Blade regarded his servant stonily. He was his own man again, and knowing what he did, he privately considered it just as well that the silver Dru was gone. Canace. Called Drusilla, leader of all the Drus. High Priestess with the golden sword of sacrifice. Lovely phantom of dreams, expert succuba clothed in velvet human flesh, who had planned so far and so well. Now all the dreams, and the flesh, were fathoms deep in the cold green of the Western Sea. Yes. It was just as well.
Yet Blade said: "She saved my life, Sylvo."
"Ar, master. I know that. We all do. We had given you to Thunor when she came forward, from the place Redbeard kept her hidden, and took command of matters pertaining to you. She bade Jarl do this, and Jarl do that, and Jarl did as he was told. We all did, for that matter. Because we were all in terror of her and of Dru magic. But that is all over now, master, and you are well. And she is dead well, gone at least, because some say that Drus do not die like other people."
Blade regarded him with a tolerant affection. He did like the man, thief and scrapegrace that he was, and he did not doubt his loyalty. That he had been afraid of the Dru was natural enough even Blade, in his drug haunted dreams, had been a little afraid of her. He thought for a moment of the things she had done to him, then put the thought away. He would not know that sweet sickness again. Just as well.
"When you speak of Jarl you will speak of him as Captain Jarl," he said sternly. "That is my wish. And now, rogue, pull up the stool yonder and tell me everything that has happened while I have been sick. Everything. Miss no detail. I would come up to date on matters."
Sylvo took huge pleasure in the telling, embroidering matters until Blade cursed him and swore he had missed his calling instead of a mangy cutpurse he should have been a lying skald, setting his wild tales to music on a lute.
"In detail," he groaned. "In detail, man, but not so much so! And stick to the proper time of things you leap ahead and dart back like a hare with hounds after it. Now begin again, from the time I fell unconscious until this moment."
When Sylvo had finished Blade fell into a deep study and stared for a long time out the open port.
Finally he said: "It has been ten days?"
"More like to twelve now, master. You have been very ill."
Blade started to speak, then only nodded. Yes. He had been very ill. Only he knew how ill. And only he would ever know of what transpired for he would never tell a living soul.
He turned on Sylvo again, warily because the rib that Redbeard had cracked still hurt, and asked the question that he must ask.
"The silver Dru fell overboard?"
Sylvo shrugged and rolled his eyes. "What else, master? And none so strange it happens often enough at sea, or so I am told. I am no seaman myself, not of deep water anyway, and I was dreadful sick for two days. It is my thought the the Dru came on deck for air the cabins are not fit for slaves and was swept overboard. Simple enough. But why question it, master. Let us be grateful and "
Blade silenced him with a hand. "You say the silver Dru had a servant? Another Dru of a lesser rank?"
Sylvo looked puzzled and scratched himself. "Ar, master. That is the truth of it. Why?"
"You have too many whys," Blade said curtly. "Leave off and go fetch me this other Dru, this servant. Unless, of course, you are afraid of her also?"
"I am afraid of her," Sylvo admitted, "but not so much as of the silver Dru. Her glance gave me a gallows feeling, I swear. But the Dru servant will know nothing, master. No use to talk to her. She saw nothing, heard nothing, and anyway she is in a screaming fit such as ordinary women get. I doubt you can make sense of her."
Blade stared at his man. Obviously Sylvo did not want him to talk to the servant.
"Go fetch her to me," Blade snapped. "And no more of your clack or, by Thunor, I will regain my strength on you. No stay and help me dress."
He decided on the instant. It was time to be up and doing. Sylvo put a fresh dressing on the wound, which was healing nicely, and helped Blade into clean clothes and a corselet, then combed his hair and beard. Blade badly wanted a bath, but there was no water to spare.
Sylvo clasped the scarlet cloak about Blade's big shoulders and stood back in admiration. "There, master. You are your old self again. Lord Blade. King of the Sea Raiders!"
"And shall be," Blade muttered, "until we come safe to Voth. Then no more. Now go fetch me that servant, Sylvo. And my bronze axe as well. I want it with me when I first appear on deck."
Sylvo lingered. "Ar, master. It would be as well. They are a surly lot of brutes, these raiders, and Captain Jarl is hard set to keep them under hand. They know there is no loot in Bourne, and they cry that Voth is too far and King Voth too strong they would turn back and loot Alb. Which is all right with me, for I am all in favor of "
"Blade, now steady on his feet, moved toward him and doubled up a great fist. "I gave you an order, man! Still you linger and defy me?" He raised his hand.
"Nay, master. I go." Sylvo backed hastily out of the door. "But I wish you would not do this for you will rue it unless I am more fool than I think."
Blade, left alone to ponder that enigmatic remark, had still no answer when Sylvo returned with the woman in question. He pushed her into the room and fled without a word.
The woman stood quietly in the middle of the cabin, her work-worn hands clasped before her. She was thin and stoop shouldered, yet her eyes peered from the cowl at Blade with the bright alertness of a sparrow. Her robe was soiled. Blade guessed her to belong to the lowest, working order of the Drus.
She was not hysterical. One lie to Sylvo's credit. Blade, to put her at ease, motioned to a stool. She refused, saying she would stand. Her voice was flat and unmelodious and her eyes never left off searching Blade's.
"You know who I am?"
Her head inclined. "I know, Lord Blade."
"Good. I want truth from you. This is understood?"
"I have no reason to lie, Lord Blade."
"We all have reason to lie at times," he said harshly,"but never mind that. Tell me, quickly and simply, of what befell your mistress the Dru called Drusilla. The silver-haired woman who cared for me. What do you know of this?"
"Not much," said the woman. "And yet more than most." She squeezed her bony hands together and the tendons cracked.
Blade frowned and left off pacing. "I do not want riddles."
"I make none. I know more than most because I have not been asked until now. Only you ask, Lord Blade. For the others it is enough to believe that my mistress, the High Priestess, fell overboard. They have not dared ask."
Blade tugged at his beard, black and curling now. "So I do ask. What have you to tell?"
"The Drusilla did not fall overboard. One came and tapped at our door in the reaches of the night. I had just fallen to sleep, so the Drusilla answered. I woke then, but did not speak or stir, and I heard them whispering at the door. What words I did not hear, but I understood that the caller wanted the Drusilla to come on deck. There was great urgency to the whispering. So the Drusilla put on her robe and cowl and left the cabin. She did not return. And that is all I know, Lord Blade. Unless it be this bit more my mistress did not fall overboard. She was pushed overboard by the one who came to the door and whispered. Perhaps the Drusilla was slain first. Perhaps not. But she is dead. Murdered. This I know."
Blade remembered the golden sword stabbing down at. the screaming, terror-crazed serving wench of Lycanto. A deed conspired by the Lady Alwyth? But what matter now
A sudden pang struck Blade, an electric pain slashing at his head like a lightning bolt. He staggered and clung to the wall for a moment, bemused, dazed, his head buzzing with a thousand bees. For a micro-instant he saw words blazoned on his memory: He who lives by the sword dies by the sword!