away.
By midday, the Creeper was gone and the damage it had
caused to the camp was mostly repaired. The rain ceased finally
as the storms drifted east, scraping along the rim of the Dragon’s
Teeth. The clouds broke apart, and sunlight appeared through
the breaks in long, narrow streamers that played across the dark
green spread of the Parma Key. The mist burned off, and all that
remained was a sheen of dampness that blanketed everything
with a lustrous silver coating.
The Federation immediately hauled forward its catapults and
siege towers and renewed its assault on the Jut. The catapults
flung their stones and the siege towers were lined with archers
who kept a steady fire on the outlaw camp. No effort was made
to scale the heights; the attack was limited to a constant barrage
against the bluff and its occupants, a barrage that lasted through
the afternoon and went on into the night, a steady, constant,
ceaseless harassment. There was nothing that the outlaws could
do to stop it; their attackers were too far away and too well-
protected. There was nowhere outside of the caves where it was
safe to walk. It seemed clear that the loss of the Creeper hadn’t
discouraged the Federation. The siege would not be lifted. It
would go on until the defenders were sufficiently weakened to
be overcome by a frontal assault. If it were to take days or weeks
or months, the end would be the same. The Federation army
was content to wait.
On the heights, the defenders dodged and darted through the
rain of missiles, yelled defiantly down at their attackers, and
went about their work as best they could. But in the privacy of
their shelters they grumbled and muttered their suspicions with
renewed conviction. No matter what they had once believed, the
Jut could not be held.
Morgan Leah was faced with worries of his own. The High-
lander had deliberately gone off by himself and was secluded
once more within the shelter of the aspen grove at the far end of
the bluff, away from the major defensive positions of the camp
where most of the Federation attack was being concentrated.
Having managed to put aside for the moment the matter of his
inability to accept losing the magic of the Sword of Leah, he
was now forced to confront the equally troubling dilemma of
his suspicions as to the identity of the traitor.
It was difficult to know what to do. Surely he should tell
someone. He had to tell someone. But who?
Padishar Creel? If he told Padishar, the outlaw chief might or
might not believe him, but in either case he was unlikely to leave
the matter to chance. Padishar didn’t care a fig for either Steff
or Teel at this point; he would simply do away with them-both
of them. After all, there was no way of knowing which one it
was-or even if it was either. And Padishar was in no mood to
wait around for the answer.
Morgan shook his head. He couldn’t tell Padishar.
Steff? If he chose to do that, he was deciding, in effect, that
Teel was the traitor. That was what he wanted to believe, but
was that the truth of the matter? Even if it was, he knew what
Steffs reaction would be. His friend was in love with Teel. Teel
had saved his life. He would hardly be willing to accept what
Morgan was telling him without some sort of proof to back it
up. And Morgan didn’t have any proof-at least, nothing you
could hold in your hand and point to. Speculation was all he
had, well-reasoned or not.
He eliminated Steff.
Someone else? There wasn’t anyone else. He would have told
Par or Coil if they were there, or Wren, or even Walker Boh.
But the members of the Ohmsford family were scattered to the
four winds, and he was alone. There was no one he could trust.
He sat within the trees and listened to the distant shouts and
cries of the defenders, to the sound of catapults and bows, the
creaking of iron and wood, the hum of missiles sent flying, and