She showed him the model castle, where the triumphant miniature trolls were now roasting tiny castle guards on spits and eating them with gusto.

“Fascinating,” Justinian said, fingering a model catapult on the castle walls.

“Typical,” the duke said, with disgust. “Damned useless piece of junk.”

“Patience, your grace,” Justinian said, toying with the miniature drawbridge. “Something of great import is afoot.”

He looked at Gwynn and nodded.

While the duke and the captain of the guard looked on with puzzled expressions, Gwynn demonstrated how the wards worked again when Reg was out of range.

“Of course,” Justinian said. “He’s been hovering over me all morning. That explains everything. Follow me!”

He dashed off at a breakneck pace. Gwynn, Reg, and the duke followed him back to the dungeons.

“What are we here for?” the duke asked, when he’d caught his breath.

“I need to question your surviving prisoner,” Justinian replied.

The remaining anarchist flinched. Obviously, he was more used to the duke’s style of interrogation than the Maestro’s.

“You saw the wound in your comrade’s chest, did you not?” Justinian asked.

“Filthy magic attack,” the anarchist muttered.

“He was wounded before in just the same fashion, wasn’t he?” Justinian asked.

“Aye,” the anarchist said, looking puzzled. “Stabbed in the chest in a scuffle with the king’s guards-must be five years ago. We thought he was a goner, for sure, but we had this mage with us-”

“A mage? With you?” Justinian said.

“A hostage, more than likely,” the duke said.

“Something like that,” the anarchist said. “Anyway, the mage fixed it. Healed the wound so you couldn’t even see it, and we managed to get out of the city that night. Guards were looking for a wounded rebel, not a healthy one.”

“Aha!” Justinian said, dramatically. “Most helpful. Now I know how he was killed.”