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hastily for Shadamehr. He did not see him, and that was a bad sign. Either the baron was still under arrest, or something worse had happened. None of Shadamehr’s people gave any outward sign that they knew Ulaf, who gave no sign that he knew any of them. The tavern owner, who knew Ulaf well, looked right past him, and the busy serving wenches cast him harassed glances, as if he were just another customer. All knew that Ulaf might be there on some important business, that he might be using any one of his assumed identities, and that if he wanted to be recognized, he’d give them the signal.
    The tavern was crowded. Visitors to New Vinnengael had been caught by surprise by the curfew. They’d be sleeping four to a bed. In addition, some of the locals who lived nearby and who figured they could sneak home before the patrols caught them, were here to talk about the rumors of war. Every table was filled, but Ulaf was not concerned, and, indeed, shortly after his arrival, a table near the door opened up. He steered the pecwae in that direction. The two men who had been sitting there passed by him without a glance, although one did rub his nose in a peculiar manner.
    Ulaf knew the man, knew that his signal meant that something dire had happened and that they had to talk. The man walked up to the bar. Ulaf didn’t dare leave the pecwae, not with the strange Trevinici hanging about, but he needed to know what was going on.
    He settled the Grandmother in her chair, thinking as he did so that the normally feisty elder pecwae was unusually subdued. Every so often, the Grandmother lifted the agate-eyed stick, turned it this way and that. Then, looking grim, she would shake her head and the stick at the same time.
    Some of the patrons were gawking at the pecwae and the Trevinici. Shadamehr’s people studiously avoided looking at them and did what they could to distract the attention of the rest. The man at the bar rubbed his nose again, and this time gave a loud sneeze.
    The Trevinici did not sit down but stood leaning against the wall, his arms folded, his dark gaze fixed on the two pecwae.
    â€œBashae,” said Ulaf, “come with me—”
    â€œLook, it’s Jessan!” cried Bashae. He waved his hand. “Over here, Jessan!”
    Jessan entered the room, extremely pleased and relieved to see his friends; so pleased that his usually stern expression relaxed into a smile. He halted a moment to stare in astonishment at the strange Trevinici. He was about to greet this fellow warrior, then recalled his urgent message. Jessan turned aside, spoke in a low, urgent tone to Ulaf.
    â€œI need to talk to you. Alone.”
    Ulaf nodded and the two moved back toward the door.
    â€œI have just left Alise and Shadamehr,” Jessan said. “The baron has been wounded. Alise wants you to come right away.”
    â€œWounded?” Ulaf repeated, shocked. “Is it bad?” It must be, he thought, for Alise to send for him.
    â€œHe’s dying,” Jessan said bluntly. “He’s in the back room of a tavern down that way.” He jerked his thumb. “Alise is with him, but I don’t think there is much she can do for him. He is in a very bad way.”
    â€œOh, gods,” Ulaf said, feeling his own life drain out of him.
    His first impulse was to dash off immediately, but he forced himself to think the situation through rationally. He had the pecwae under his care, the pecwae and the Sovereign Stone. They were his responsibility, and he couldn’t abandon them. He glanced at the man at the bar, who returned his glance with an urgent look and an even louder sneeze. Jessan, meanwhile, had gone back to staring at the Trevinici.
    â€œJessan,” Ulaf said. “Do you know that man?”
    â€œNo,” said Jessan. “I’ve never seen him before. By his markings, he belongs to a tribe that lives far from my tribe, somewhere near Vilda Harn.”
    â€œThat’s