I was jostled sideways once more as the squealing, stinking, filthy, rickety manure cart lurched forward.

Cyrus had offered to oil it before we left, but I'd refused. As soon as I'd seen the thing I knew it would be perfect, and hearing the groaning creak of weathered wood and axle simply confirmed it. I'd bought it on the spot.

As it turned out, it was even the right width for what I wanted, about eight feet. According to the plans I'd had Cyrus locate, Blackstaag's theatrical sense of tradition extended to the more functional aspects of his keep. The front entrance to his home was a nine foot wide, unfriendly looking gate-and-drawbridge setup. His main greeting hall lay just beyond it, straight down the hall.

Turning behind me, I inspected the contents of the cart, the sight causing me to grin yet again. I looked to Cyrus, who had been doing his level best to maintain a somber expression upon sitting atop the donkey-drawn wagon, but who would begin smirking at odd times, his shoulders shaking slightly.

I gave a quick glance to my eight knights, all of whom were walking beside the cart. Each of their faces bore a confident, amused grin, very likely influenced by the number of bonuses I'd handed out.

It had been a good day. For me, anyway.

We'd visited all of the Lords on the list Cyrus and I had made, spent the entire afternoon bringing each of them whatever precious treasure had been stolen, each item wrapped in cloth to keep it safe from any prying eyes. Although we'd taken great pains to disguise what was being returned, we didn't bother with being discreet when it came to who was returning it.

I'd spoken personally with each Lord and Lady that had been stolen from, briefly explaining that I'd found something of theirs on my territory, leaving out the actual details but suggesting that it was all part of a glaringly obvious attempt to frame me. Once that was done, we engaged in chit-chat, asking about each other's health and other meaningless conversation that lasted just long enough for me to be certain that a certain unspoken message got through to them - I could have done much, much worse.

These purloined treasures of theirs had been dropped in my lap, and I could have spent the next six months planning banquet after banquet, returning each item to their owner through embarrassing public spectacle, tarnishing their reputations while glorifying my own. They owed me, and I took great pains to make sure they knew it, smiling as I did.

In the end, well, let's just say I anticipated there would be some much needed peace and quiet at Tucat Keep in the next little while, and that the wee morning hours would be mercifully devoid of the sound of alarms clanging away.

A thoroughly satisfied smile reached my lips as Blackstaag Keep, the last keep on our list, honed into view. I stifled a chuckle. It was just after lunchtime, and the closer we got to the gates, the more obvious it became that Talia's efforts had met with some measure of success. Two of Blackstaag's knights were on either side of the lowered drawbridge, both wielding old-fashioned pikes, both looking desperately alarmed.

It wasn't our sudden appearance that was to blame – each knight looked to be in grave discomfort, as though desperately hoping an opportunity would come up for them to take a quick break. One was leaning heavily on his pike with a hand pressed against his stomach. The other, while standing more or less straight, had a fine sheen of perspiration covering his face.

Talia had taken great exception to how Garrett had been treated, in addition to all the other brazenly obnoxious things Blackstaag's knights had been doing in public lately. In the note she'd left me, she mentioned coming across a very significant amount of Senna seedpod extract, a very powerful laxative. She also mentioned the fact that one of Blackstaag's cooks, the one who prepared the knights lunches, appeared to be smitten with her.

I'll leave the details to your imagination.

“Milord,” grinned Cyrus, turning to look at me, “if I may just say - of all the jobs I've ever had, working for you has been the most entertaining.”

“Duly noted,” I grinned back, standing in my seat and waving at the guards as we approached. “I say, hello there! Hail, and all that! I've got something here for Lord Blackstaag. Might we be allowed to present it to him?”

“Ardjsch . . . inna eck,” the one on the right gasped, pointing and grimacing in my direction.

“No-one . . . is allowed-” the other began weakly, bending slightly at the waist. Both of them sounded as if they could start weeping at any moment.

“Excellent. Don't bother yourselves over the door, we'll take care of it,” I said, smiling. “Gentlemen?”

My own grinning knights marched forward and began working away at the gates. The knights guarding the entrance could do little more than watch, occasionally motioning to object before hunching over in obvious pain. Before too long a mighty clacking could be heard, followed by the impressive creak of the large oak doors being pried apart.

When enough space existed for the rickety cart to drive through, I gently snapped the reins and urged the pair of donkeys forward, most of my knights following closely behind me.

About ten feet into our procession, one of the donkeys let out a whine of distress and outrage, attracting the notice of several of Blackstaag's staff. I smiled politely at them, outwardly pretending that there was nothing unusual about what I was doing, steering the ramshackle cart down the hall and towards the main greeting hall that lay beyond it. Cyrus was now covering his mouth, feigning a coughing fit so that his true expression could be hidden from view. Nobody stopped us, or attempted to stop us, or did anything but stand there looking bewildered. None of Blackstaag's knights were anywhere to be seen, though I could hazard a guess as to where they all were.

There was a gently sloping ramp at the end of the hall instead of stairs leading down, which was even more perfect than I'd expected, and I barely had to slow the wagon's progress as we entered Blackstaag's greeting hall.

Even with the two rows of tables crowding it, the room was as enormous as my exercise hall – two hundred feet wide, quite easily as tall, and more than twice that distance end-to-end. A pot-bellied and heavily bearded Lord Blackstaag sat in a chair at the very end, which was located on a raised platform against the far wall, one that could have easily passed for a stage. It was like an enclave of golden light huddled in the back of the room, and it was so starkly different from the rest of the cold grey-stoned room that it almost appeared to be holding itself aloof, like it were somehow better than the rest of the hall it was a part of.

There were shelves there, an elegant wooden dining table, ornate furnishings, pictures, papers, burning candles and various other items nearby him. In addition, there was an odd shelf that contained several elaborately decorated glass and porcelain containers, each about the size of a wine bottle, very much like the one Cyrus was keeping safe.

Probably the rest of his family. Eugh . . .

Blackstaag was shouting loudly at a nearby servant in a phlegmy, guttural language, one that I'd become all too familiar with lately. Aside from them, the only other men I could see were two of Blackstaag's knights, both of whom stood in the corners of the room a short distance away from the stage-like area. Both looked ready to keel over, expressions pained and anxious, much like their fellows outside.

It took several cart-lengths for the angry Lord to become aware of us advancing towards him, but once he did, his eyes practically bugged out of his skull.

“Lord Blackstaag!” I called out cheerfully, waiting until we'd traversed most of the hall before speaking. “I bid you good day, and have brought you a present. Nay, several presents!”

I leapt to my feet and stood up in my seat just as the cart lurched to a stop, and had to windmill my non-bandaged arm for balance. I recovered a second later, and smiled.

“Koff len jchgurg'ach feischen baan,” Blackstaag sputtered at me, bits of spittle actually escaping his lips. “Outrageous! You will leave at once!” He yanked on a nearby ribbon, causing an invisible bell to gong noisily before turning angrily to one side of him and then the other, addressing his two knights. “Feicha! Tuulic!”

Both guards immediately attempted to stand at attention, one of them actually coming close. A sound reminiscent of an oil vat being emptied erupted from the stomach of the one on the right, and with a small cry he bent forward, clutching his midsection.

“Oh, you'll probably want to leave them alone,” I said, gesturing at the guards. “It looks like they've eaten something that disagreed with them. Also, I wouldn't count on your other knights rushing in here to help you. Poor fellows. Anyways . . . good to see you, Blackstaag old boy! I figured the two of us should probably have a bit of a sit-down, hey? How are things?”

“Things?” he sputtered, practically growling the word. “Half my knights are missing, and my remaining knights have all taken ill! You're behind this, strenga-dolche . . . I'll have the meat flayed from your bones for this!”

“Really? Well, that sounds fun. Anyways,” I said, bounding off of the cart and onto the stone floor, “to business!”

He scowled, eyes burning with a fiery hatred.

“Some of my contacts have recently informed me,” I continued, speaking in a serious tone, “that you've taken something of a dislike towards me. It bothers me – stuff like that always does. And so, hoping to repair some of the ill will between us, I have brought you this gift!”

I spun and gestured towards the cart just as a couple of my knights had finished untethering the donkeys and unfastening the latches at the back. I watched as the eight of them got on either side, heaving until the end of the cart bed was touching the floor, causing it to empty its contents onto the floor.

In addition to some elderly fertilizer, several lumpy, man-sized, grey linen bags came tumbling out of the back of the up-ended cart, a couple of them making weak 'Hoof!' noises upon hitting the stone floor. Many bags had bare feet sticking out of them.

“I found these poor fellows wandering around my territory, wounded, quite obviously lost,” I said, waving an arm at the feebly struggling mass of men, linen, and fertilizer behind me. “Once I'd rescued them, why, they were so appreciative that they offered me their swords, their boots, the very clothes they were wearing! I had refused, of course, but they'd insisted, and I didn't have the heart to tell them 'no'.

“And so as a gift to you, noble Lord Blackstaag, I have brought these men back here to you, safe and sound. Although,” I looked at the bound and covered pile of men thoughtfully, “some of them did seem to get rather thoroughly tangled up in their sleeping bags last night. Poor devils. I'll leave it to you to sort them out . . . you can even keep the cart - it's on me.”

I smiled at him beatifically and waited. My knights, their work with the foul-smelling wagon done with, retreated out of earshot so they could cover the various entrances to the room, like they had been instructed.

“Khoschin'ghu! I come from a land where men are skinned alive as an example! When I'm done with you-”

“Oh, one more thing! I almost forgot,” I said, reaching over to carefully accept the decorative container Cyrus was handing me, its contents sloshing the tiniest bit. “We did happen upon a strange item sometime yesterday, and managed to determine that it belonged to you. Hey, look!” I said to the object I held, giving a nod to the shelf full of similar items that was sitting behind Blackstaag. “There are your friends, right over there! See?”

Blackstaag stared at what I held in silence, nobody saying a word for a good long while.

In fact, it was so quiet that the only sound I could hear was the desperate (and somewhat alarming) gurgling noises coming from the stomachs of the two unfortunate knights of Blackstaag's who stood nearby.

“Lord Blackstaag, I really think you should probably allow these two knights here,” I indicated them with a nod of my head, “to take a break or perhaps get some air. They look terribly uncomfortable, and I'm afraid that you probably don't want them hearing a couple of the things I'm going to say to you in a minute or so. Lordly stuff, very private . . . you understand.”

I saw a glimmer of hope appear on one knight's face, and I tried not to laugh.

“I'll do no such thing! You cannot come in here, command me, tell me what to do! This is my keep,” he sputtered. “They stay where they are.”

“It's going to be really embarrassing,” I said in a sing-song voice.

“I should kill you where you stand!” he blustered indignantly.

After giving a long-suffering sigh, I walked forward towards the stage area, holding the colorfully decorated container at head height.

“Okay, you've forced my hand. Send your knights away, or mother dearest here,” I gestured at what I held, “gets to experience a very sudden, very messy, family reunion.”

I gave a significant look to the crowded shelf behind him.

“You wouldn't dare!” Blackstaag shouted.

“And-a-one . . .” I said, my tone bored.

“Your entrails will decorate my gate!”

“And-a-two . . .” I said, arm tensing to throw what I held.

“Feicha! Tuulic! Skcholo meih fhest!” he spat.

The two knights both gave slight nods to indicate they'd heard, heading to the nearby exit as quickly as they could manage. One of them was clutching his belly, and walked with a slight limp.

“See, Lord Blackstaag? You're learning – isn't that great?” I smiled, turning to address the vase-like container I held. “And you didn't think he would. You really should have more faith in your son.”

Blackstaag bared his teeth at me, but said nothing.

“So, here's the thing,” I said, taking a few wandering steps to one side. “I don't think you're really fitting in. Harael, that is. It's a tricky place, and it appears you're just not getting the hang of it. I mean, as an example; you've gone and pissed me off, a Lord who's infinitely better at this sort of thing than you are. Not smart at all. So, you have some choices to make, and I, your helpful neighbor, wanted to drop by and make sure you knew what those choices were.”

“Choices? Like, when to kill you?”

“So funny, Lord Blackstaag, but do please pay attention. This is no time for your wacky Garmuthian sense of humor. Now, the first choice you have is obvious - sell your estate, take the money, and either retire or go back to Garmuth. The obvious advantage - you can outwardly pretend that you aren't a colossal failure, and that you weren't drummed out of the city. Now, you can arrange to sell it to me within six months time, or you can sell it to someone else right away. You'll probably get a better price from me, since there aren't too many people who want to be my neighbor at the moment. I can see how you might not want to sell it to me, though, since I'm going to be the one responsible for drumming you out of town and all. Still, that's the first option.”

“And what makes you think I want to sell my estate?” he growled.

“Oh, 'want' has nothing to do with it, I agree. These are simply your choices. The second option, of course, is that you sell just enough property to ensure that you and I are no longer neighbors. See, with you no longer owning property that borders mine, I may become busy enough that I have no time for you. Unlikely, and frightfully optimistic, given how angry I am, but still possible. And, of course, there's the third option – you do nothing.

“If you go with the third choice . . . well, you simply have to keep running your territory the way you have been. Blustering around blindly, threatening me, stomping around like a mad gorilla, plotting assassination, pretending you don't know better . . . things like that. Within a couple of months, well,” I smiled, and gave a small shrug with my good shoulder, “I'll destroy you. Entirely and utterly. I'll make sure the name 'Blackstaag' becomes synonymous with disgrace – the losing of everything of value it is possible to lose. Territory, gold, valuables, tenants, staff . . . I'll steal the torch-holders from your walls, and the metal hinges from your doors. The scope of your failure, the full extent of your abject humiliation, will be discussed among scholars for generations.”

“Feischen baan, khoschin'ghu!” Blackstaag snarled, grabbing his armrests.

“Goodness!” I said, cocking my ear towards the vase-like object I held, pretending to listen for a moment and then turning my head to address it. “I know! Such language . . . one can hardly believe one's ears!”

“You think I am helpless against a strenga-dolche weakling like yourself?” he spat. “I shall do as I please!”

“Oh. I see. Option three. Well then, by all means invite some of your staff back in the room, your knights and such. I'll outline your three choices again, you can call me a stringy something-or-other in front of them and announce you'll do as you please. That'll impress 'em – show them you can't be pushed around. Very manly. Why don't you call for a few of them now?”

He ground his teeth, but said nothing.

“Ahh, see? There's that whole 'learning' thing again – you figured it out all by yourself! Not many options once you do that, are there? Not only do you know that you'd be forcing me to tear you to pieces, but you've probably also realized by now that I have many different ways to choose from! I mean, for starters, I could challenge you to a duel. If my petition to the Prince mentioned the fact that your knights had assaulted one of my tenants . . . well, I'm all but guaranteed to get a duel out of that. Word about town is that I'm responsible for killing a master swordsman single-handedly, so if I announce that I'll be fighting the duel myself, hiring a duelist to fight it on your behalf won't be cheap. Of course, a Garmuthian who was even thinking about hiring a duelist to fight for him would be considered a coward, wouldn't he? Especially if all his friends and relatives from Garmuth had been invited to come watch.

“And, even if you somehow managed to swallow your pride and hire a duelist, once the duel was over I'd just go to another Lord or Lady I'm friendly with and ask them to challenge you, offering to fight on their behalf. Sooner or later you'd have to fight me yourself. Or, you may simply run out of money trying to avoid fighting me, eventually having to flee the city. Who knows?

“Of course, I may not even need to resort to something like that now that I have eight authentic Blackstaag knight outfits . . . I could simply hire a pair of unsavory fellows to dress up like your guards, walk into your keep in broad daylight, have them do all sorts of nasty things to you. I could probably sneak in and do something like that myself actually, if I had a mind to. In fact, I could probably even buy a couple of your knights or other staff as we speak – you don't seem like the sort who inspires fierce loyalty. Just imagine what that would be like, being afraid of what lay around every corner in your own home, wondering who you could trust.”

His body language had become more and more defensive, and he didn't give a word in reply. I let him sit there in silence.

“Well, I'm afraid I really must get going, Blackstaag. So glad we had this chat. By the way, in case I have to mention it, you and your knights are no longer welcome in my territory. Any of your knights caught wandering into my property won't be coming back to you. Ever. Additionally,” I gave him a steely eyed glare, “the boy your knights were chasing, Connor, is under my protection, and I'll be keeping a close eye on him. If he's injured, beaten, threatened, feels threatened . . . if he so much as develops a case of the sniffles and I suspect you're involved, I'll come at you with everything I've got. Understood?”

He didn't nod, didn't speak, didn't do anything except sit there in his chair, glowering at me.

“Is that understood?” I repeated, warningly.

Blackstaag nodded.

“If you touch the boy, I kill you,” I said, staring him dead in the eye. “Say it.”

No-one moved for nearly half a minute.

“I touch the boy,” he growled through clenched teeth, “you kill me.”

“Excellent,” I said, smiling. Then, without any warning at all, I tossed the colorful glass and porcelain container I held high into the air towards him.

Blackstaag froze in his chair for the briefest instant, and then lurched forward in a panic, desperate to catch the thing before it could hit the floor.

He failed.

The thing shattered into several pieces a foot beyond Blackstaag's outstretched arms, its contents splashing him and everything nearby with a dark red substance that looked exactly like foxberry jam.

Probably because it was foxberry jam.

A very messy and jelly-spattered Lord Blackstaag looked at me with wide eyes, his lower lip trembling slightly, beads of sweat (and jam) standing out on his face, his expression a mixture of shock, confusion, and astonishment.

Smirking slightly, I accepted a second, much more elaborately decorated glass and porcelain container from Cyrus, one that held the remains of Blackstaag's mother. Lifting what I held up for the stricken Lord to see, I smiled briefly before gently depositing it on the floor.

“Dreadfully sorry about that, old boy, but I simply couldn't help myself. You should have seen your face!” I said, grinning. Then, I furrowed my brow, as if realizing something. “Sorry, perhaps I should explain, you might not have them where you come from. You see, in Harael,” I gestured towards the mess of jam and broken crockery before him, “that was what's called 'a joke' . . .”