tiger’s. When he spoke, his voice was very deep.
“Daughter, come down,” said the Master of the Mountain.
He towered over his sons. Given all that Smith had heard of him over the years, he had expected someone about whom dark rainbows of energy crackled, a walking shadow of dread, faceless. All Smith saw, however, was a very large man with a black beard, who folded his arms as he waited for Lady Svnae’s reply.
“Daddy, I really can’t let you in here,” said Lady Svnae.
He extended one gauntleted hand in a negligent gesture, and the Adamant Wall melted into a curtain of steam that blew away.
“Then you come down to me,” he said. “And bring the man Smith.”
Moving deliberately, Svnae took her bow and nocked an arrow. Smith gaped at it, for it was not the kind of sporting gear one would expect a lady to use. The arrow was tipped for armor-piercing.
“Daddy, go away,” she said, and in an undertone added, “Ermenwyr, get out. Take Smith and get away down the river as fast as you can.”
“I can’t blow the hole in the damned wall by myself!” hissed her brother.
The Master of the Mountain did not smile, but something glinted in his black eyes.
“Child, you are your mother’s daughter,” he said.
Svnae gritted her teeth. “That was just exactly the wrong thing to say.”
She fired. Lord Ermenwyr shouted and grabbed her arm belatedly, but the Master of the Mountain smiled. He put up his hand and caught the arrow an inch from his throat. In his hand it became a black-red rose.
“And you are also my daughter,” he said, sounding pleased. Svnae reached for another arrow, but found her quiver full of roses. Glaring, she took the bow and hurled it at him as hard as she could.
“Damn you!”
“Stop this nonsense and come down,” said the Master of the Mountain. “Your mother is going to have a great deal to say to you about this.”
Lord Ermenwyr groaned, and Lady Svnae went pale.
“We’d better do as he says now,” she said.
“Is it painful?”
“Yes, it is,” Smith said, gasping. “It hurts a lot.”
The Master of the Mountain regarded Smith’s arm, which was colder and more blue than it had been. Below the elbow it looked as though it was turning to stone. It was in no way stiff or swollen, however. Shaking his head, the other man dug a flask from a camp chest and offered it to Smith.
“Drink. It may help.”
Smith accepted it gratefully. “Thank you, my—er—lord.”
“The name’s Silverpoint,” said the Master of the Mountain. “Most of the time. Though my son calls himself Kingfisher, doesn’t he?”
“Lord Ermenwyr?” Smith nodded. Mr. Silverpoint poured himself a drink and sat down in the chair opposite Smith’s.
“Lord Ermenwyr,” said Mr. Silverpoint, with only the faintest trace of irony. He stared at the hanging lamp and sighed, shaking his head. “He’s a costly boy. Doctors, tailors’ bills, theater tickets. Brothels. Health resorts. And now I understand he’s bought a slaveless galley.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When I was his age, I’d never seen a boat, let alone a city.” He looked at Smith, raised an eyebrow like a black saber. “And I owned nothing. Not even myself.”
“You were a slave?” Smith asked.
The other man nodded. “Until I killed my masters. I broke my own chains. I owe no miracle man for my salvation.
“But I owe you a debt, Smith. You’ve made a habit of saving my children. They haven’t been as grateful as they should. I’d like to help you.”
“I’m not sure you can,” said Smith. He drank. What was in the flask was white, and it did dull his pain a little.
Mr. Silverpoint did not reply at once. He sipped his own drink, considering