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lacked no such courage. They stooped awkwardly at the Baocians, trying to claw
with their talons and stab with their beaks. The Baocians cursed and beat them
off. Two bundles of black feathers lay on the cobbles
already, one still, one twitching.
Cazaril strode up to the menagerie doors, roaring, What in the Bastard s name
is going on here?
How dare you slay the sacred crows?
One of the Baocians pointed his sword toward him. Stay back, Lord Cazaril!
You may not pass!
We have strict orders from the royse!
Lips drawn back in fury, Cazaril knocked the sword aside with his cloaked arm,
lunged forward, and wrenched it from the guardsman s grasp. Give me that, you
fool! He flung it to the stones in the general direction of the Zangre
guards, and Palli, who had drawn in a panic when the unarmed Cazaril had waded
into the fray. The sword clanged and spun across the cobbles, till Foix
stopped it with a booted foot stamped down upon it, and held it with a
challenging weight and stare.
Cazaril turned on the second Baocian, whose blade drooped abruptly. Recoiling
from Cazaril s step, the guardsman cried hastily, Castillar, we do this to
preserve the life of Roya Orico!
Do what? Is Orico in there?
What are you about?
A feline snarl, rising to a yowl, from inside whirled Cazaril around, and he
left the daunted Baocian to the Zangre guards, now encouraged to advance. He
strode into the shadowed aisle of the menagerie.
The old tongueless groom was on his knees on the tiles, bent over, making
choked weeping sounds.
His thumbless hands were pressed to his face, and a little blood ran between
his fingers; he looked up at the sound of Cazaril s step, his quavering wet
mouth ravaged with woe. As he ran past the bears stalls, Cazaril glimpsed two
inert black heaps studded with crossbow bolts, fur wet and matted with blood.
The vellas stall door was open, and they lay on their sides in the bright
straw, eyes open and fixed, throats slashed.
At the far end of the aisle, Royse Teidez was rising to his feet from the limp
body of the spotted cat.
He pushed himself up with his bloodied sword, and leaned upon it, panting, his
face wild and exultant.
His shadow roiled around him like thunderclouds at midnight. He looked up at
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Cazaril and grinned fiercely. Ha! he cried.
The Baocian guard captain, a twisted little bird still in his hand, plunged
out of the aviary into Cazaril
s path. Bundles of colored feathers, dead and dying birds of all sizes,
littered the aviary floor, some still fluttering helplessly. Hold,
Castillar he began. His words were whipped away as Cazaril grasped him by
the tunic and spun him around, throwing him to the floor into the path of
Palli, who was following on his heels muttering in astonished dismay, Bastard
weeps. Bastard weeps . . . That had been Palli s battle-mumble at Gotorget,
when his sword had risen and fallen endlessly on men coming up over the
ladders, and he d had no breath for cries.
Hold him, Cazaril snarled over his shoulder, and strode on toward Teidez.
Teidez threw back his head and met Cazaril s eyes square-on. You can t stop
me I ve done it! I
have saved the roya!
What what what Cazaril was so frightened and furious, his lips and mind
could scarcely form coherent words. Fool boy! What destructive madness is
this, this . . . ? His hands opened, shaking, and jerked about.
Teidez leaned toward him, his teeth glinting in his drawn-back lips. I ve
broken the curse, the black magic that has been making Orico sick. It was
coming from these evil animals. They were a secret gift from the Roknari,
meant to slowly poison him. And we ve slain the Roknari spy I think . . .
Teidez glanced somewhat doubtfully over his shoulder.
Only then did Cazaril notice the last body on the floor at the far end of the
aisle. Umegat lay on his side in a heap, as unmoving as the birds or the
vellas. The carcasses of the sand foxes lay tumbled
nearby. Cazaril had not seen him at first, because his clear white glow was
extinguished.
Dead?
Cazaril moaned, lurched toward him, and fell to his knees. The left side of
Umegat s head was lacerated, the gray-bronze braid disheveled and soaked with
gore. His skin was as gray as an old rag. But his scalp was still sluggishly
bleeding, therefore . . .
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