"So I feared. Did he—ah—you and he were disputing the matter when I broke in before."
"Aye, nor did he abandon his quest. But today, at his behest, Orlandus commanded my delta to obey Parthenius; so tonight I did attend him."
"How—I mean, was it? ..." Embarrassed, Thorolf let his voice trail off.
"Did he pleasure me, mean you? Never! He is brutal and insatiable; after three bouts he finally fell asleep and I slipped away, or he'd be at it yet. A troll were a meeter lover."
"Poor dear!" said Thorolf, whose mind was running on the reward Yvette said she would have given him had he only a little noble blood. Her tale gave him a mixture of disappointment and relief. He had long fantasized about making love to her, if he haled her away from the castle and got rid of her delta. But his anticipation was qualified by a tiny fear that she would make some scathing comment, comparing him to one or another of her former lovers. He therefore felt some relief at having their relationship settled for the time being. Perhaps his father was right in warning him away from titled ladies.
Yvette said: "And you are the lad who cared nought for rescuing maidens—or at least ladies—from vile enchanters! Now tell me all that has befallen!" She spoke briskly, fast resuming her old authoritarian self.
When Thorolf had recounted Bardi's magical blunder, she put in: "I should like to pull out that old fool's whiskers, hair by hair!"
"You can't. Bardi is dead."
"How so?"
"Some of Duke Gondomar's men slew him as they robbed his house."
"Oh, the poor old dodderer! Now tell me whither we are bound, and to what end?"
Thorolf told how he had sought refuge among the trolls. "But there's a complication." He reported his forced wedding to Bza, and his leaving his marital duties to Bza's lover Khop.
"It matters not," said Yvette, "since neither this Bza nor I has any wish to wed you."
"I hope no trouble arise from that matter. I apologize in advance for the village. You'll find a troll settlement a foul sort of place."
"One of my rank," she snapped, "can take the rough with the smooth. Only the lower classes expect things to go on lifelong without change." She paused. "And then what next, my good Sergeant? I trust you expect me not to pass my life amongst trolls!"
"Of course not! But I have not yet decided upon a plan. If Orlandus be dead, perchance the spines of government will stiffen enough to seize the castle and bring those within to book. Orlandus' use of deltas would support a list of indictments as long as your arm."
She sniffed. "Always your cautious Rhaetian legalisms! A true hero would round up a band of followers, seize the castle, slaughter the miscreants, and let the lawyers argue legality. That is what I should have done had they obtained a foothold in Grintz."
"So indeed would I, were I sure that more good than evil would flow from the deed. But we Rhaetians know that, if it's the practice to take the law into one's own hands, the winner will be the most faithless and ruthless, be he never such a villain."
"A true knight would act first and then ponder the ifs and buts—"
"Oh, go to sleep! You'd liefer argue than eat, and we have two days' walk ahead of us."
The sun was well up when, fatigued as they were, they at last woke up for good. Thorolf served Yvette an austere breakfast of hardtack and trollish beer, the latter slightly improved by straining it through a clean sock before jugging it. Although Yvette's face registered distaste, she downed the repast without verbal complaint.
When they set out, they went more slowly than Thorolf had expected because Yvette could not keep up with his walking pace. Moreover, her bedroom slippers soon began to wear out on the rough pathways. They stopped in midmorning while Thorolf dug his goatskin slippers out of the pack. These proved so much too large for her that they came off at every step.
At last he got out his spare socks and put them on over her bedroom slippers, tying them in place with one of the strips of cloth he had brought to bind and gag her.
When they resumed, Yvette paused where the trail ran through a muddy patch. "Ugh!" she said. "Your socks will be full of mud, unless we climb around."
"The socks will be done for by the time we reach the village in any case. This is a little-used path the trolls revealed me. Here, I'll carry you."
He picked her up and started across. Halfway he paused, staring at the ground. "What is't?" she asked.
"An interesting track, and recent." He stepped to one side and stood Yvette on a small boulder. "Stand for a trice whilst I study it."
"Oh, come on! Wouldst waste the day trailing beasts?"
Thorolf ignored the comment. "Here's a man in proper mountain boots, and here we have two—nay, three others—in common shoon, apparently following him."
"How know you which came first?"
"Because here, and again here, one of the trio stepped on the print of the booted man."
He picked her up again and bore her to the end of the slough. She asked: "Were those following the booted man, or did they come by long after?"
"That I cannot tell." Later, he paused where the path forked, pointing to footprints on the right-hand path. "Thither went that dubious quartet. Our path lies to the left, but methinks I'll make a cast along the right-hand path to ascertain whither it leads."
"Nay, do not so! I wish to reach this trollish village forthwith; I tire."
Thorolf gave Yvette a hard look. "Harken, Countess; we've been through this before. I'll investigate this matter as I see fit—"
"You shall not! Your first duty is to me!"
"Rubbish, my dear Yvette! You're not my feudal suzerain. Abide at the fork or come with me, as you like; the latter were safer."
Thorolf started off on the right-hand fork. Yvette waited until he had gone a few steps, then hurried after him. muttering: "Whoreson knotpate! Incondite ass! Defying thy betters like a god-detested revolutionary—"
Thorolf turned his head to say: "Oh, shut up! To a free Rhaetian, no one's a better."
She subsided. Thorolf tramped ahead, scanning the ground for tracks. After half an hour he held up a cautionary hand, whispering:
"Something's up, ahead! Be very quiet!"
"But—"
"I said quiet! Must I gag you?"
Cautiously they advanced. In a small depression in the path ahead, three armed men had Doctor Berthar, the director of the Zoological Park in Zurshnitt, backed against a boulder. Holding weapons against his chest and throat, they were relieving him of any detachable possessions.
Thorolf searched among the stones beside the path and found one a little larger than one of his own fists. He breathed: "Stay here whilst I fordo those rogues!"
"But three, and at least one in mail! If you lose, what of me?"
"Flee back to Zurshnitt and take refuge with my father, the Consul. I have my reasons."
Without further words, Thorolf drew his sword. Holding the hilt in his left hand and the stone in his right, he stalked quietly toward the group in the hollow. So quietly did he move and so intent were the robbers on their victim that he was a mere dozen yards away when one of them cried: "Ho! Look around!"
Thorolf broke into a run until, a few feet from the group, he hurled his stone at the mailed swordsman. The rock struck the side of the man's head and flung him sprawling in the herbage.
Thorolf shifted his sword to his right hand and bored in. He faced one man with a sword and one with a long dagger, neither apparently mailed. He attacked the swordsman with a tremendous backhand slash. It was not the skilled swordplay of which Thorolf was capable; but he did it advisedly—and what he hoped for happened. The man easily parried, but the other's lighter weapon broke at the impact of Thorolf's heavier blade.