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until she knew it by heart. But practicing on her own
was one thing. Now she was standing here in the dark and freezing
cold, with the man’s fingers digging into her skin and the rest of
his companions all coming up to stare at her, as well. And there
must have been fifty or more of them, all armed and helmeted,
stinking of sweat and ale and wet leather. She didn’t see Lord
Marche anywhere among them—and surely he’d have been at the front
if he was here—but that was about the only good thing she could
make out about this all.
    Dera swallowed, forced her mouth to open—but
no sound came out. She felt like a giant hand was wrapped around
her chest and starting to squeeze.
    “ Well?”
The man’s voice was a growl in her ear. “Answer me! Unless you want
me to slit your throat.”
    He’d do it, too. He’d got his knife out and
was holding it just under her chin. Dera could feel the point
pricking her, and a hot drip of blood starting to trickle down her
skin.
    And all of a sudden—maybe it was the blood,
or the thought of Jory asleep in the fortress above them—or just
one of those miracles of the Christians—all of a sudden all the
fear was burned straight out of her by a flame of pure anger that
started under her breastbone and spread until even the tips of her
fingers felt warm. If she could have grabbed the knife away from
this man and stabbed him in the guts with it, she would have done
it.
    Dera took a deep breath and then said the
words she’d been practicing. “Don’t hurt me—please. I’ve got news
of Bevan.”
    It was fury, not fear, that made her voice
shake—but the man holding her didn’t know that, and it must have
made for a good effect, because his hold on her relaxed a bit.
    “ Bevan’s
dead.” He shook her a bit, but not as hard as before.
    “ Not yet.
He will be, but he’s not dead yet. He made it up to Dinas Emrys—and
then he squealed like a piglet about what you’ve got
planned.”
    That sent up a rumble of muttered curses from
among the ring of men listening, and the man holding Dera—he must
be the leader—swore under his breath then shook her again. “So
where do you come in, eh?”
    Dera clenched her teeth before she could say
that if he wanted to get her talking, he could do better than
shaking and jerking around like he’d a pair of weasels in his
drawers.
    Jory. Imagine she was trying to beg food for
Jory, and they’d neither of them eaten in days. She’d plenty of
practice with that, these last two years.
    “ I heard
him talking—to Lady Isolde and that captain of King Madoc’s guard.”
She hoped she’d got enough of a whine into her voice. “And I saw
what happened afterward—could hardly miss it, with all the shouting
and fighting and carrying on. Gwion and the rest of his men rounded
up the traitors—and now they’re up there, just waiting for you all
to come and hand yourselves to ’em like rats walking into a
trap.”
    Dera spoke quickly. Lies sounded better told
in a rush—she’d learned that, too. If she spoke fast enough and
didn’t give people a chance to think, they hardly ever noticed her
story had as many holes as her traveling cloak.
    It was too dark now to see much of the man’s
face—but he didn’t ask her just how Gwion had worked out which
among his men where the traitors. He just scowled—she could see
that well enough—and said, “So you came on here.”
    “ Well, I
thought you’d be grateful, like.” Dera let up on the whine and
tried a smile—the one she gave when she was trying to get a man to
pay her to be kind to him for a night. “For the warning, you know?”
She held out her free hand—the one the man wasn’t holding—and
rubbed the fingers together.
    “ Oh, did
you, now?” The man bent his head and peered into her face, his
teeth bared, and Dera tried again not to gag at the stench of his
breath. “Let me tell you, me and my men have just dealt with a
whole village full of women of your kind. You want me