Quicksilver's Knight

CHAPTER 2

If Finister had thought about it, she might have wondered why Geoffey didn't have to follow the elf back to "The Chief." Of course, by the time she came down from the loft, he was long gone, so the thought never crossed her mind.

What crossed Geoffrey's mind was the need to get out of that farmyard before the farmer happened to come by. He strode out the gate, totally unaware of the haystorm going on in the loft, and veered into a grove of trees. There he stopped and called out, "Well enough, Puck, I am come! What is your pleasure?"

There was an instant's pause—no doubt Puck had been shadowing his every footstep, but it still took him a moment to catch up—then a brawny, foot-and-a-half-high form detached itself from the shadows under the leaves, and a deep voice chuckled. "Well asked. We know what thy pleasure was, lordling!"

Geoffrey's mouth tightened with annoyance, as much at the stilted "thee" and "thou" speech of the older generation (in Puck's case, a much older generation) as at the jibe. "You could indeed have chosen a better moment for your summons, Robin!"

"Nay, never one more apt," the elf retorted, "The look on thy face alone must have been worth a king's ransom."

Puckish humor indeed; Robin Goodfellow was ever the prankster, as who should know better than a young man who had suffered Puck as a babysitter? But Geoffrey remembered the top elf's notions of chastisement, too, so he forced back the irritation and sighed, "Well, it's done, and the lass fled, no doubt."

" 'The lass?' " said Puck. "Dost not even know her name?"

Geoffrey shrugged irritably. "It is of no importance now. Was the matter truly so grave that it could not have waited another hour, Puck?"

"Nay, I suppose," the elf agreed. "'Twas only more enjoyable in this fashion."

Anger sprang, but Geoffrey remembered how ugly he had looked as a toad, the last time he had let himself be angry with Puck, and schooled himself to patience. "Well, then, what was this errand that could have waited, O Friend of All Who Are Wary?"

Puck chuckled. "Thou hast learned thy lessons well, lad."

"But school is out," Geoffrey countered. "'Tis a mission now, not homework. Come, tell me of it. Is it your notion of fitting work for me, or His Majesty's?"

He didn't mean King Tuan, but rather the King of the Elves. He didn't know who that individual was, exactly, and had never officially seen him—but he had made some shrewd guesses.

"Be easy in thine heart—'tis His Majesty's," Puck said, with studied nonchalance, "and 'tis he who bade me summon thee at once, saying thou must needs drop whatever else thou hadst in train."

"Then I am glad you did not catch me a few minutes sooner, when I had caught the wench up in my arms. What is this matter of supreme importance?"

"A warlord," Puck replied, watching Geoffrey closely. "An outlaw who had conquered several parishes, nigh onto a whole county, has but only now defeated the army the Count sent against him. He has established sway over the peasantry, and rules them like any lord."

Which meant exploitation and oppression. Geoffrey grinned with anticipation; giving such tyrants their due was one of the things he lived for. Unfortunately, legal excuses for it were rare. "What is his name, this warlord?"

"None know, nor have any seen him."

"What!" Geoffrey frowned. "Not even an elf?"

"'Tis so. We have discovered his battle-leaders, but he himself has not even a tent. We do not know how he gives his orders to his warriors and battle-maids; we can only speak of their effect."

"Which seems to be massive." Geoffrey frowned. "Do they have no name for him, none of any kind?"

"Aye; they call him 'Quicksilver."'

"An odd name, but fitting for one who cannot be found," Geoffrey mused. "And you say his army has shield-maidens as well as men?"

"Not shield-maidens, but warriors in their own right," Puck corrected. "He has a score of them, and score they do, for each seems to have a score of her own to settle, 'gainst men and, most pointedly, the Lord's men."

Geoffrey thought of the kind of hatred that bespoke and the ferocity that went with it, and frowned in thought. He had been trained never to strike a woman—but surely one who went in battle, and was trying to kill him, was another matter entirely. Still, it would be better if he could find this Quicksilver and bring him to justice—or death in battle, which was far more likely. With the head gone, the limbs would not know how or where to strike. "I may need to call for soldiers to gather up the leavings," he said slowly.

"An army the King must not send," Puck contradicted, "or this bandit Quicksilver may get notions above his station. 'Tis bad enough that he doth defy a count! If he should confront a king's army, we might have a full-blown rebellion afoot."

Geoffrey scowled; he knew what that meant. Lowborn or not, Quicksilver would become the focus of every disaffected lordling in Gramarye, and of any squire and knight who thought he had a score to settle with the Crown. It had been tried before, several times during the reign of Queen Catharine and King Tuan—but there was always the danger that the next try might succeed. It was a slight danger, to be sure, but a danger nonetheless.

What was far more likely was that estates and farmland would be torn apart in the battling, and that many peasants would lose their lives. "So. If His Majesty cannot send an army, he can send me."

"Do not preen thyself overmuch," Puck said with a jaundiced eye. "If thou dost think of thyself as the equal of an whole army, thou wilt shortly be dead."

Geoffrey shrugged off the comment; they both knew it was false. Still, for the sake of form, he said, "Do not worry, Puck—I am aware that I have only two arms and two legs. Still, though I might not face the whole army, I might find and defeat their commander—though 'tis scarcely chivalrous to slay a peasant."

"Then capture him if thou canst, but if 'tis his life or thine, do not hesitate to make it his. There is, after all, no loss of honor in slaying a peasant who hath defeated a count and his army."

"And great honor in freeing other peasants from a tyrant and brigand." Geoffrey grinned, his pulse quickening at the thought of real, genuine action. "Thanks for this good news, Puck. I was like to rot from inaction."

"In more ways than one," Puck muttered under his breath, then said aloud, "Ride swiftly, then, and with good heart."

"I shall," Geoffrey assured him, "for all laws of chivalry do agree on this being a noble and worthy quest. Thank you, Puck! I ride!"

And he did—he leaped on his horse and set off down the road. Puck watched him go, shaking his head, marvelling once again at the folly of mortals. Geoffrey was in such a hurry to meet a chance of death that he had not even turned to go home for a clean shirt!

Geoffrey had not gone home to pack because he always kept everything he needed for a mission with him, in his saddlebags. He had clean linen, hardtack, and a canteen which he could fill at the first stream he came to. Beyond that, he needed only his sword, which never left his side, and his dagger. He might indeed find a need for armor and a lance, though he doubted that—if he was going to take on a whole army by himself, mobility and secrecy would count for more than steel plate. If he did need it, he could always send for it—he could teleport home quickly enough, put on his armor, and teleport back. He saw no reason not to take full advantage of all his psi powers—there was no lack of honor in it, if he was to go up against a whole army. In fact, that was why the Elf King had sent himself, instead of a whole expeditionary force—that, and his skill at arms and talent for tactics.

Modesty? The need for it never occurred to Geoffrey. To believe himself capable of more than he really was would have been very bad tactics indeed. A general has to know the exact strength of his forces if he is to plan a campaign wisely, and Geoffrey had to know his own exact strengths and weaknesses for the same reasons. He was as wary of false modesty as of overconfidence. He would never make the mistake of underestimating an enemy and for the same reason, he would never underestimate himself. To some people, conceit was a moral flaw; to Geoffrey, it was a military one.

On the one hand, he knew how to pretend modesty when the occasion called for it. He had learned that most people find truth distasteful, especially the truth about their own weaknesses and vices, and someone else's strengths and virtues. To others, a frank statement of Geoffrey's abilities counted as bragging, so he had learned to hold his tongue. Shortly thereafter, he had realized it was a good tactic—for it allowed possible enemies to underestimate him.

On the other hand, he knew himself for an arrogant idiot in any matter not relating to war or wooing—which, to him, were much the same; both involved the planning of a campaign, and both culminated in action. He was content to leave intellectual matters to Gregory, the care of others to Cordelia, and the rest of the galaxy to his absent brother Magnus. Governance he left to Their Majesties or, possibly, Cordelia—he knew he would make a botch of it if he tried. It had occurred to him, idly, that if he and his three siblings were all rolled into one person, they would make the ideal monarch. Since they were separate, however, he paid his allegiance to King Tuan and Queen Catharine, and when they were dead, he would pay allegiance to Alain—he had no doubt the prince would become an excellent ruler, with Cordelia beside him to guide and temper him.

That, however, was for the future. Today was for action. Geoffrey rode south with a light heart and a song on his lips. He was riding to battle—nothing else mattered.

Doll would have been highly indignant to learn that. But it would have reassured Puck immensely. What the elf had not told Geoffrey was that his elves had been following "Doll" for some time, and had reason to wonder whether or not she would be good for Geoffrey. Puck certainly had no objection to two young folk merrily playing together, but he had other notions about entanglements, and though he was not sure exactly where Doll had come from, his agents had definitely overheard some remarks' that were without question predatory, before she had taken up her station dallying by the wayside waiting for a dalliance—and knowing exactly who the next knight would be.

When Geoffrey came to a town large enough to have a fair, he stopped and bought a few items. He paid in gold, leaving the merchants goggling in his wake—not only because he paid generously, but also because the last thing they would have expected of a rough-clad knight-errant was to buy a burgher's robe and hat, not to mention the donkey and the load of odds and ends. But, when he brought the donkey back to his horse, he was amazed to find it gone, and a tall black stallion standing in its place—a stallion he recognized. He glanced around quickly, saw there was no one near, and muttered, "Fess! What are you doing here?"

"Waiting to serve you, Geoffrey," the huge black horse answered in a voice as low as his.

Fess wasn't a horse, really—he was a computer that could be installed in any number of robot bodies. This imitation horse was the one he had been inhabiting for the last twenty-odd years, ever since his master—Rod Gallowglass, Geoffrey's father—had landed on this planet of Gramarye to begin subverting its medieval monarchy into a democracy.

"I know, I know, you live but to serve!" Geoffrey said impatiently. "What happened to my horse, Fess?"

"An elf is riding him home this very minute. They seem to have established friendly relations."

Which was quite an accomplishment, considering that horses were usually spooked by close contact with elves. Geoffrey wondered how many apples and lumps of sugar it had taken. He sighed, resigning himself to accept the situation—there was no point in arguing with Fess, since he only carried out Rod's commands. "Why did Father send you?"

"Puck told him of your current mission, and both your parents became a trifle nervous over your confronting a small army single-handedly. They found it reassuring to think that you might have the company of a trusted retainer."

"Well, to speak truly, I do too," Geoffrey admitted. Not much—he knew that in a battle, Fess would fight with amazing bravery for several minutes, at which point the stress would take its toll, and the robot's faulty capacitor would discharge, tripping a circuit breaker that would turn him off to prevent his burning out. Fess was a cybernetic epileptic.

Nonetheless, Geoffrey felt quite cheered as he swung up into the saddle. There was nothing like the presence of an old family retainer to give you a sense of stability—and Fess had been with the family for five hundred years, give or take a decade or three.

However, Geoffrey braced himself for a few lectures. The "horse" he was riding might have been the friend of his childhood, but it had also been his tutor. Fess couldn't resist the chance to impart wisdom.

As they rode out of town, leading the donkey, Geoffrey drew many glances from people who exchanged very skeptical looks with their neighbors, shaking their heads and turning back to count their profits. What business of theirs was it if the young knight was a fool? The more fools they would have been, not to take the gold he offered!

But as soon as he had ridden into the woods, our young knight found a clearing where he could change his clothes—and a few minutes later, a young merchant was riding his way south through the woods, whistling and kicking his heels. His robe and hat were not rich or trimmed with fur, but he was clearly a merchant, with no armament except the dagger at his belt.

No armament visible, that is. The loose robe nicely concealed the sword slung across his back.

A lone merchant was, of course, too easy a prize for forest outlaws to resist, and at any other time, Geoffrey would have been delighted to battle any one of them, or even all together—he had done so before, when he became really bored; chivalry always allowed him to clean up a few menaces to public safety. But this time he was after bigger game, and couldn't take the time to knock out and bring in every petty outlaw who came his way—so Geoffrey kept his mind open, picking up their greedy thoughts as soon as they sighted him, and managing to insert a little apprehension, then nourishing it. After a few minutes, even the most hardened bandit turned away with a shudder. There was something about this young merchant, something eldritch, some shadow of menace that overhung him. Tempting his donkeyload of goods might be, but not so tempting as to defy whatever force it was that shadowed him.

When he came into County Laeg, though, Geoffrey dropped the aura of dread that he had been projecting and rode along looking as innocent as possible. Now he wanted to attract bandits' attention—but only that of the right bandits. Still, from what Puck had said, he suspected that any bandits here would be the right bandits—he didn't expect that Quicksilver would allow any small fry to go poaching on his domain, any more than Count Laeg had.

He did not stop by the castle to tell the Count he was here, though by the laws of chivalry, he should have. Since that would have given away who he really was, though, he let it slide—he had a notion the Count would overlook the rudeness, if Geoffrey brought in Quicksilver.

Finally, he felt a surge of interest in a mind not far from the trail—but he was surprised to discover that it was less an outlaw's greed than a sentry's wariness. Still, larceny was definitely there, and Geoffrey heard the bird calls with which the sentry summoned his captain.

The blood began to sing in Geoffrey's veins as the minds about him became more numerous. He faked a yawn and reached up to scratch his back—and clear the collar of his robe from the hilt of his sword. Excitement gathered; it was time for action!

He rounded a bend and found a dozen outlaws blocking the path, quarterstaves at the ready, the leader with his sword raised.

Geoffrey stopped, feigning shock—and noticed the dozen more outlaws who stepped out of the brush to block the road behind him. These bandits, at least, didn't believe in taking chances.

He was amazed at their discipline, but even more amazed at the state of their clothing. Here were no patched tunics with cloaks of untanned hides, but jerkins and hose of good stout broadcloth, in the green and brown that blended so well with the forest foliage. Only the leader wore a hat, but it looked new, and was decorated with a bright red feather. His sword was bright, not rusty, and not honed down from decades of sharpening. As outlaws went, these were very affluent.

"Well met, stranger!" the leader called, and one of his men chuckled. "We have met him well indeed, Ostricht."

"Be still, Tomkin!" Ostricht snapped, then to Geoffrey again, "Be sure you may ride our pathways in safety, young merchant—if you pay our toll."

Geoffrey forced himself to look casual and heaved a sigh. "Ah me, how the cost of doing business keeps rising! Very well, forester—how much toll does your lord demand?"

At the word 'forester,' the outlaws all began to snicker. Ostricht glared them down, then smiled at Geoffrey. "A half of all your goods, young merchant."

Geoffrey stared. "A half! Nay, sir! That is far too high a tax! If I were to pay that at every toll gate, I would have nothing left to sell before I came to the next town!"

A soft rustling sounded all around him as archers drew their bows.

"True," Ostricht admitted, "but we shall see to it that there are no other tolls—and if you do not pay us half, you will not live to sell the other half."

"Oh, I think that I shall," Geoffrey said quietly.

He rolled off Fess and down, below the archers' aim. For a second they stood, realizing that their arrows might very well hit one another—which gave Geoffrey just enough time to spring upward, whipping the sword out from behind his back and lunging at Ostricht.

Suprised, the leader nonetheless managed to parry, but not well—Geoffrey's blade grazed his left arm. He howled in anger, but Geoffrey was already crowding him, sword flickering in and out, pushing him back and back among his own men. A ranker broke out of the paralysis of surprise and swung his quarterstaff with a snarl; Geoffrey chopped it aside, thrust into the man's thigh, hearing the bellow of pain as he collapsed and Geoffrey turned to catch Ostricht's blade on his own, then riposted quickly to thrust at the bandit leader's face. Ostricht flinched away, and a quarterstaff cracked across the back of Geoffrey's shoulders. He grunted with pain and half-turned, just far enough to lash a kick into the stomach of the man who had struck him—a foul blow was fully justified, when an assailant struck from behind. Then back he spun, to catch Ostricht's blade in a bind and step up corps d corps, backing the bandit leader into a tree. An arrow whistled past his ear to bite into the trunk, and Geoffrey snarled, "Fool!"

"Fool!" Ostricht agreed in a bellow. "Put up your bows! Do you mean to slay me?" Prudently, he didn't wait for an answer, but shoved hard, trying to push Geoffrey far enough away so that he could disentangle his blade ...

It was like trying to shove a boulder.

A quarterstaff caught Geoffrey across the back of the knees.

He grunted and threw an arm around Ostricht. The bandit leader saw his chance and shoved, hard, and Geoffrey fell ...

... with Ostricht right on top of him.

Even so, Geoffrey managed to twist as he fell, and rose up with his dagger at Ostricht's throat, sword sweeping up to knock aside the quarterstaves that struck at him as he bellowed, "Hold! Or I'll cut his throat!"

The bandits froze.

Then an ugly, bearded one snarled, "Do, and we'll crush you to jelly!"

Geoffrey's hand twitched, and a drop of blood appeared on Ostricht's throat. The bandit leader went rigid, eyes wide in horror.

"Crush away, then," Geoffrey hissed.

The bandit glared at him, but held his staff still—and his tongue.

"Away!" Ostricht grated. "Put down your bows! If he falls, he's like to slit my throat as he topples!"

"Wisely said," Geoffrey agreed. "Bid them back away now, a good ten feet."

"Do as he says!" Ostricht snapped. Reluctantly, the bandits gave ground. "Now," Geoffrey said, "put down your bows."

He did not even look, only kept his gaze locked with Ostricht's, his lips thin, hand rock-steady.

"Obey!" Ostricht groaned.

There was silence. Then one bow dropped, and all the others clattered down beside it.

"Now," said Geoffrey, "take me to your leader." Ostricht stared at him, and his men growled and muttered. "I would sooner die!" the bandit leader snapped. "You have chosen." Geoffrey swung the sword-tip down, right above Ostricht's eyes.

The bandits howled, starting forward, then froze. "Thrust," Ostricht grated. "I shall not betray my chief!"

"Thrust," growled one of the bandits, "and we shall slay you."

But Geoffrey ignored him, frowning. "What manner of bandit chieftain is this Quicksilver, to inspire such loyalty in you?"

"A leader worth a thousand of the lord who claims the right to rule us," Ostricht snapped. "Strike, and be done—but I shall not betray Quicksilver!"

"Then we shall carve up what's left," another bandit growled.

"Carve!" Geoffrey snarled, and leaped up and back, kicking Ostricht aside as he did. He stumbled back, his knees not yet fully recovered, and the bandits roared and closed in. But Geoffrey had aimed well; he fell back against a tree. Quarterstaves rained down at him, but he blocked them with sword and dagger. Sticks exploded against his ribs, drubbed his shoulders, pounded his thighs, for he could not block them all—but by the same token, the bandits were too closely packed to be able to get much of a swing. Geoffrey's knees were strong enough for kicks, though, and suddenly all but two of the bandits were rolling on the ground, howling in pain, and the remaining pair were streaked with blood from Geoffrey's sword.

He shouted, "Havoc!" and leaped at the one on his right, chopping and thrusting. His knees held, and the man howled, falling back with a gash in his thigh. Geoffrey spun in time to parry the staff that struck down from his left, then riposted and grazed the man's ribs. He swung back to the front just in time to parry a thrust from Ostricht, then advanced on him, thrusting so quickly that the man scarcely had time to parry, and certainly none to riposte. He gave ground, and none of his men could help him now—until a tree suddenly struck his back, and Geoffrey caught his sword in a quick circling movement of his own blade. Ostricht's sword went flying, and he stood at bay, bloodied and gasping for breath, staring wildly at the blade whose point touched his throat.

"Now," Geoffrey called out, "one of you who can still walk, lead me to Quicksilver!"

"I am here," said a voice behind him.

Geoffrey spun about, leaping aside to keep his point near Ostricht's throat even in his amazement at the sound of that voice. He stared at its owner.

She was long and lithe, slender and supple. If Helen's face would have launched a thousand ships, Quicksilver's figure would have wrecked them, for the helmsmen would not have been able to keep their eyes on the sea ahead. Her auburn hair was caught by a gleaming headband, but fell loose about her shoulders in a swaying mass. She wore a copper-colored surcoat, but not the armor it should have covered, giving her, in effect, a long split skirt over girded loins, and a bodice that tied about her neck and just below her breasts, binding them as firmly as any brassiere. Her buskins were soft leather, almost moccasins, but crossgartered up over her calves.

And her face ...

Wide across high cheekbones, narrowing to a small, firm chin—a small, straight nose, huge dark brown eyes, a high unlined forehead, wide mouth with full, ripe lips ...

Geoffrey caught his breath. His thoughts spun, seeking refuge, some defense against this goddess whose mere presence seemed to demand his homage, the total devotion of every fiber of his being, and found it—in the errant thought that he had, most surely, seen faces more beautiful.

But not bodies ...

Perhaps one or two faces more beautiful, but this one had a compelling quality, some strange attraction that made every cell within him scream to feel her touch, her embrace, fought for some action that would bring him into contact with her, no matter how brutal that action might be.

Chivalry clamped down on instinct. Geoffrey caught his breath, and his presence of mind. Somehow, the magnificent creature facing him seemed to dwindle a bit, into a mere mortal woman, not the goddess she had seemed in the first shock of seeing ...

But still fantastically attractive.

Charisma, he thought crazily, she had immense charisma—and Ostricht slipped aside from his blade, then sprang back beside his chief, panting and glaring at Geoffrey, bloodied but still ready to try to tear him apart with his bare hands if Geoffrey so much as raised a finger against his female leader.

Very female, immensely female—and every iota of his being clamored in response. He stood still, rooted to the spot, but felt as though his whole body was nonetheless straining to be closer to her—and she responded, he could feel the intensity of that response as her eyes glowed into his, seeming to swallow him up, yearning to devour every shred of his being and meld her substance with his ...

Or was this only the effect she had on all men? Was he nothing exceptional to her, only another male foe to be captured, subverted, enslaved by his own emotions? Lust was too mild a word for the feelings she inspired in him; covetousness might have begun to cover it, obsession to enwrap it, but no word ever made could encompass it, could begin to describe the height and depth of it.

The thought slid by, irrelevant and irreverent, that he might be facing a woman who had great psionic power, but who was unaware of it.

Unaware? No, surely not; surely there had never been a woman who could have been unaware of her effect on men, not a woman like this, no, who could make a very stone to groan with longing.

He forced himself to some rough facsimile of poise. "I had not known you were a woman."

Her lips quirked in the faintest of smiles. "Do you doubt it?"

"Nay, surely not," Geoffrey breathed, and she seemed to swell in his consciousness again, becoming once more larger than life. He thrust her down to normal size in his mind, remembering himself by sheer will alone. "I have heard only the name, and thought a bandit chieftain must be a man."

"Who could better lead men than a woman?" Quicksilver demanded.

Geoffrey felt instant sympathy and total agreement—a woman like this could have led any man anywhere. In fact, she probably had. "You are very aptly come, on the cusp of the moment to rescue your men."

"My sentries are everywhere throughout this county," Quicksilver returned. "As soon as you demanded to see me, word sped to me—and I sped to you, for I fight for my men even as they fight for me."

Geoffrey could understand why men would fight for her—he felt like doing so himself. But he strove for sanity and, to remind himself of the true state of affairs, protested, "You are no lady of rank."

"You are no merchant," Quicksilver retorted.

The overly obvious observation restored Geoffrey to some sense of self-possession. He smiled. "You are perceptive."

"What are you, then?"

"A man."

"Aye, you are," Quicksilver breathed, and for a moment, her eyes seemed to swell, to drink him in; he felt that he had to brace himself against that pull, or be sucked into the maelstrom of her presence.

Then it receded, and she was only mortal again—but Geoffrey could understand how men would follow her blindly, and understand even more clearly how they would be willing to die rather than betray her.

There was a rustle and a clank of metal around her, and for the first time he realized that she was flanked by a bodyguard of a dozen women, perhaps more—but what women! They were tall, nearly six feet every one, and corded with sleek, firm muscles. Each was dressed as Quicksilver was, though with different colors; each had her hair bound out of her way in a loose tail at the back of her head. Most were beautiful, some were not—but all their faces were hard, very hard, as though they yearned for him to raise a hand against their chieftain, so that they might have an excuse to chop him up and feed his bonemeal to the fishes.

But beauty and perfection of form notwithstanding, all paled into insignificance beside their chief.

Which amazed Geoffrey, because he realized that sev eral of them, objectively, were more beautiful than Quicksilver. The thought occurred to him that other men might not find her so irresistible, that perhaps it was only he himself who thought her the most fascinating woman in the universe—but, no; he remembered how completely she seemed to command the loyalty of her bandits; surely they must find her as compelling as he did ...

She was saying something. He yanked his concentration back to her words, then was horrified to realize that, while he had been distracted by her beauty, any man could have stepped up behind him and run him through. Even that thought made him miss her words, though; she was frowning at his silence, and he did not want her to frown ...

"I said, 'Who are you?' " she demanded.

There seemed no good reason to lie. "I am Geoffrey Gallowglass."

A murmur of shock and surprise passed through the bandit host, even the bodyguards, and their eyes narrowed. Quicksilver seemed to stiffen, and her stare was somehow wary; Geoffrey only now realized that it had been confident, almost contemptuous, before.

It was significant that no one said, "The son of the High Warlock" or "The son of the arch-witch Gwendylon!" or even, "So you are of that tribe!" Geoffrey had built a reputation of his own, even though he was only twenty—and among warriors like these, that reputation blazed far more brightly than that of his mother or father.

Quicksilver's gaze held steady, boring into his own. "The King and Queen have sent you, have they not?"

"Yes," Geoffrey said, but didn't feel obliged to tell her the rest of the truth.

Quicksilver's gaze didn't waver a millimeter. "Why are you come?"

"To arrest the bandit chieftain Quicksilver," Geoffrey said plainly, "and take her back to Their Majesties for trial."

The bandits went into an uproar, but the bodyguards shouted, "Assassin!" and leaped forward, swords flashing out ...

Or almost leaped forward; but Quicksilver held up her hand, and they jarred to a halt. Her lips curved in a slight smile, and her eyes glittered. "Do you think you can pluck me out from the midst of my band and live to tell of it?"

"No," Geoffrey returned. "I think that first I shall have to kill them all."

The crowd went into an uproar again. He raised his voice just enough for his words to bore through the commotion: "But if I were to fight them all, I might have to slay you, too—and I would be very loathe to do that."

"Braggart," she breathed, and the whole band quieted to hear her response.

Geoffrey shook his head. "It may seem so, but it is not. I shall not brag—and I never threaten. I will, however, give notice of what I intend to do."

"Not a warning," Quicksilver qualified.

"Okay," Geoffrey agreed. "Only the facts, as I see them."

"I cannot help but think that you see a bit too much of yourself."

"Oh, no," Geoffrey said, his eyes glowing into hers. "Not when all I can see is you."

The bodyguards snarled and lifted their swords again, but Quicksilver actually blushed. "My mother taught me to beware of men with sweet words."

"Beware of me indeed," Geoffrey murmured.

The whole band went silent, staring at their chief in amazement—and the bodyguards seemed almost in shock. Had no one ever tried to woo this woman?

Perhaps not, Geoffrey realized—perhaps none had dared.

"Do you hope to beguile me into surrender, with naught but sweet words?" Quicksilver asked.

"I might hope," Geoffrey answered, "but I would be a fool to think I could."

"And are you a fool?"

"Perhaps for you," he agreed, "but not so great a fool as to let you continue to flout the King's Law."

"Do you threaten me, then?"

"No," Geoffrey said quickly, before the Amazons could start to growl again. "But I tell you frankly, that I will take you back to Runnymede, to await Their Majesties' justice."

The bodyguards howled, flourishing their swords, but again Quicksilver held up her hand. "Withold. He is a warlock."

The Amazons stilled, not because they feared magic, but because Quicksilver had told them to.

Geoffrey nodded. "You are wise. There is no shame in using magic when I am so greatly outnumbered—for I can see through the trees that your band now continues to gather; there must be hundreds—and I would be loathe to hurt women."

"Loathe?" Quicksilver demanded. "But you would do it?"

Geoffrey nodded. "She who takes up weapons forfeits her rights to the protections of chivalry—for a knight must defend his life."

"Yet even so, he must do no more damage to a female than he needs," Quicksilver reminded him.

Geoffrey's eyes gleamed again. "Who are you, to lecture me on the rules of chivalry? Are you nobly born?"

"Only the daughter of a squire," Quicksilver returned, "but thereby did I learn of the Knights' Code."

"Then do you live by it?"

"So far as a woman may."

"Why, that is completely," Geoffrey said, frowning. Quicksilver finally smiled in amusement. "Yes, that is so—and that is how far I do live by it."

Geoffrey's eyes burned, but his voice sank to a caress. "Yield yourself, I pray—for I would be loathe indeed to hurt you."

"And if I do not," Quicksilver said, equally softly, "you will shatter my army with witch-power."

"I shall," Geoffrey confirmed.

"Why, then, the fight must be between the two of us, and we two alone." At last, Quicksilver reached up to draw the broadsword that was slung across her back, and stepped forward from among her women. They cried out in alarm and leaped forward to stop her—but she waved them away. "I shall fight without my band, if you swear to fight without your magic."

"Why, that is honorable indeed!" Geoffrey said, the glow in his eyes spreading across his face. "I swear I shall work no magic, if you forbid your troops to fight!"

"I forbid you all to fight in my defense!" Quicksilver called out. "This is my fight, mine alone, for this man is my meat!"

Eighteen of her bodyguards cried out in protest—but the other two stood silent, staring at their chief in understanding. Slowly and reluctantly, they sheathed their swords and waved their sisters back.

Quicksilver stepped forward, sword on guard, a lioness stalking her quarry, a panther readying herself to spring. Geoffrey lifted his own sword and stepped forward, ignoring the weakness in his knees.