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the New City to the Old City, where he would find his true subjects and make war on the people who had killed his mother and his father.…
    At a curt gesture from the Protector, the heralds blew on their trumpets, shattering the King's reverie. Vost, the High Marshal (since the recent execution of the one appointed by the King's late father), stood forth in the Victor's Square and cried the challenge.
    “Lady Ambrosia Viviana, accused of witchcraft, has claimed her right of trial by combat. If her champion is present, let him come forth and enter the lists, or her life is forfeit to the King (the Strange Gods protect His Majesty).”
    The heralds blew another blast on their trumpets, and the excitement of the crowd died down. They could see, as well as the King himself, that one end of the lists was vacant, and that at the other end stood the Red Knight. Perhaps this would only be an execution and not a combat after all.
    Then the muttering of the crowd changed slightly. The King, leaning forward, saw that someone else had entered the lists—someone shorter than the King was himself, who bowed low before the prisoner.
    The crowd was half-amused, half-thoughtful as the unarmed dwarf marched past them up the lists to Victor's Square.
    “Have you come,” the High Marshal said as the dwarf drew to a halt before him, “as champion for the Lady Ambrosia?”
    “If need be,” said the dwarf, with unassumed confidence.
    “If you are not a champion you must depart from the lists.”
    “Heralds can be in the lists, before the combat and at intervals. So can squires.”
    “Are you herald or squire?”
    “Both! Herald, squire, apprentice, and factotum to my harven-kinsman, Morlock Ambrosius, also called syr Theorn. I am Wyrth syr Theorn.”
    “Sir Thorn—”
    “I'm not a knight. Wyrth. Syr. Theorn. Wyrtheorn to my friends.”
    “Wyrththyseorn—”
    “Not bad. Take a deep breath and try again.”
    “—you must take up arms for the Lady Ambrosia or leave the field. The trial has begun.”
    “You don't have the authority to make that judgement, Sir Marshal. I appeal to the Judge of the Combat. My principal has been delayed, but he is coming. On his behalf, I ask that the combat be delayed for a time.”
    Vost, the High Marshal, looked uncertainly up toward the royal box. The King realized abruptly that the decision was his. He was the Judge of the Combat, as the highest-ranking male present. He looked at Urdhven, who made a slight gesture of indifference, his golden face impassive.
    “How much time?” he called down.
    “As much as I can get,” the dwarf replied cheerfully. “Morlock is horrible old, you know, and doesn't move as fast as he used to.”
    The King put his hand to his head. There was nothing in the rites Kedlidor had taught him about this. But there should have been: it seemed a reasonable request. But he didn't know what a reasonable answer would be.
    “Let me come up and explain,” the dwarf proposed. “For I have messages from your kinsman Morlock, not meant for the common ear.”
    “Uh…” The King gestured indeterminately. The dwarf took this as permission and hopped into the Victor's Square. Shouldering the High Marshal aside, he swarmed up the wall beneath the royal box and threw himself over its rail to land on his feet before the King.
    “Hail, King Lathmar the Seventh!” he cried. “(You are the seventh, aren't you? Good, good, good. I was afraid I'd missed one.) Hail, King of the Two Cities, the Old Ontil and the New! Hail and, well, well-met. Good to see you. Eh?”
    “Are these the private messages Morlock sends to his kinsman?” the Protector inquired, his face split by a leonine smile.
    “Not at all. The Lord Protector Urdhven, I believe? No, Morlock sent me chiefly to inquire after the King's health. But he said not to do it right out in front of the crowd. I suspect he thought you might be sensitive on the subject, what with your sister and brother-in-law and all their