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Chapter 16
The Black Piper
 

There is much good that can be said about fear. It reminds you of your mortality, and the necessity to see to your salvation. It sharpens the wits, and the senses, particularly the sense of taste, as the steely taste in the back of the mouth is distinctive.

There are those who don't care for the taste, though. I'm one of them.

—Cully

"I don't like it," Becket said, finally. "Should have taken the company of the earl's troops, and the Marines, and that's just for a starter."

The sky was clear; the moon high, and the night wind blew from the northwest, and it chilled him to the bone. Not that Becket was unused to discomfort. Of all of his companions, pain and discomfort were the most constant and the most reliable.

Sigerson's expression grew even more neutral than usual. He shook his head minutely. His long face was even more taciturn in the pale moonlight than it had been in daylight, and the pallor was almost ghostly.

"No, I don't think so—with all due respect, of course, Sir Martin. For watching an empty meadow, this company is more than large enough. A company of troops?" Rising from this crouch, he stretched broadly. "No," he said, "I think not." His wand was in his hand, and he used the tip of it to scratch at his sharp chin, then returned it to his sheath. "This group may be too large, and have scared off the prey. I don't sense anything around, and I'm thought to be fairly good at that sort of thing."

"I've heard many say you are," Bigglesworth said, "and none say otherwise, sir."

The fawning of Sigerson's manservant—knighted or not—was irritating. "Sir Melrose—"

"No sirring for me, if you please, Sir Martin," Bigglesworth said, interrupting. "Just Bigglesworth, if you please—or Biggles, or boy, or whatever." It wasn't the first time he had corrected Becket on that matter, and each time he had done it with the same speed—and the same casualness that verged on impertinence. Or more than verged on impertinence. "Find the title a titch embarrassing, I do."

Sigerson grinned, and Becket let it pass. He didn't much care for the wizard, which wasn't unusual, or necessarily reflective of a fault of Sigerson's—Becket found most people irritating or worse, and wizards moreso than most people.

For some reason or other, the fact that Sigerson didn't look like a wizard made it worse, not better. Most wizards that Becket had had the misfortune to encounter were round and soft, probably a function of a largely sedentary existence. Sigerson, on the other hand, was tall and lean, and almost preposterously healthy—on their way up he had even volunteered to spell Sir John and the boy, who had declined, and taken turns carrying Becket up to the edge of the clearing.

Instead of the robes of a fellow of His Majesty's College of Wizardry, Sigerson was dressed in a preposterously plain and unadorned set of Marine utilities, although his two-inch-wide broad belt, instead of being weighted down with any gear, held only a preposterously small, preposterously slim leather sheath on one side, and a small leather bag on the other.

"Just be still, if you please," Sir John said. "Waiting a while longer will do no harm, and may do some good."

That was the first time that Becket had heard from him; Sir John had sat motionless through the night. While the most of rest of the men had taken their leave of the improvised blind behind Hangman's Rock to slip down the hill and relieve themselves, John of Redhook had simply sat, as though frozen.

Becket hadn't moved, but that had been a matter of necessity, rather than choice. Damn his legs.

The six of them were crowded in too closely for Becket's taste, although he could see the sense in it. If the Amadan Dubh were to find his way to Hangman's Rock, it was best that they minimize the number of places where he could stumble upon his hunters.

The local boy finally did something, other than sitting there.

He set his hand on Sigerson's forearm, then touched his index finger to his lips. Sigerson's man started to stir at that, and so did Fotheringay, but Sir Niko turned to Fotheringay while Sigerson turned to Bigglesworth, each of them giving the smallest of head shakes simultaneously, a duplicate motion that almost caused Becket to laugh out loud.

"It matters little," McPhee said, quietly. "If the—if he who you seek chooses to manifest himself, I'm sure he'll do it willy-nilly—on his terms, Sir Eric, not ours."

"And you think he would think he could take on a White Knight of the Order, and a Red?" Sigerson asked.

" . . . and Sir Eric?" Bigglesworth put in.

McPhee shrugged. "About that, I'd not claim to know much. I don't claim to know much about the, about the Old Ones, and I'd not like to know more." Becket could more hear than see his frown. "But I've had the feeling that we've been watched for more than an hour, and my own feelings are the one thing that I do know much about. If I may?"

Becket wasn't sure if McPhee was asking him, but he nodded anyway.

Annoyingly, McPhee looked first to Sir John, who remained motionless, and then toward Sir Niko, who nodded.

What did McPhee think this was? Some sort of republic?

"A bheil Gáidhlig agaibh?" McPhee asked, as he turned back to Becket.

Well, of course he did, Becket said, and he said as much. "And Sir John does, as well."

"Then I shall — "

"But Sir Niko has damned little of it, and—"

"Then I shall speak in English, so Sir Niko will not misunderstand what I say. The Old Ones, it's said, find younger languages harsh on the ears, but I guess I shouldn't worry about offending the Dark Piper, eh?"

He rose slowly, and got to his feet, and cleared his throat. "You who watch, would you make yourself known?"

Silence answered.

If it was going to be that easy . . . 

"Again, I ask you: would you make yourself known?" McPhee asked. "I'm known as Miles McPhee, and I'd have words with you, and perhaps more than words."

The only sound was the wind whispering through the rocks and grasses. Damned silly. They would encounter the Amadan Dubh on his terms, not on theirs, of course. Trap him?

How?

But you do what you can, of course.

McPhee reached into his tunic and with exaggerated caution, pulled out a small pipe, and brought it to his lips, pulling out a few tentative notes before going into a surprisingly low-pitched, slow tune. Becket couldn't place it, and he had thought himself more than passingly familiar with much of the music of the island, from his years with Giscard and Grace.

McPhee played for the longest time, and if patience hadn't been Becket's companion even longer than had been pain, he would have been more than a little impatient.

The pipes played on.

Over to his right, Sigerson seemed to stir, but out of the corner of his eye Becket could see Bigglesworth touch a finger to his master's sleeve, and the wizard subsided.

The pipes played on.

McPhee's tune had never been fast or note-filled, but it had slowed down, and lowered in pitch, until it suggested a dirge, perhaps, or something equally mournful. Easy enough to be mournful about something as useless as sitting on the edge of a clearing, waiting for the Amadhan Dubh, who was clearly not going to show.

Kill me this Amadan Dubh, the king had said. But how were they to do that if they could not find him? Becket didn't care—as it didn't matter—that the king was notoriously impatient with failure. Becket was even more impatient with failure; the only excuse for a knight of the Order to fail was death—his own. And even that sort of failure could be a betrayal in and of itself, and to be viewed with suspicion until proven innocent.

Fools they were, fools they all were to trust the islander. Leading them out and up into the hills, only to sit through the night while nothing happened? Give time for the traitors in the coastal villages to flee? And flee they would—the Marines had no orders to prevent flight, and not enough numbers, even if they had such orders, to guard every stretch of beach from which a skiff or coracle could easily be launched.

Well, that could be handled. Fleeing traitors could be hunted down like the dogs that they were.

It made no difference. Patience would not be rewarded this night, but neither would reward issue from impatience. Plenty of time in the morning, after all and—

Wait. There was a sound. Another pipe—no, by God, another set of pipes!—off in the distance.

McPhee's playing slowly trailed off, and the other sounds became louder—no, not louder, but clearer. Each note with an edge on either side; each note pounding quietly, almost silently, in Becket's ears. Faster, and faster they came, and they played not only through his ears, but up and down his neck, and into his arms, and into the legs that had felt almost nothing but pain for years.

By God, he could feel long-flaccid muscles clenching and unclenching, and he found himself rising to his feet easily, effortlessly, without even a trace of the agony that had long been his constant companion.

Dance, the notes seem to say. Dance your joy, and your faith, and your life.

And dance he did.

He was not alone; the others were moving in the same slow gavotte that he was, save for Sigerson. Sir Niko swayed back and forth, and even Sir John danced to the tune, his long limbs preposterously graceful, absurdly awkward, both at the same time.

The sound filled Becket's ears, and his heart. As the pace picked up, his heart the faster and faster, in time with the song.

And then, off in the distance, Becket could finally see the hooded figure, standing at the far edge of the clearing—no, standing on the air, just above the far edge of the clearing, the long, pointed toes of his boots barely touching the grass from beneath the dark robes.

Dance, the song said. Dance faster and faster, and let it bring you to your destiny.

This time, Niko thought, we shall not be moved.

He had inserted the two small gobbets of wax in his ears at the first distant sound of the pipes, and pushed them in, hard, with his thumbs.

Despite what Sir Martin might have thought, his education had not completely escaped him—he remembered, from the Odyssey, that Ulysses had done the same thing, when resisting the call of the sirens, and had prepared himself.

Keep the music out of his head, yes; but don't reveal that to anybody, not in advance, for the world had a million ears, and you could never know which ones were listening.

Not ears, no—but hands. The world couldn't watch his hands at every moment.

So he danced, too. His movements were clumsy, but he was, after all just a clumsy outlander, and that would not be unexpected. Nadide would probably have noticed—surely she would have read his mind—but he didn't let so much as a finger rest upon her steel.

He would not have more than but a moment—and he might, if worse came to worst, not even have a moment—but he could try. The Amadan Dubh had escaped him the last time, despite his efforts. Was it that the combination, the union, the joining of him and Nadide that had frightened the Fairy Fool away? He simply didn't know, and there was no way of knowing.

Fotheringay danced, too. The squat little man would have looked almost comical under other circumstances, as his body twitch and capered to the music, only the tremors in his neck and clenched jaw indicating that he was fighting as hard as he could against the power, the magic, the majesty of the music.

And Becket was on his feet, too. Niko had never thought of Becket as a graceful man, but in his dancing there was a reflection of the man that Sir Martin had been in his youth.

It was Sir John who frightened him. As the big knight danced, he removed his sheathed swords from his sash, and dropped them to the grass, and moved away from them, toward the Amadan Dubh, his eyes never leaving the pipes as he moved, like a mouse hypnotized by a snake.

It was time to move. Or was it? Draw Nadide, run for Sir John's swords and throw the Goatboy to him, then attack the Fairy Fool simultaneously, with both of them joined to their companions, both of them with the full power of their swords, Red and White, upon them, break the spell and let the others—Bigglesworth, Sigerson, McPhee, and faithful Fotheringay—do what they could. That had to be the way of it—what was the other choice?

Wait until the Amadan Dubh could lay a hand upon Sir John?

No. It was time to move.

Now.

Nigel Fotheringay had always liked things simple. Life went better that way.

Even a complicated thing could be made simple, if you simply put your mind—and usually your back—to it. It had been that way from the day he had made his mark until, well, until recently. Being a Marine—private, corporal, and sergeant—had been difficult, true, more often than not. It had been, in its time, painful, boring, exciting, frightening, and many other things—but it had not been complicated.

Do what they tell you, then turn to and do more, and if you have a spare moment, you could take a breath and pray that the man beside you was doing the same.

And when it all went to hell around you—and that was one of the few things that you could count on this life: that it would go all the hell around you—just focus on your little piece of what was going on, and trust that that would be enough, because there wasn't a damned thing that you could do about it if it wasn't. Simple, see?

The lieutenant had always obsessed about how complicated it was to keep the company in training, and ready for action, and Fotheringay admitted that there was some truth in that. New recruits were clumsy as all hell, and utterly lacking in basic skills; too many of the experienced ones would allow themselves to go all sloppy and careless inside, and you could be all too easily fooled by a shipshape uniform, if you didn't look. Train them all the same, and either the younger ones would step on the experienced ones, or the experienced ones would find it too easy and slack off. And there were always the thieves, and the slaggards, who would not see to their gear when nobody was watching.

So keep it simple. Beat the younger ones into shape, and make an example of a thief and the slaggards every now and then, and if there was a man whom you couldn't trust, in the long run, just be sure that he was the first one over the side, and let the pirates solve your problem for you.

Simple. Keep it simple.

And it was the same with the young knight. Fotheringay didn't know anything about training a knight of the Order, so he had done what he could: he kept the young knight's kit in shape, saw to his needs the way an officer's dogrobber should, watched his back, and if he felt bad about reporting on the young knight behind his back, well, His Majesty had given Fotheringay his orders, and it wasn't for the likes of Nigel Fotheringay to be saying if those orders were right. The only thing he had to do was keep his eyes on the task at hand, and his hands at the task on hand. But the rest of the world could take care of itself; Nigel Fotheringay, about whom not much good could be said, knew his place, and kept to his place.

But that did him no good, here and now.

The mad piper's tunes had invaded his mind, and his body, and his limbs moved to the music, and not of his own will. He could have, he supposed, thought himself not to blame, for all the others were in the same, leaky, boat that Fotheringay was, but perhaps it was not unreasonable of him to be more concerned that the boat was sinking than whose fault the sinking was.

Just give me one chance, he thought. One chance to strike at the Amadan Dubh, one chance to distract the Amadan Dubh from the young knight, and the others. He would ask no more of himself than that.

But it might be enough. It was his little piece of what was going on, and to do that little piece was all that he could expect of himself.

Fotheringay had no feeling, one way or the other, about Sir John, but he was famous for his skill with his hands and his sword, and the Goatboy was known to be a White Sword of great power—between Sir Niko and Sir John, if there could be but a moment of distraction, perhaps, if only Fotheringay could—

But he couldn't. His feet moved faster and faster to the tune, and he could not force his clumsy, wretched, damned, useless hands into his pockets where he had secreted the gobbets of wax that Sir Niko had slipped into his hand, and silenced any possible questions a quick touch of the fingertip to his lips.

Simple, but useless.

That was Nigel Fotheringay. The lieutenant would have been ashamed of him.

And then there was Sigerson, Sigerson thought.

That was the way that Eric Sigerson had always thought about himself, after all, in the third person. Perhaps it was that it helped him to maintain a wizard's necessary objectivity—not perfect objectivity, of course; that would be as crippling as a lack of emotional distance—or perhaps it was just that that was the way that he was.

To be a wizard was to be in the world, but not of the world. The forces that flowed above, below, around, and through the mundane world were always of great power, and the purpose of the wizard was to be a conduit for that great power—but only in the limited way; too much power was, as Saint Acton had wisely observed, corrupting. Manipulate it—but just enough of it, and not one whit more—and you could be a credit to your teachers, and your College; take one step toward the Black, and you would find yourself, inexorably, up to your neck in the darkness.

He could smell the blackness. The amadan dubh fairly reeked of it.

Sigerson did not try to resist it, of course. Not directly. Matching his skills and spark against the Black flame of the amadan dubh would have been pointless. Sigerson was only human, after all, and the piper was something older, and something perhaps more and less, at the same time.

He would let it flow about him. That was all he was capable of; that was all he would do, at the moment. Raging, fighting, resisting, struggling—there was a place in the world for all of that, but that was not his place, not here, and not now.

But he would do what he could, if no more.

He let his eyes sag shut, and applied just a hint of a spark, just a ghost of a cantrip, and let the music and the madness wash around him, as he had once seen his own master part a raging stream with the sharp edge of an oak leaf.

Not resistance—avoidance. Just the slightest of forces to push it all to one side.

Another man, he thought, would have regretted not been able to come to the aid of the others. After all, Bigglesworth had been his manservant since Sigerson had been a boy. Sigerson admired Sir Niko for his force of character and courage, and who could resist Fotheringay's dog-like devotion? Or the quiet courage that Sir Martin wore with such improbable, smelly dignity? He didn't know Sir John well, but, of course, Sir John was a knight of the Order, and more than worthy of the assistance that Sigerson would have offered, if he could.

But he had none. Anchored safely, the streams of music and madness and magic passing about him, he remained in a paradox: completely free, yet completely trapped, for the only place to move was into that stream of music and madness and magic passing about him.

Let the stream alter its course, and he could alter his. But in the eternal, frozen moment that it coursed about him, the only thing he had to offer was frozen independence and objectivity.

And if that could not be enough, that was as it was; Eric Sigerson had nothing more to offer.

And so it came, as it had to, to John of Redhook.

Every man, perhaps, thinks himself a paradox, and John was no different.

He thought himself a good man, but he had spent more hours on his knees with rosary beads in his hands than most sinners. He thought himself a gentle man, but burned bodies and seared souls lined his path through life, particularly in the Kush. He thought himself a humble man, but he took pride in his flawed gentleness, and his marred goodness, and it did not fail to occur to him more days than not that the king himself ofttimes treated John as a confidant, and would give an ear and an open mind to what he had to say.

And he had, after all, and selected to carry the Goatboy, and bear the soul of a saint through life, as both weapon and companion.

Of all the things he prided himself on, though, it was on his self-control. He was the servant of the king of his own choosing, by his own choice, as he was a member of the Order. Forget the sword—the powers vested in any knight of the Order were far too dangerous as it was, and in the loss of self-control could have effects that would harm the innocent.

Sir John had harmed the innocent enough for one life. He would threaten, bluster, and rage, yes—but he would do it because he thought it necessary, not because he could not control the temper that had caused a much younger John Little to flee Redhook.

He would control his body—but now his body was not his own. It danced, it moved, it capered to the sounds of the pipes.

From the neck up, he was still his own man. He could watch the others, and at least whisper to himself.

"Well, old boy," he whispered, his lips barely moving. "Let's see what you are made of, eh?"

Just a matter of getting his hand on the Goatboy. But instead of touching the steel of the Goatboy, his hand dropped to the sheath, and he found himself extracting both of his swords from their sash, and dropping them to the ground, leaving them behind as each step, each move, each turn brought him closer to the mad piper.

Yes, it had all come down to Sir John, and he had been tried in the balance, and found wanting.

There was one thing left to do: he prayed. Silently, not even moving his lips.

God, this humble sinner stands before You asking not for Your protection, not for Your blessing, not for Your forgiveness of my sins, though they be grievous and many.

I ask of you: just give me control of my body, Lord, just for three heartbeats.

I beg of You: let me get my hands on the throat of this Amadan Dubh.

And if not my hands, Lord, at least my teeth.

But yet his hands and feet moved to the sound of the pipes, and not to his own will, or his prayers.

Prayers are always answered; often the answer is no. John of Redhook knew that, and he tried to resign himself to that no as not only a possibility, but a reality.

But this time he more felt than heard the whisper of wind behind him, then the cold steel of the hilt of the Goatboy was warm in his hands, and in his mind, and in his heart.

John, the Goatboy said. That was all.

Just: John.

There was no time for more than that, because, yet again, about him, about them, the world changed.

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Framed

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Chapter 16
The Black Piper
 

There is much good that can be said about fear. It reminds you of your mortality, and the necessity to see to your salvation. It sharpens the wits, and the senses, particularly the sense of taste, as the steely taste in the back of the mouth is distinctive.

There are those who don't care for the taste, though. I'm one of them.

—Cully

"I don't like it," Becket said, finally. "Should have taken the company of the earl's troops, and the Marines, and that's just for a starter."

The sky was clear; the moon high, and the night wind blew from the northwest, and it chilled him to the bone. Not that Becket was unused to discomfort. Of all of his companions, pain and discomfort were the most constant and the most reliable.

Sigerson's expression grew even more neutral than usual. He shook his head minutely. His long face was even more taciturn in the pale moonlight than it had been in daylight, and the pallor was almost ghostly.

"No, I don't think so—with all due respect, of course, Sir Martin. For watching an empty meadow, this company is more than large enough. A company of troops?" Rising from this crouch, he stretched broadly. "No," he said, "I think not." His wand was in his hand, and he used the tip of it to scratch at his sharp chin, then returned it to his sheath. "This group may be too large, and have scared off the prey. I don't sense anything around, and I'm thought to be fairly good at that sort of thing."

"I've heard many say you are," Bigglesworth said, "and none say otherwise, sir."

The fawning of Sigerson's manservant—knighted or not—was irritating. "Sir Melrose—"

"No sirring for me, if you please, Sir Martin," Bigglesworth said, interrupting. "Just Bigglesworth, if you please—or Biggles, or boy, or whatever." It wasn't the first time he had corrected Becket on that matter, and each time he had done it with the same speed—and the same casualness that verged on impertinence. Or more than verged on impertinence. "Find the title a titch embarrassing, I do."

Sigerson grinned, and Becket let it pass. He didn't much care for the wizard, which wasn't unusual, or necessarily reflective of a fault of Sigerson's—Becket found most people irritating or worse, and wizards moreso than most people.

For some reason or other, the fact that Sigerson didn't look like a wizard made it worse, not better. Most wizards that Becket had had the misfortune to encounter were round and soft, probably a function of a largely sedentary existence. Sigerson, on the other hand, was tall and lean, and almost preposterously healthy—on their way up he had even volunteered to spell Sir John and the boy, who had declined, and taken turns carrying Becket up to the edge of the clearing.

Instead of the robes of a fellow of His Majesty's College of Wizardry, Sigerson was dressed in a preposterously plain and unadorned set of Marine utilities, although his two-inch-wide broad belt, instead of being weighted down with any gear, held only a preposterously small, preposterously slim leather sheath on one side, and a small leather bag on the other.

"Just be still, if you please," Sir John said. "Waiting a while longer will do no harm, and may do some good."

That was the first time that Becket had heard from him; Sir John had sat motionless through the night. While the most of rest of the men had taken their leave of the improvised blind behind Hangman's Rock to slip down the hill and relieve themselves, John of Redhook had simply sat, as though frozen.

Becket hadn't moved, but that had been a matter of necessity, rather than choice. Damn his legs.

The six of them were crowded in too closely for Becket's taste, although he could see the sense in it. If the Amadan Dubh were to find his way to Hangman's Rock, it was best that they minimize the number of places where he could stumble upon his hunters.

The local boy finally did something, other than sitting there.

He set his hand on Sigerson's forearm, then touched his index finger to his lips. Sigerson's man started to stir at that, and so did Fotheringay, but Sir Niko turned to Fotheringay while Sigerson turned to Bigglesworth, each of them giving the smallest of head shakes simultaneously, a duplicate motion that almost caused Becket to laugh out loud.

"It matters little," McPhee said, quietly. "If the—if he who you seek chooses to manifest himself, I'm sure he'll do it willy-nilly—on his terms, Sir Eric, not ours."

"And you think he would think he could take on a White Knight of the Order, and a Red?" Sigerson asked.

" . . . and Sir Eric?" Bigglesworth put in.

McPhee shrugged. "About that, I'd not claim to know much. I don't claim to know much about the, about the Old Ones, and I'd not like to know more." Becket could more hear than see his frown. "But I've had the feeling that we've been watched for more than an hour, and my own feelings are the one thing that I do know much about. If I may?"

Becket wasn't sure if McPhee was asking him, but he nodded anyway.

Annoyingly, McPhee looked first to Sir John, who remained motionless, and then toward Sir Niko, who nodded.

What did McPhee think this was? Some sort of republic?

"A bheil Gáidhlig agaibh?" McPhee asked, as he turned back to Becket.

Well, of course he did, Becket said, and he said as much. "And Sir John does, as well."

"Then I shall — "

"But Sir Niko has damned little of it, and—"

"Then I shall speak in English, so Sir Niko will not misunderstand what I say. The Old Ones, it's said, find younger languages harsh on the ears, but I guess I shouldn't worry about offending the Dark Piper, eh?"

He rose slowly, and got to his feet, and cleared his throat. "You who watch, would you make yourself known?"

Silence answered.

If it was going to be that easy . . . 

"Again, I ask you: would you make yourself known?" McPhee asked. "I'm known as Miles McPhee, and I'd have words with you, and perhaps more than words."

The only sound was the wind whispering through the rocks and grasses. Damned silly. They would encounter the Amadan Dubh on his terms, not on theirs, of course. Trap him?

How?

But you do what you can, of course.

McPhee reached into his tunic and with exaggerated caution, pulled out a small pipe, and brought it to his lips, pulling out a few tentative notes before going into a surprisingly low-pitched, slow tune. Becket couldn't place it, and he had thought himself more than passingly familiar with much of the music of the island, from his years with Giscard and Grace.

McPhee played for the longest time, and if patience hadn't been Becket's companion even longer than had been pain, he would have been more than a little impatient.

The pipes played on.

Over to his right, Sigerson seemed to stir, but out of the corner of his eye Becket could see Bigglesworth touch a finger to his master's sleeve, and the wizard subsided.

The pipes played on.

McPhee's tune had never been fast or note-filled, but it had slowed down, and lowered in pitch, until it suggested a dirge, perhaps, or something equally mournful. Easy enough to be mournful about something as useless as sitting on the edge of a clearing, waiting for the Amadhan Dubh, who was clearly not going to show.

Kill me this Amadan Dubh, the king had said. But how were they to do that if they could not find him? Becket didn't care—as it didn't matter—that the king was notoriously impatient with failure. Becket was even more impatient with failure; the only excuse for a knight of the Order to fail was death—his own. And even that sort of failure could be a betrayal in and of itself, and to be viewed with suspicion until proven innocent.

Fools they were, fools they all were to trust the islander. Leading them out and up into the hills, only to sit through the night while nothing happened? Give time for the traitors in the coastal villages to flee? And flee they would—the Marines had no orders to prevent flight, and not enough numbers, even if they had such orders, to guard every stretch of beach from which a skiff or coracle could easily be launched.

Well, that could be handled. Fleeing traitors could be hunted down like the dogs that they were.

It made no difference. Patience would not be rewarded this night, but neither would reward issue from impatience. Plenty of time in the morning, after all and—

Wait. There was a sound. Another pipe—no, by God, another set of pipes!—off in the distance.

McPhee's playing slowly trailed off, and the other sounds became louder—no, not louder, but clearer. Each note with an edge on either side; each note pounding quietly, almost silently, in Becket's ears. Faster, and faster they came, and they played not only through his ears, but up and down his neck, and into his arms, and into the legs that had felt almost nothing but pain for years.

By God, he could feel long-flaccid muscles clenching and unclenching, and he found himself rising to his feet easily, effortlessly, without even a trace of the agony that had long been his constant companion.

Dance, the notes seem to say. Dance your joy, and your faith, and your life.

And dance he did.

He was not alone; the others were moving in the same slow gavotte that he was, save for Sigerson. Sir Niko swayed back and forth, and even Sir John danced to the tune, his long limbs preposterously graceful, absurdly awkward, both at the same time.

The sound filled Becket's ears, and his heart. As the pace picked up, his heart the faster and faster, in time with the song.

And then, off in the distance, Becket could finally see the hooded figure, standing at the far edge of the clearing—no, standing on the air, just above the far edge of the clearing, the long, pointed toes of his boots barely touching the grass from beneath the dark robes.

Dance, the song said. Dance faster and faster, and let it bring you to your destiny.

This time, Niko thought, we shall not be moved.

He had inserted the two small gobbets of wax in his ears at the first distant sound of the pipes, and pushed them in, hard, with his thumbs.

Despite what Sir Martin might have thought, his education had not completely escaped him—he remembered, from the Odyssey, that Ulysses had done the same thing, when resisting the call of the sirens, and had prepared himself.

Keep the music out of his head, yes; but don't reveal that to anybody, not in advance, for the world had a million ears, and you could never know which ones were listening.

Not ears, no—but hands. The world couldn't watch his hands at every moment.

So he danced, too. His movements were clumsy, but he was, after all just a clumsy outlander, and that would not be unexpected. Nadide would probably have noticed—surely she would have read his mind—but he didn't let so much as a finger rest upon her steel.

He would not have more than but a moment—and he might, if worse came to worst, not even have a moment—but he could try. The Amadan Dubh had escaped him the last time, despite his efforts. Was it that the combination, the union, the joining of him and Nadide that had frightened the Fairy Fool away? He simply didn't know, and there was no way of knowing.

Fotheringay danced, too. The squat little man would have looked almost comical under other circumstances, as his body twitch and capered to the music, only the tremors in his neck and clenched jaw indicating that he was fighting as hard as he could against the power, the magic, the majesty of the music.

And Becket was on his feet, too. Niko had never thought of Becket as a graceful man, but in his dancing there was a reflection of the man that Sir Martin had been in his youth.

It was Sir John who frightened him. As the big knight danced, he removed his sheathed swords from his sash, and dropped them to the grass, and moved away from them, toward the Amadan Dubh, his eyes never leaving the pipes as he moved, like a mouse hypnotized by a snake.

It was time to move. Or was it? Draw Nadide, run for Sir John's swords and throw the Goatboy to him, then attack the Fairy Fool simultaneously, with both of them joined to their companions, both of them with the full power of their swords, Red and White, upon them, break the spell and let the others—Bigglesworth, Sigerson, McPhee, and faithful Fotheringay—do what they could. That had to be the way of it—what was the other choice?

Wait until the Amadan Dubh could lay a hand upon Sir John?

No. It was time to move.

Now.

Nigel Fotheringay had always liked things simple. Life went better that way.

Even a complicated thing could be made simple, if you simply put your mind—and usually your back—to it. It had been that way from the day he had made his mark until, well, until recently. Being a Marine—private, corporal, and sergeant—had been difficult, true, more often than not. It had been, in its time, painful, boring, exciting, frightening, and many other things—but it had not been complicated.

Do what they tell you, then turn to and do more, and if you have a spare moment, you could take a breath and pray that the man beside you was doing the same.

And when it all went to hell around you—and that was one of the few things that you could count on this life: that it would go all the hell around you—just focus on your little piece of what was going on, and trust that that would be enough, because there wasn't a damned thing that you could do about it if it wasn't. Simple, see?

The lieutenant had always obsessed about how complicated it was to keep the company in training, and ready for action, and Fotheringay admitted that there was some truth in that. New recruits were clumsy as all hell, and utterly lacking in basic skills; too many of the experienced ones would allow themselves to go all sloppy and careless inside, and you could be all too easily fooled by a shipshape uniform, if you didn't look. Train them all the same, and either the younger ones would step on the experienced ones, or the experienced ones would find it too easy and slack off. And there were always the thieves, and the slaggards, who would not see to their gear when nobody was watching.

So keep it simple. Beat the younger ones into shape, and make an example of a thief and the slaggards every now and then, and if there was a man whom you couldn't trust, in the long run, just be sure that he was the first one over the side, and let the pirates solve your problem for you.

Simple. Keep it simple.

And it was the same with the young knight. Fotheringay didn't know anything about training a knight of the Order, so he had done what he could: he kept the young knight's kit in shape, saw to his needs the way an officer's dogrobber should, watched his back, and if he felt bad about reporting on the young knight behind his back, well, His Majesty had given Fotheringay his orders, and it wasn't for the likes of Nigel Fotheringay to be saying if those orders were right. The only thing he had to do was keep his eyes on the task at hand, and his hands at the task on hand. But the rest of the world could take care of itself; Nigel Fotheringay, about whom not much good could be said, knew his place, and kept to his place.

But that did him no good, here and now.

The mad piper's tunes had invaded his mind, and his body, and his limbs moved to the music, and not of his own will. He could have, he supposed, thought himself not to blame, for all the others were in the same, leaky, boat that Fotheringay was, but perhaps it was not unreasonable of him to be more concerned that the boat was sinking than whose fault the sinking was.

Just give me one chance, he thought. One chance to strike at the Amadan Dubh, one chance to distract the Amadan Dubh from the young knight, and the others. He would ask no more of himself than that.

But it might be enough. It was his little piece of what was going on, and to do that little piece was all that he could expect of himself.

Fotheringay had no feeling, one way or the other, about Sir John, but he was famous for his skill with his hands and his sword, and the Goatboy was known to be a White Sword of great power—between Sir Niko and Sir John, if there could be but a moment of distraction, perhaps, if only Fotheringay could—

But he couldn't. His feet moved faster and faster to the tune, and he could not force his clumsy, wretched, damned, useless hands into his pockets where he had secreted the gobbets of wax that Sir Niko had slipped into his hand, and silenced any possible questions a quick touch of the fingertip to his lips.

Simple, but useless.

That was Nigel Fotheringay. The lieutenant would have been ashamed of him.

And then there was Sigerson, Sigerson thought.

That was the way that Eric Sigerson had always thought about himself, after all, in the third person. Perhaps it was that it helped him to maintain a wizard's necessary objectivity—not perfect objectivity, of course; that would be as crippling as a lack of emotional distance—or perhaps it was just that that was the way that he was.

To be a wizard was to be in the world, but not of the world. The forces that flowed above, below, around, and through the mundane world were always of great power, and the purpose of the wizard was to be a conduit for that great power—but only in the limited way; too much power was, as Saint Acton had wisely observed, corrupting. Manipulate it—but just enough of it, and not one whit more—and you could be a credit to your teachers, and your College; take one step toward the Black, and you would find yourself, inexorably, up to your neck in the darkness.

He could smell the blackness. The amadan dubh fairly reeked of it.

Sigerson did not try to resist it, of course. Not directly. Matching his skills and spark against the Black flame of the amadan dubh would have been pointless. Sigerson was only human, after all, and the piper was something older, and something perhaps more and less, at the same time.

He would let it flow about him. That was all he was capable of; that was all he would do, at the moment. Raging, fighting, resisting, struggling—there was a place in the world for all of that, but that was not his place, not here, and not now.

But he would do what he could, if no more.

He let his eyes sag shut, and applied just a hint of a spark, just a ghost of a cantrip, and let the music and the madness wash around him, as he had once seen his own master part a raging stream with the sharp edge of an oak leaf.

Not resistance—avoidance. Just the slightest of forces to push it all to one side.

Another man, he thought, would have regretted not been able to come to the aid of the others. After all, Bigglesworth had been his manservant since Sigerson had been a boy. Sigerson admired Sir Niko for his force of character and courage, and who could resist Fotheringay's dog-like devotion? Or the quiet courage that Sir Martin wore with such improbable, smelly dignity? He didn't know Sir John well, but, of course, Sir John was a knight of the Order, and more than worthy of the assistance that Sigerson would have offered, if he could.

But he had none. Anchored safely, the streams of music and madness and magic passing about him, he remained in a paradox: completely free, yet completely trapped, for the only place to move was into that stream of music and madness and magic passing about him.

Let the stream alter its course, and he could alter his. But in the eternal, frozen moment that it coursed about him, the only thing he had to offer was frozen independence and objectivity.

And if that could not be enough, that was as it was; Eric Sigerson had nothing more to offer.

And so it came, as it had to, to John of Redhook.

Every man, perhaps, thinks himself a paradox, and John was no different.

He thought himself a good man, but he had spent more hours on his knees with rosary beads in his hands than most sinners. He thought himself a gentle man, but burned bodies and seared souls lined his path through life, particularly in the Kush. He thought himself a humble man, but he took pride in his flawed gentleness, and his marred goodness, and it did not fail to occur to him more days than not that the king himself ofttimes treated John as a confidant, and would give an ear and an open mind to what he had to say.

And he had, after all, and selected to carry the Goatboy, and bear the soul of a saint through life, as both weapon and companion.

Of all the things he prided himself on, though, it was on his self-control. He was the servant of the king of his own choosing, by his own choice, as he was a member of the Order. Forget the sword—the powers vested in any knight of the Order were far too dangerous as it was, and in the loss of self-control could have effects that would harm the innocent.

Sir John had harmed the innocent enough for one life. He would threaten, bluster, and rage, yes—but he would do it because he thought it necessary, not because he could not control the temper that had caused a much younger John Little to flee Redhook.

He would control his body—but now his body was not his own. It danced, it moved, it capered to the sounds of the pipes.

From the neck up, he was still his own man. He could watch the others, and at least whisper to himself.

"Well, old boy," he whispered, his lips barely moving. "Let's see what you are made of, eh?"

Just a matter of getting his hand on the Goatboy. But instead of touching the steel of the Goatboy, his hand dropped to the sheath, and he found himself extracting both of his swords from their sash, and dropping them to the ground, leaving them behind as each step, each move, each turn brought him closer to the mad piper.

Yes, it had all come down to Sir John, and he had been tried in the balance, and found wanting.

There was one thing left to do: he prayed. Silently, not even moving his lips.

God, this humble sinner stands before You asking not for Your protection, not for Your blessing, not for Your forgiveness of my sins, though they be grievous and many.

I ask of you: just give me control of my body, Lord, just for three heartbeats.

I beg of You: let me get my hands on the throat of this Amadan Dubh.

And if not my hands, Lord, at least my teeth.

But yet his hands and feet moved to the sound of the pipes, and not to his own will, or his prayers.

Prayers are always answered; often the answer is no. John of Redhook knew that, and he tried to resign himself to that no as not only a possibility, but a reality.

But this time he more felt than heard the whisper of wind behind him, then the cold steel of the hilt of the Goatboy was warm in his hands, and in his mind, and in his heart.

John, the Goatboy said. That was all.

Just: John.

There was no time for more than that, because, yet again, about him, about them, the world changed.

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