The detail soon returned with the noisy bundle. Sergeant Marakas wore a tense expression, held the baby stiffly.

"Doubtless Det planned to sacrifice it in some nefarious rite, to assure his victory!" he volunteered.

Ardel leaned forward and inspected. He raised the tiny right hand and turned it palm upwards.

"No. It bears the family's dragon-mark of power inside the right wrist," he stated. "This is Det's own offspring."

"Oh."

Ardel looked at Mor. But the old man was staring at the baby, oblivious to all else.

"What should I do with it, sir?" Marakas asked.

Ardel chewed his lip.

"That mark," he said, "means that it is destined to become a sorcerer. It is also a certain means of identification. No matter what the child might be told while it was growing up, sooner or later it would learn the truth. If that came to pass, would you like to meet a sorcerer who knew you had had a part in the death of his father and the destruction of his home?"

"I see what you are getting at..." said Marakas.

"So you had best--dispose of--the baby."

The sergeant looked away. Then, "Suppose we sent it to some distant land where no one has ever heard of the House of Rondoval?" he asked.

"... Where one day there might come a traveler who knows this story? No. The uncertainty would, in many ways, be worse than a sureness of doom. I see no way out for the little thing. Be quick and merciful."

"Sir, could we not just cut off the arm? It is better than dying."

Ardel sighed.

"The power would still be there," he said,"arm or no arm. And there are too many witnesses here today. The story would be told, and it would but add another grievance. No. If you've no stomach for it yourself, there must be someone in the ranks who--"

"Wait!"

Old Mor had spoken. He shook himself as one just awakening and moved forward.

"There may be a way," he said, "a way to let the child live and to assure that your fears will never be realized."