must look for him to be asking such a question.
He took a deep breath. “I’m not asking where it is, only
if. . .”
“I understand what you’re asking and why,” the other said,
cutting short his protestation. The hard face furrowed about the
eyes and mouth. Padishar said nothing for a moment, studying
the Highlander intently. “As a matter of fact, there is another
way,” he said finally. “You must have figured that out on your
own, though. You understand enough of tactics to know that
there must always be more than one way in or out of a refuge.”
Morgan nodded wordlessly.
“Well, then, Highlander, I can only add that Damson would
not put the Valemen at risk by trying to bring them here while
the Jut was under siege. She would keep them safe in Tyrsis or
elsewhere, whatever the situation might require.”
He paused, eyes hard with hidden thoughts. Then he said,
“No one but Damson, Chandos, and I know the other way-
now that Hirehone is dead. Better that we keep it so until the
identity of our traitor is discovered, don’t you think? I wouldn’t
want the Federation walking in through the back door while we
were busy holding shut the front.”
Morgan hadn’t considered the possibility of such a thing hap-
pening until now. It was a chilling thought. “Is the back way
secure?” he asked hesitantly.
Padishar pursed his lips. “Very. Now take yourself off to
dinner, Highlander. And remember to keep your eyes open.”
He turned back to his drawings. Morgan hesitated a moment,
thinking to say something more, then turned abruptly and left.
That night, as daylight faded into evening and stars began to
appear, Morgan sat alone at the far end of the bluff where a
grove of aspen trees sheltered a small grassy clearing, looked
out across the valley of the Parma Key to where the moon, half-
full again, lifted slowly out of the horizon into the darkening
skies, and marshalled his powers of reason. The camp was quiet
now except for the muffled sounds of work being done back in
the caves on Padishar’s secret weapon. The catapults and bows
were stilled, the men of both the Federation army and the Move-
ment sleeping or lost in their own private contemplations. Pad-
ishar was meeting with the Trolls and Chandos, a meeting to
which Morgan had not been invited. Steff was resting, his fever
seemingly no worse, but his strength sapped and his general
health no better. There was nothing to be done, nothing to oc-
cupy the time but to sleep or think, and Morgan Leah had chosen
the latter.
For as long as he could remember, he had been clever. It was
a gift, admittedly, one that could be traced to his ancestors, to
men such as Menion and Rone Leah-real Princes in those days,
heroes-but an ability, too, that Morgan had worked long and
hard to perfect. The Federation had supplied him with both a
purpose and a direction for his skill. He had spent almost the
whole of his youth concentrating on finding ways to outwit the
Federation officials who occupied and governed his homeland,
to irritate them at every opportunity so that they might never
feel secure, to make them experience a futility and a frustration
that would one day drive them from Leah forever. He was very
good at it; perhaps he was the best there was. He knew all the
tricks, had conceived most of them himself. He could outthink
and outsmart almost anyone, if he were given time and oppor-
tunity to do so.
He smiled ruefully. At least, that was what he had always told
himself. Now it was time to prove that it was so. It was time to
figure out how the Federation had known so often what they
were about, how it was that they had been betrayed-the out-
laws, the Valemen, the little company from Culhaven, everyone
connected with this misadventure-and most important of all,
who was responsible.
It was something he could reason out.
He let his lean frame drape itself against the grassy base of a
twisted, old trunk, drew his knees partway up to his chest, and