“Finally,” the duke said, dashing into the hall. “Let’s get straight to work. Reg, go have the kitchen fix a couple of cold plates and bring them down to the dungeons.”

Justinian sighed and followed the duke’s stout figure down a forebodingly long, steep stairway. Gwynn trailed behind them, glancing nervously from side to side. But apart from being uncomfortably cold and damp, the maze of stone corridors beneath the castle held no particular horrors. From the length of their journey and the number of stairs they descended, the dungeons must be at the other end of the castle from the main gate and at least halfway to the center of the earth.

They finally entered a large, low-ceilinged room with a straw-covered floor. A dozen soldiers stood inside, and even in the flickering torchlight Gwynn could see that they had split into two distinct camps-the black uniforms of the king’s guards to her left and the duke’s red-and-gold colors to her right. The two groups eyed each other without liking.

“There’s the blighter,” the duke said, pointing.

Gwynn, who had never seen a murder victim before, stared curiously. It-or should that be he?-hung from one of the sets of arm and leg irons bolted to the room’s walls at regular intervals. He was slumped so Gwynn couldn’t see his face, only the blood that glistened on his body and the surrounding straw. Surely no one could lose that much blood and live.

Wait-the blood was still wet. Should it be, after the half day it had taken for Reg to fetch them?

Justinian stepped over to the body and examined it briefly, glancing once or twice with irritation at the torches. Was he annoyed by the low visibility-or was he, like Gwynn, wondering why the duke wasn’t using some form of magic light? Was this a sign that the duke’s tolerance for magic was waning?

A figure stepped out of the shadows to the Maestro’s side. From his worn black robe, Gwynn deduced he was the duke’s personal magician.