It was a small miracle that Sir Stalwart, companion in the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades, did not topple off the rock and perform a graceful seal dive into the black water racing right under his head. He hauled himself up with the aid of the rope and wriggled backward until more of him was supported. He felt giddy—from being upside down, or the shock, or both.
He had first seen Digby more than two years ago, droning on about honor and service on Durendal Night. He had seen him again in the palace. Although they had not been close on either occasion, he was absolutely certain that the man in the water was Digby—and Digby clad in the remains of a forester’s green. This was madness! No one could have spirited that corpse from Grandon all the way here. And for what purpose? Just to flush it down Smealey Hole?
The body in the water must be the real Lord Digby, and the man who had died in Nocare had been an imposter. Just because no one had ever heard of an enchantment that would make one man look exactly like another did not mean that one could not be invented. The switch had been made when he’d visited Smealey Hall, and the phony had been sent back with Rhys….
There were maggots in that theory. Why had none of Digby’s retainers detected the change? Or the King, his friend? Why had the White Sisters not sensed the magic on him when he entered the hall…? And the wrong man had died anyway! Why? How? Had the fake Lord Digby intended to kill the King and somehow turned the sorcery on himself? And why had the White Sisters not detected that piece of magic when he brought it in? Why had the imposter not made his move the previous evening, when he’d supped with the King?
Shivering on the rough slab with his head and shoulders still overhanging the river, Stalwart realized that no one would believe his story without evidence. He edged forward and downward again and took another look at the corpse. The only part of it that he could possibly hope to catch with a noose was the head, but that was resting on the rock below, with only the face out of water. It wouldn’t work.
He had to try at least once. He stretched the noose wide, then lowered it into the water. The current swept it away, twirling the rope like a spinner’s yarn. He hauled it in and tried again, this time casting it upstream in the hope it would have time to sink before it was washed down to the body. That worked no better. What he needed was a pole with a hook. Not having one, he must just come back in the morning with helpers and hope the body was still there.
Wearily he began to clamber up the rocks. Shock and disappointment lay on him like a wagonload of tiles. Two nights without—no, really three nights without enough sleep. Plus two long rides—Valglorious to Grandon, then Grandon to Waterby. He needed a soft, warm bed more than anything.
He reached the top, where he had tied the rope. He pulled his shoulders over the edge and was about to grab a handy branch of driftwood to pull himself farther when he realized that the branch was, in fact, one of a pair of boots. Emerald! He had given her strict orders not to come back to help.
Yelling over the roar of the falls: “I thought I told you—”
Those boots were far too large to be hers. And there were more of them. Eight in all. Balanced on one foot and the toes of another, gripping rocks with bloody, frozen hands, he felt himself freeze in a rush of despair. He had failed.
He had left Sleight with Emerald.
But that hardly mattered, because a sword now advanced until its point was right between his eyes.
“You must be Wart,” said an unfamiliar voice. “Do you want to die now or later?”