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they might be troops from the prosecutor’s office.
    As head prosecutor, Lothain had his own private army, men who took orders from and were loyal to him and him alone. It was a privilege of his high office that no other in the Keep enjoyed. It was argued that to be independent and remain above outside influence, the prosecutor’s office had to have its own guard to protect the office from coercion and threats, and to enforce decrees against those who would otherwise resist.
    These men, though, were not dressed in the dark green tunics of the prosecutor’s office. These were hulking men, towering men, with bull necks, powerful shoulders, beefy arms, and massive chests. Under their leather armor they wore chain mail that was well used, scuffed, and discolored by tarnish. She could smell the oil they used to help keep rust from their mail and weapons. The whiff of slightly rancid oil mixed disagreeably with the smell of stale sweat.
    There was no mistaking that the armor these men wore was not meant for show. The weapons they carried—swords, knives, maces, and scarred battle-axes—likewise had the single-minded purpose of life and death.
    These grim-faced men were not the kind who marched on a field of review or a polished patrol.
    These were men who had looked death in the eye and grinned.
    Magda stood frozen, unable to reach the door to her rooms, not knowing quite what to do. They in turn stood silently watching her like a curiosity come into their midst, but made no attempt to advance on her.
    Before she could ask the men what they were doing there or tell them to move out of the way, another man, long locks of blond hair to his shoulders and dressed in layers of dark traveling clothes and leather, stepped out from behind the wall of men. He was just as big as the men all around him and likewise heavily armed, but he was a bit older, perhaps just entering his forties. Character creases had begun to take a permanent set.
    As he moved forward through the armored soldiers he pulled off long gauntlets and tucked them behind a broad leather weapons belt. Two men, larger even than him or the soldiers, stayed close behind him but a little off to each side. Like all the others, they, too, had blond hair. Magda saw that above their elbows the two men wore metal bands with wicked blades jutting out, weapons for brutal, close-quarters combat. Instead of mail, the two wore elaborately fitted leather armor sculpted to the contours of their prodigious muscles. On the center of their powerful chests a stylized letter “R” was engraved into the leather breastplates.
    The man with the long hair and the cutting, raptor gaze dipped his head in a quick bow.
    “Lady Searus?”
    Magda glanced to the blue eyes of the guards behind his shoulders, then back to the man who had spoken.
    “That’s right.”
    “I am Alric Rahl,” he said before she had a chance to ask.
    “From D’Hara?”
    He confirmed it with a quick nod.
    “My husband has spoken highly of you.”
    His cutting gaze remained fixed on her eyes. “Baraccus was more than merely a good man. He is the one man here at the Keep that I trusted. I am deeply grieved to hear that we’ve lost him.”
    “Not as grieved as I am.”
    His lips pressed tightly together with what looked to be heartfelt sorrow as he nodded again and then gestured to her door, off behind him.
    “Would it be possible to speak with you privately?”
    Magda glanced toward her door as the wall of men parted to provide a corridor lined with muscle and chain mail.
    Magda dipped her head. “Of course, Lord Rahl.”
    While she had never met the man before, Baraccus had spoken of him from time to time. From what she had gathered from the things Baraccus had told others, this was not a man to be trifled with. He looked the part of the stories she’d heard of him. She knew from comments made by members of the council that many didn’t think much of Alric Rahl, but Baraccus had. He had told her that, despite