Grifford's mind was still turning over his thoughts when he reached the arena-field. He had been unaware of the growing noise until he rounded the final curve of the arena's high wall, and the sound broke into his consciousness. The Field was full of people, and it was not just the usual throng of spectators. They stood and sat, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, filling the place from the arena walls to the distant slope beneath the bailey's sentinel tower. Lines of soldiers held the crowds back from the entrances to the arenas, the observation tower, and the chain-carriage station, and from the area around the knight's pavilions and the avenue leading through them into the Encampment.

As he passed down the space the soldiers secured, the expectant murmuring of the crowd filling his ears, Grifford tried to make out Sir Galder's pavilion, but the area around the tents was filled with knights and squires, their presence blocking it from view. The Pride-commander was nowhere in sight, but Grifford could well imagine the look of displeasure on his face when he learnt that his opponent's son had been found and he realised he would still be called upon to fight at noon.

The thought gave him some satisfaction as he left the arena-field and headed further into the Encampment. He told himself he was only walking that way to get away from the tension boiling around the fortress, and from its noise of expectation, but he knew he was lying to himself. He knew why his footsteps had led him there. The avenue through the Encampment was the way north. It was the road his father would return by.

The anticipation at the arena-field had emptied the Encampment. The stalls and entertainments were shut, their doors and counters covered and tied tight. Quiet lay over the place, broken only by a scavenging ruteia and a pair of red crak, squabbling over some dropped morsel of food.

A sudden voice startled the birds and sent them away croaking.

"Well, look who we have here."

Grifford turned to the voice's owner, who was standing in the avenue a few metres behind him.

"Go away, Tasker," he said.

The older boy met his demand with an aggrieved scowl.

"Is that all you have to say to me, boy?"

Grifford frowned. Not at the question, but at the fact that, for the first time in his memory, Tasker's juvenile goading had not triggered any anger in him.

"Where are your friends?" he asked.

Tasker took a step towards him.

"My so called friends have lost the stomach for this fight, but I do not need them to end it."

He still wore his sword at his side, and as he took another step closer he drew it, and its keen edge caught the light of the climbing sun.

Grifford looked into his eyes.

"I will not fight you," he said.

"Oh you will, borak. Fighting is all you know."

Grifford kept his eyes on Tasker and wondered how much honour was left in the boy.

"Did you poison Hakansa?" he asked.

The question seemed to disarm Tasker, but he answered quickly enough.

"No."

"I do not believe you."

The anger was back in Tasker's eyes.

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"Yes."

"Draw your sword and fight me!"

Grifford looked down at the sword he still had scabbarded at his side.

"This sword was made by Engineer Dakskansia Padrid," he said. "And I will not waste its blade on you."

He turned his back on Tasker and began to walk away.

"Coward!" Tasker spat. "Just like your father!"

"That is another of your lies," Grifford called over his shoulder. "And I am tired of hearing them."

"No!"

Grifford could hear Tasker following him.

"It is not a lie! Your father was a coward. He betrayed the Order! Mine did not!"

Keeping his hand from his sword, Grifford stopped and turned to face his enemy.

"Tasker..."

"My father was not a traitor!"

It was strange, but without his anger to distract him, Grifford could hear the desperation in the boy's voice.

"No," he said. "Your father was not a traitor." He kept his voice steady as he raised his arm and pointed at Tasker's chest. "But you are. Your father would be ashamed of you."

"No!"

The anger burst from Tasker, and he charged, his face in a grimace and his eyes wild.

"No, no, no!"

Grifford did not move. He did not draw his sword, and made no attempt to avoid the blow that Tasker aimed at him. It would be heavy; the older squire had his sword gripped in both hands, held above his head, and he was swinging it with all the strength his anger could give him.

* * * * *

The woman was still in the ruined farmhouse, huddled together with the other prisoners.

Sir Kralaford rode down the slope of rubble to the building's tiled floor and dismounted. He drew his sword and forced his way through the remnants of his attackers, and they moved out of his way, some faces hostile, others scared, some Clan marked and others bare.

The woman did not move as he approached, and there was fierce confidence in her eyes.

"Where is my son?"

"I'll tell you nothing."

Sir Kralaford put his sword to her throat.

"Where is my son?"

"I dare you to kill me," she spat in reply. "I will die before I tell you anything."

Sir Kralaford felt his anger inside him. The anger he had learnt to suppress as a boy, which was suddenly so strong it threatened to break the bonds of his control.

The woman seemed to see it, and her eyes flashed with a look of victory.

Through his anger, he heard Sir Unsaethel's voice on the slope behind him.

"Sir Paresh, withdraw your knights."

"But, sir, the prisoners..."

"Are not going anywhere. Withdraw your knights."

Sir Kralaford heard Sir Paresh give his orders, and the knights encircling the farmhouse withdrew, but his eyes did not leave those of the woman before him

"Commander Kralaford?" called Sir Unsaethel then, his voice casual.

"This is my business, Commander," Sir Kralaford growled, still holding his sword to the woman's throat.

"True, but they are my prisoners."

"They are complicit in treachery! They have dared to poison a creature of the Pride, kidnap a son of the Order, and attempted to take the life of one of its Commanders."

"And they will be tried for those crimes, but they will not be judged at the point of a sword. Withdraw, Commander, before your actions destroy you."

Sir Kralaford did not move, and the woman's smile broadened above the tip of his sword.

"It was not so long ago, Commander, that you dared to lecture me on the merits of fairness towards those beneath us. It is a virtue your wife loves you for."

Sir Kralaford let the point of his sword drop from the woman's throat, the bonds restraining his anger tightening their hold again.

The woman's eyes flared with rage.

"I knew the knights of Klinberg were weak!"

Sir Kralaford turned away from her.

"You will not destroy me today, woman."

"Weak and pathetic and so easily fooled!"

Sir Kralaford took a step away from her, but she called after him, her voice merry with venom.

"We laughed when we saw you following us up Solridge's slopes! The great Commander Kralaford, abandoning his son to chase a bundle of rags!" Sir Kralaford felt his hand tighten on the hilt of his sword, but forced himself to take another step. "No one will follow you now! Who would follow a fool who failed?"

Sir Kralaford stopped.

"Commander," said Sir Unsaethel from the slope above him. "Withdraw."

"Your son is dead!" called the woman. "He is dead because you failed him!"

Sir Kralaford's sword came up as he turned, sliding in an arc aimed at the woman's throat. As it descended on her, her eyes were lit with the light of her victory.

"Commander Kralaford!"

It was a woman's voice, and it stopped the blade a hand's span from its kill.

The madriel that crested the rise of fallen masonry was spent. Its breathing grated in its throat, and spittle ran from its nose and its drooping jowls. When its rider jumped from its saddle, the beast collapsed and lay still and panting, its head nodding with exhaustion.

"Commander Kralaford," shouted the messenger through her own heavy breathing as she clambered down the stones towards him. "I have a message from Klinberg!" Sir Kralaford straightened, his sword falling to his side. "Commander, your son has been found! He lives!"

Sir Kralaford looked down at the woman he had come so close to killing, and in whose eyes the light of victory had died.

He said nothing, and turned away from her.

* * * * *

The air rang as two blades clashed together. Tasker's blow was too heavy to be stopped, but it was deflected, and its momentum carried the squire clumsily down on to one knee. He rose quickly, but his opponent's sword was already at his throat.

"You have my thanks, Squire Zemrossa," said Grifford.

Zemrossa pushed a tangled rope of hair back from his face with his free hand. His steed, whose bulk belied deceptive stealth, lowered its head and snorted at Grifford. Squire Henjin and Squire Ince, who had been flanking Zemrossa as the three boys had closed behind Tasker, brought their own steeds around to circle him.

"By attacking an unarmed foe, you have dishonoured your sword, Squire Tasker," said Zemrossa. "Drop it."

Tasker gave the three mounted squires a baleful look, and threw his sword to the grass.

"You will all pay for this."

"Be quiet, Squire Tasker, before you shame yourself further."

"You cannot give me orders, squire! It is not your place to pass judgement on me."

"You are right. That duty belongs to Commander Galder. Let us go and see what his judgement is when we inform him of your activities this morning."

"What activities!"

"The poisoning of Hakansa. Threatening the life of Squire Grifford. Involvement in the kidnapping of Commander Kralaford's son."

Tasker pointed savagely at Grifford.

"If this boy has told you anything, then you have been listening to lies. Show me your proof!"

Zemrossa gave a slow smile.

"Commander Galder might be interested in the contents of a bag that he will find hidden beneath the fabric of his pavilion. I took care not to remove it."

Grifford would once have taken great delight in the look of dread that suddenly fell on Tasker's face, but all it stirred in him was an unfamiliar sense of pity. His sympathy did not last as Tasker's look changed swiftly from fear to hatred.

"Fortak desert you all!"

Grifford tensed, expecting the boy to take up his sword in a futile attack, but he did not. Instead, he turned and ran, back down the avenue towards the battle-grounds.

Zemrossa gave a quick nod in the fleeing boy's direction, and Henjin and Ince turned their steeds to follow him. Zemrossa's steed growled in anticipation, his muscles tensed, but the squire calmed him quickly with a word.

He examined his sword, and then sheathed it.

"The Order is gathering at the arenas, Squire Grifford. Should you not be there yourself?"

Grifford looked along the empty avenue, north towards the mountains.

Zemrossa followed his gaze.

"Your father will return. You will do no good waiting for him here."

"And neither will you. Are you not required to be prepared for him in the readying hall?"

"I am," said Zemrossa and then, to Grifford's surprise, dismounted. "Come!"

He laid a strong arm over Grifford's shoulder and guided him along the avenue.

"I will walk with you."

His steed fell in behind them.

"What about Tasker?"

"Henjin and Ince will take care of him. Do not worry. High Lance-master Tzarren in on his way to appraise Sir Galder of the morning's events. Tasker will not talk his way out of his punishment."

Grifford frowned. It was not the way he had imagined his dispute with Tasker ending, but he supposed it would have to do.

"Maybe while we are on our way," said Zemrossa as they walked. "You can tell me about your morning's fortunes. I have heard a little of it from rumour, but now I have a mind to hear the story from yourself. It will pass the time before your father returns."

Zemrossa clapped him heavily on the shoulder and grinned, but Grifford could not share the older squire's optimism.

He glanced up at the nearest face of the observation tower's clock. Its outer cursor had almost completed its morning's circuit. After that, Fortak's dial would start to turn, and when thirty nine minutes had passed, the noon bell would toll.

That was how much time his father had left.