Knight Templar in Training - 3. Midnight Raid

Alten stood beside a workbench in the outbuilding where the six strange coins were being examined. “The conservative clerics—Senshen’s coterie—doubt that these coins are what they seem, and deny that the miasma that surrounds them is Evil. They say it’s merely age that is fooling us into thinking they’re Evil. That crowd is so busy fondling memories of the past—many, I think, imaginary—that they cannot face the real world.” He sighed as he folded the leather around the coins.

 

“James, I think we’re going to need more proof. Would you go back to Cross Creek, visit with Thanuel and his son, and snoop around some? It’s only a tenday until Midwinter’s Day, and everyone around here will be too busy with preparations for that to do anything with these coins until then. You should tell Thanuel what we’ve found, so far. They are definitely repositories of Evil, although whether that is because they were deliberately infused with Evil, or merely have been a long time in a place where Evil was practiced, we don’t know. Anyone who remains in contact with them for any length of time is in danger of becoming infected—and that includes you, my young friend.”

 

Alten continued, “Evaluate the situation. If you think you can get into the school without being observed, and snoop around, do so. Send a message to me, first, however. Take your time.”

 

“I wish I had someone to send with you, but I don’t. Recruit assistance locally, if you think you need it, and if you find anyone you can trust and who would be useful to you. Here…here’s a pouch of coins—silver and some gold, as well. You’ll likely need it. Will you stay at the same inn?”

 

“If things there are the same as they were, I would like to stay there. Thanuel already knows enough about me to be of some use. He may be able to recommend some local help. I’d like to send any messages to you in care of the Cobbler. Perhaps they should be sent not to you, but to Arne.”

 

“An excellent thought. It would not do to have a letter addressed to me intercepted. Write to Arne as if it were to a young friend; be clever with your words.”

 

James and Alten discussed what phrases James might use to disguise a request for help—or a warning.

 

 

 

Having made the trip before, James set a faster pace, and arrived at Cross Creek in mid-afternoon after an uneventful journey. He rode directly to the stable of the River Horse Inn, where he surprised Joey at his chores. James leapt from the saddle, and Joey ran into his arms.

 

“James, James…I’m so glad you’re back!” the boy crowed. “Come, you must see Father and Grandpa!”

 

James hugged the boy, and shushed him with a kiss. “First we must take care of Horse.” With the boy’s help, the gelding was soon munching hay and apples. James and Joey headed for the kitchen of the inn where James was greeted by Thanuel and the Innkeeper’s father, Ancel.

 

“James, we’re glad you’re back,” Thanuel said as he handed James a mug of hot tea. “My father has just brought some awful news, and I fear for Acclaudius. You’ll need some privacy for this…stay here in the kitchen. Joey, come with me to the common room. Custom will be arriving soon.”

 

While James sipped tea, Ancel told James that three of the tweens initially recruited for the school had been returned to their families—dead. The story given in each case was that they died in training accidents. “…but I don’t believe it. I saw two of them. It wasn’t the wounds—they were terrible enough. It was the look of horror on their faces.” The old man’s voice was anguished.

 

“Ancel,” James asked, “Would you accompany me on a mission to rescue your grandson?”

 

“James, I would like nothing more.” Ancel’s eyes burned.

 

 

 

While Joey slept, snuggled deeply under the covers, James sat at the table preparing a letter.

 

James to his friend Arne at the Shop of Correll the Cobbler, Arcadia. Mid-Winter, in the First Year of Prince Auric’s Reign.

 

Arne, you are so lucky to be in Arcadia. Cross Creek is a gloomy place that you would not like to visit. Do you remember the tween who gave his little brother the puzzles I brought to you? His grandfather was a sailor and warrior who told those wonderful stories. He and I are going to the school to see his grandson on Mid-Winter Day. We’re going to invite him to come back home and then to Arcadia with me.

 

I am fine, and my friends here are well. The letter continued with inconsequentials.

 

There, James thought. I’ve told Alten that I’m okay, that I don’t need anyone to come rescue me, and that I’m going to the school on Mid-Winter day to rescue Acclaudius. Hope he susses that!

 

James sealed the letter. Thanuel would ensure that it went to Arcadia. On the chest under the window, James’ clothes, boots, and sword lay ready. The dagger Alten had given him was securely in its sheath hooked to the belt. All that could be done had been done. James folded his robe across the back of the chair, and slipped into the bed, holding Joey’s warmth close to him. The boy stirred, but did not wake.

 

 

 

Midwinter’s night, the longest night of the year, was cold. A faint moon glowed behind a high overcast. James and Ancel had ridden from town at midnight, slowly feeling their way along the path. The bridles of the horses were muffled with cloth. James had cast a Light Spell on a ring that he shoved deep in his pocket. Ancel carried a dark lantern, and was armed with a short sword of the kind carried by sailors and marines.

 

When they were about two furlongs from the school, they dismounted and led the horses into the woods. After tethering the horses to trees, they walked toward the school. As James had hoped, the school was dark. Ancel’s grappling hook made only a dull thud as it caught in the wood of the parapet. The old man held the rope while James climbed, and then shinnied up with an agility that belied his apparent age.

 

James and Ancel crept along the parapet until they found the stairs. It appeared that the entire school was asleep. Perhaps they were so sure of their power that they didn’t mount a guard.

 

James held in front of himself the string from which dangled the seashell that had been so precious to Acclaudius. It had been a gift from his grandfather, and the boy had worn it around his neck from the day he was born until the day he left for the school, at which time he’d given it to his youngest brother. It still held some of the older boy’s essence, and imbued with a little magic, served to point the way to him.

 

James and Ancel stopped outside a door. It was like all the others on the hallway. Behind it, or so the shell indicated, was Acclaudius. It was likely, too, that there would be at least one other student, perhaps more. Stealth was still the order of the day.

 

The old man pulled a vial from his pouch. Gesturing to James, he bent down and poured some of the contents onto the latch, blowing gently to force the liquid to flow inside the mechanism. James smelled fish oil, and wrinkled his nose. The old man did the same to the three hinges. After a moment, he nodded to James, who lifted the latch and slowly opened the door.

 

The fish oil had done its job. The latch and the hinges were silent. Ancel opened the lantern’s shutter. In the room, they could see two cots. The shell tugged toward one. James tiptoed over. He readied his free hand over the sleeper’s mouth, and nodded to the old man. Ancel stood by the cot. As James clapped his hand over the tween’s mouth, the old man bent down and whispered to the now wide-awake and startled boy, “Acclaudius, it’s your Grandpere. On your Mother’s name, be quiet!”

 

The boy recognized the voice of his grandfather, and ceased struggling. James removed his hand and stepped back, now watching the second sleeper.

 

“Get up, leave everything, we must go now,” the old man said to his grandson.

 

The boy stood, shoved his feet into boots, and slipped a tunic over his head, belting it with a sword belt to which was attached a long sword. As he turned, the sword struck the wall, waking the second sleeper. Before the boy could cry out, Ancel struck him in the head with the hilt of his sword. The boy fell back to the bed.

 

James followed the old man and Acclaudius from the room. They retraced their steps and were about to mount the steps to the parapet when they heard shouting behind them. Acclaudius’ roommate had recovered from the blow Ancel had given him, and sounded the alarm.

 

As the trio rushed up the stairs to the parapet, they were set upon by two fighters, adult men by their size. Acclaudius and James turned to meet them, and backed up the steps, side by side with swords flashing. They reached the gallery in time to see armed figures rushing toward them from the far corner. Ancel turned and ran toward the rope to defend it from the oncoming fighters. “Hurry,” he urged, preparing to fight off single-handedly the reinforcements coming down the gallery from the other direction.

 

James and Acclaudius reached the rope. James pushed the tween, urging him to slide down. James’ sword found the arm of one of the two attackers. The man turned away, cursing. The second swung at James. Ancel’s short sword plunged into the stomach of the second man, who folded and collapsed. The man James had wounded ran away. James and Ancel looked at each other with grim smiles. “After you,” James said.

 

Ancel slid down the rope. The reinforcements had nearly arrived when James grabbed the rope and followed him, falling the last few feet as someone on the gallery cut the rope. In the excitement, they were unaware that both Acclaudius and James had been wounded.

 

They reached their horses and listened, but there seemed to be no pursuit. Mounting the horses, they felt their way through the woods until they reached the road.

 

Halfway back to town, Acclaudius collapsed, and would have fallen from his horse had Ancel not caught him. “The boy’s hurt!”

 

James rode alongside. “Hold him, please,” he asked. Gathering magic, James sealed the boy’s wounds, but did no more, since he feared pursuit. “He’ll hold until we get to Cross Creek and I can do more.”

 

James realized then that he, himself, was bleeding from a cut on his arm, but he could not stop nor could he heal himself, so he rode on.

 

 

 

Their horses’ hooves struck sparks from the cobbles as they raced through the streets of Cross Creek to the inn. James imagined what the people who heard them must have thought.

 

Acclaudius’ father and brother were waiting when they reached the inn. Thanuel helped Ancel bring the wounded tween inside, while Joey hurried to get the horses to the stable.

 

“Stretch him out on this table, please,” James asked.

 

“I’ll send for a healer…” Thanuel said. He started for the door, but was stopped by Ancel.

 

“Won’t be necessary, will it, James?” Ancel asked.

 

At Thanuel’s puzzled look, Ancel continued. “James is a healer, aren’t you?”

 

“Yes. A healer as well as a cleric. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but… Please, let me reach Acclaudius!”

 

Joey, who had returned from the stable in time to hear this, stood against the wall, his face a mask of surprise.

 

The men stood aside while James gathered magic and used it to examine the boy. Acclaudius had received a puncture wound, likely from a dagger or poniard. The weapon had sliced through his belly and nicked a coil of intestine. The boy was in danger of septicemia. There was a lot of blood in the body cavity from several small blood vessels that had been cut. James focused magic, and began the task of showing the body how to heal itself, and providing the energy to help it do so.

 

 

 

Acclaudius had fallen into a deep sleep. The torn blood vessels and intestine had been knit back together, but would need time to heal completely. A clean bandage protected the now-healing wound in the boy’s belly. His father had carried him gently into the kitchen and put him on the bed that would be the scullery boy’s, had they a scullery boy.

 

“James, there’s blood on your tunic,” Ancel observed. “And it’s fresh. You were wounded, too, were you not?”

 

James frowned and pushed up the sleeve of his tunic and his chain armor shirt. At some point, a sword stroke must have pushed aside his chain armor and nicked his shoulder. He could not heal himself, but with Ancel’s assistance the wound was cleaned and bandaged.

 

 

 

James, Ancel, Thanuel, and Joey sat in the kitchen, sipping an herbal tea that Thanuel assured them will not keep them from getting a nap before the Solstice Fest began.

 

“James, thank you, again, for saving my grandson’s life,” Ancel began. “And don’t worry for a second about not telling us that you were a healer. There was no reason for us to know until there was reason for us to know, if you know what I mean.”

 

James nodded and smiled at the old man’s wordplay. Joey, however, frowned. “Well,” the boy said, “I don’t know what you mean!”

 

“What I mean, Joey lad, is that you never—well, almost never—put all your cards on the table at the beginning of a game. James told us what we needed to know about himself when we needed to know it. No more, and no less. He didn’t—and still hasn’t—told us everything about himself.”

 

“Humph,” Joey said. “I guess I’ll have to think about that!”

 

 

 

A tenday passed before the physical wound that Acclaudius received had healed enough that James thought it safe for the boy to ride to Arcadia. The tween’s father and grandfather agreed that he should accompany James to the Temple to be questioned about what he’d seen in the school. Acclaudius was anxious to do so, if only to redeem himself of the foolishness of attending the school.

 

Privately, James had imparted some information to Ancel and Thanuel. “Acclaudius has been exposed to some potent Evil, and it’s made a mark on him.”

 

“But, I thought that each of us got to choose whether to be Good or Evil,” Ancel said.

 

“For the most part, that’s true. But there are things that can influence our decision…how we lived our past lives, the people we emulate…but that’s not quite what I’m talking about. It’s more as if Acclaudius were a piece of parchment on which his life was being written, and a student at the table next to him had flung a drop of ink onto Acclaudius’ parchment. If the blot isn’t removed, it will stain the parchment. When Acclaudius reaches that place in the parchment, what he writes will be blurred, obscured…I know this isn’t a good analogy…but I believe that the healers in the Temple—in addition to checking up on my work—might help him remove that stain, if he wants them to. They would, of course, do nothing without his understanding and consent.”

 

“Thank you, James. I’m not sure I entirely understand; I do, however, trust you with my son…That’s odd, isn’t it…you’re hardly older than he is…”

 

 

 

James and Acclaudius departed the next morning. It was a bitterly cold day. The horses, however, appeared to be delighted with the weather, and snorted repeatedly as if watching their breath condense in the air. Joey hugged his brother and James, and sniffled a little, but James promised to return. James, himself, looked forward to a return visit with mixed emotion. It was almost certain that the business of the school was not over, and he will almost certainly have to face again whatever darkness was there.

 

 

 

On the evening of the fourth day, James and Acclaudius rode up to the gate of the Temple compound. As if he had foreknowledge of their arrival, Alten was walking from his workroom toward the gate as they entered.

 

“James, be welcome,” the Senior called, gripping the tween’s arm in obvious relief. “And you must be Acclaudius. Be welcome, as well. James wrote that you were coming. You’ve been hurt!” Alten gestured to an acolyte. “Please take our guest to healer Danbridge…” Turning to Acclaudius, Alten continued, “I’ll visit you very soon…and James will visit you often. Please enjoy our hospitality, and rest. You deserve it.”

 

As Acclaudius was led away, Alten gestured to a boy who had followed him from the workroom, instructing him, “Escort Brother James to the room I told you earlier.”

 

The room was Spartan (although he would not have recognized that word). It was, however, luxurious compared to the cell he usually occupied at the Temple. Here, the ticking of the bed was linen, not canvas, and the blankets were soft wool. A table with ewer and basin stood against one wall, while an armoire took up most of the space on another. An arrow-slit reminiscent of the architecture of the Great Wars, high on the west wall, would be his window onto the world. Other than the arrow-slit, the whitewashed plaster walls were broken only by the solid oaken door in which James stood. A small table and chair standing under the window, and a chamber pot, discretely tucked under the bed, completed the room’s furnishings. James thought of the bugs that infested some of the places he’d slept on the way to Arcadia months ago, and gratefully noted that there was no place in this room for any such creatures to hide.

 

At James’ elbow hovered the boy who had shown him to the room. He appeared to be scarcely more than 13, but James saw that the boy had Elvish blood, and so could be decades older. He was wearing the unadorned white robe of a Probationer.

 

As James surveyed the room, the boy thought to himself, Surely this must be the warrior-cleric who has been the subject of so much gossip and speculation among the Temple staff. Why else would a tween whose travel cloak scarcely conceals his chain armor, and who wears a sword even in the confines of the Temple, be given a Senior’s cell?

 

“My lord,” the boy said, “The Master of Probationers has instructed me to serve you during your stay. How may I do so?” The boy’s voice, and his meticulously executed bow, spoke of high birth and courtly training. James, a commoner, and in physique and temperament scarcely older than the boy, was taken aback. Reared in a more rustic locale, and unsure of his place as a recently ordained acolyte, he knew not even how properly to address the boy.

 

“Brother,” he said, as a compromise, “my needs at the moment are simple: a bath, a hot meal, and two candles of uninterrupted sleep. Grant me that, and you will have discharged your duties. Nor am I your lord. I am James, or, if our superiors are present, Brother James.” James loosed his cloak and would have dropped it to the floor had not the lad caught it. James nodded startled thanks, and as the boy hung the cloak in the armoire, began to remove his chain mail shirt. As he did so, he inspected it carefully. A looseness in this leather strap, a rent in the chain itself, and more than a few patches of dried blood—some a rusty brown (his own), and some of a greenish hue Green blood? Who or what were those things we fought off as we escaped the school?—these would have to be taken care of soon, but not now. The padded tunic that had backstopped the chain was likewise torn and bloody, as well as being liberally stained with salt sweat. James stopped the boy as he reached for the tunic. “No, Brother, this is too filthy. I’ll drop it in the cauldron in the bath-house, if you’ll lead the way.”

 

The boy nodded and offered James a plain, brown utility robe to wear in the hallway. James removed the rest of his clothes, donned the robe, and followed the boy from the room.

 

At the bathhouse, they were met by clouds of billowing steam and two attendants. One held out a pole for the tunic, which he dropped in a vat of bubbling, soapy water. The other took James’ robe and led him to a shower. After cleaning himself in the shower, James padded to the bathing pool and walked down the tile steps, gratefully lowering himself into the steaming water. He could feel muscles relaxing one by one as he seated himself and the water rose to his neck. The only sound was the soft susurrus of water on tile, a sound not unlike the movement of the wind through the pine trees of James’ home. Relaxed by both the sound and the water, James reflected on the past few days.

 

They had not done well in the school. They were lucky to have escaped with their lives. James’ mind wandered. The school was a busier place than I had expected. Who were those people? Why were they there? What were they planning? And who or what had green blood?

 

“My lord…I mean, Brother James,” the boy’s voice jerked James back to the present. “Brother, the water has opened your wound. You are bleeding.” The boy pointed to a spreading stain in the water around James’ shoulder.

 

James raised himself to bring the shoulder out of the water. The wound was only partly healed. It was not serious, but the blood was a nuisance. And, now that it was called to his attention, it was starting to sting.

 

“I am studying healing,” the boy said. “May I?”

 

James nodded. The boy placed his hand above the wound and closed his eyes, concentrating. James felt power flow from the boy’s fingers. As he watched, the bleeding stopped, and the lips of the wound closed. An incredible amount of power, James thought, and with little noise and little apparent effort. A talented boy.

 

The healing was not complete, but James knew that it would be only hours, not days, before new, pink flesh rather than ropy scar tissue, would appear. The transfusion of power complete, the boy opened his eyes. His brown hair stood out like a corona from the remnants of the power, and then settled back around his shoulders. The lad smiled, pleased with his success.

 

“Thank you, Brother,” James said. “I couldn’t have done that, myself. And…I can no longer call you just ‘Brother.’ May I know your name?”

 

“My mother’s name for me is Kenneth.” The boy’s words confirmed his Elven ancestry. He offered a hand to James, who stepped from the pool.

 

The attendant offered him a clean robe from a peg by the door, and then said, “Your tunic will be dried and returned. Your acolyte can fetch your other garments for cleaning when it is appropriate.”

 

“Thank you,” James said. Then turning to Kenneth, “It is close to the noon hour. Will you lead to the refectory?”

 

*****

 

At the door to the refectory they were met by a Senior, who separated them, drawing James to the table occupied by the Senior. Kenneth went to sit with his friends, but selected a position from which he could keep an eye on his charge.

 

Kenneth’s fellows and friends crowded around the boy.

 

“Is it he?” one asked.

 

“What’s he like,” queried another, assuming a positive answer to the first question. “Was he really in a big battle?”

 

“Did you see his sword?” asked another. “Is it really magical?”

 

“He’s too young,” said another. “Scarcely more than a boy. He can’t be all they say.”

 

“Please pass the soup,” Kenneth replied. “You are not going to get me to talk without food. And besides, I need my strength. I have important duties to perform.” The hoots of derision that met this reply earned a warning glance from the Master of Probationers, who sat at the head of the table.

 

The sound of a gong quieted the rowdy boys. All in the room stood as Alten, the Senior, entered. Taking his place at the table on the dais, Alten raised his hands and offered a blessing. Silence ruled the room. After the blessing, Alten gestured for the clerics to sit, and then spoke, “Today we welcome back our brother, James, who brought us the relics with which many of you are working. His companion, Acclaudius, was wounded, but lies quietly in the Healers’ Chamber, now. This evening after he is rested, James will report to us on his most recent trip.” Alten sat, and lunch became the order of the day.

 

Kenneth had scarcely gotten one spoonful of soup to his lips before the questions began anew. Sighing in mock resignation, he pushed his bowl aside (but not out of reach). “Alten answered your first question,” he said. “As to the others, he may be only a tween and an acolyte, but if he’s performing missions for Alten, he won’t be an acolyte for long. Yes, he is a warrior; I’ve not seen muscles like his on anyone but the Arms Master; and, he has scars! You don’t get scars like that unless you’ve been in some really tough fights. As to his sword,” Kenneth said to cover his own ignorance—he’d not even noticed—“That’s his business.”

 

Kenneth reached for his bowl. He could have spun this out for the entire meal, feeding the boys one tidbit after another, but eating was more important. Besides, he had given them enough to whet their appetites for more without either lying or breaking confidence.

 

Meanwhile, two tables away, James was eating with scarcely concealed enthusiasm. His fellows, whose curiosity equaled that of the Probationers, were however a more sober group and did not ply him with questions. Besides, they would be privy to this evening’s report and discussions.

 

 

 

Fatigue weighed on James. He was half-asleep when Alten rose, again Blessed the assembly, and departed. Thereby given tacit permission to leave, James rose and started to the door. Catching this motion in the corner of his eye, Kenneth rose, bowed to the Master of Probationers, and moved to follow James.

 

When they reached the room, James paused. “It seems that I won’t get those two candles of sleep, after all. Will you wake me for Vespers?”

 

Kenneth nodded. “And shall I take the rest of your clothes for cleaning?”

 

“Yes, thank you,” James replied. “It looks as if Alten has plans for my next few days. I’ll not be needing anything but robes for a while.” He lay on the bed and closed his eyes. Kenneth gathered the tween’s discarded clothing and bowed to the reclining figure, but James was already asleep.

 

 

 

At least half the seats in the library were empty; it appeared that few of the clerics were interested—or believed that the Evil was real. Alten began the meeting. “We had a breakthrough on the coins. Brother Geoffrey has seen similar patterns in a book on magic he studied when in the Elven Kingdom. The incuse runic mazes—incised or pressed into the coins—are maps to aid in the gathering magic on a large scale. They describe a pattern of movement through the magical field that enables a very skilled magic user—mage or cleric, even craftsman—to fold magic upon itself, using magic to gather magic. They have an Evil aura because for a long time they served as a guide for Evil mages.”

 

Alten continued, “I do not believe that there is a mage or cleric alive today who could successfully, much less safely, use those mazes. They are, however, a potential danger. I have decided to destroy the coins. This will not be difficult, as they are not inherently magical, merely contaminated by long exposure to evil. Now, James, will you fill us in on what you found on your more recent visit?”

 

James was more than a little nervous at being asked to speak in front of such an assembly. He began slowly and hesitantly, but gained confidence as Alten smiled and nodded encouragement. James described the mission to Cross Creek, beginning with Ancel’s report of the three dead tweens, and concluding with the rescue of Acclaudius.

 

“I do not know who or what left green blood on my armor, but I suspect that the answer to that question will be a key piece of the puzzle of that school.”

 

At this, Senshen snorted, “Green blood! Folk tales!” No one noticed that he held a whispered conversation with one of the members of his coterie, who slipped quietly from the room.

 

 

 

It was well after Matins when James returned to his room. After this last service, the discussions had continued in the library, with Senshen, the leader of the conservative clerics questioning James in minute detail. In James’ cell, a single candle burned. By its light, James saw Kenneth, on the floor, asleep. The boy had rolled up his robe as a pillow, and was covered only with a thin under-tunic. James saw the boy as if for the first time, and his breath caught in his throat.

 

“Kenneth…Kenneth…” James whispered as he knelt by the boy, gently touching his shoulder. “Kenneth, you’ll catch pneumonia sleeping on the floor…”

 

At James’ touch, the boy started. His eyes opened wide and his hand went to his waist as if to grasp a dagger, only to come away empty. “Oh…I’m sorry…I’m sorry. I just couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer…” He shivered as his body acknowledged the cold.

 

James reached down and took the boy’s hand, lifting him easily to his feet. “You cannot sleep on the floor, and you cannot sleep without cover.” He paused, unsure of himself, and then stammered, “Would you sleep with me, Kenneth? Would you share yourself with me?”

 

“Oh, I was so afraid that you wouldn’t ask,” the boy replied as he closed the distance between himself and James, “and I’m so glad that you did.”

 

 

 

A knock on the door wakened James, who reluctantly left the warmth of the bed, Shushing Kenneth as he did. “You sleep, Kenneth. I’ll see who’s here.”

 

The door opened to a boy in the robes of a Probationer. He carried a bundle which James recognized as his clothes. “Thank you, Brother,” James said, taking the bundle. “What hour?”

 

“It’s just p…p…past prime, Brother,” the boy said, a little awed to be speaking to James, himself, and ducked away.

 

 

 

“Oh, you had the chain mail cleaned, too? Thank you, Kenneth,” James said as he began to open and sort the bundle.

 

“But I didn’t,” Kenneth said, a puzzled expression on his face. “They would not know how to properly clean armor. I was going to do that today!”

 

“No…someone else. Perhaps someone from the bathhouse. In any case…the chain mail, too! It’s been cleaned, and the green blood’s all gone! There’s no proof…”

 

 

 

“I was only trying to be of service,” the acolyte said. “Martin said that…” The acolyte caught himself, but it was too late.

 

“The truth, on your oath!” Alten demanded.

 

“Martin came from the meeting last night, and said that I should take Brother James’ clothes and armor…all of them…to be cleaned because he was going to be late in the meeting. Martin is Senshen’s acolyte…everybody knows that when he says to do something it’s because Senshen’s told him…”

 

 

 

“So, the green blood has been washed away. Even if those in the bathhouse saw it, they would not have been looking for it, and their observations and witness would be of little value. I’m afraid that Senshen is more of a knave than I had thought.