Voice trailing out behind him as he walked away. Riding an upsurge of varying emotion now, at whose heart was that same vaguely familiar restlessness he couldn t pin down. He strode back through the chambers and halls of the house. Across the blaze of the courtyard. Under the brief, cool caress of the arch, past the startled guardsmen assholes without a word. Out once more into the bustle and tramp of the street.

Paying attention now, he spotted them easily enough there, under one of the acacia trees planted in twinned rows down the center of the boulevard. The lean, drab-robed figure of the invigilator and, flanking him in the cooling puddle of shade, the inevitable brace of men-at-arms; cheap bulk and professional scowls, lightweight mail shirts under surplices with the Citadel crest, short-swords sheathed at the hip.

There was a twinned flicker of motion as both men clapped hand to sword hilt when they saw the big Majak come striding through the traffic toward them. Egar nodded grim approval, let them know he d seen it, and then he was planted firmly in front of the invigilator.

You ve got the wrong house, he said conversationally.

The invigilator s face mottled with anger. How do you dare to

No, you re not listening to me. Egar kept his voice patient and gentle. There s obviously been some mistake back at the Citadel. Pashla Menkarak isn t keeping you up to date. When he sent you down here, didn t he tell you how dangerous it is to stand under this tree?

The invigilator flashed an inadvertent glance up at the branches over his head. Egar dropped an amiable right arm onto his shoulder, just above the collarbone. He dug in with his thumb. The invigilator uttered a strangled yelp. The men-at-arms came belatedly to life. One of them raised a meaty hand and grabbed Egar s free arm.

That s en

Egar clubbed down with the blade of his right hand, felt the invigilator s collarbone snap beneath the blow like a twig for kindling.