The Stoneholding

"I thought I noticed a touch of an accent -- almost took you for a highlander for a moment there." He looked up squint-eyed at Frysan. Light perspiration began to gather on Frysan's brow. His foot began to throb. He knew the heel was soon bound to hurt worse.

"No, I'm from the marchlands this side of the Radolan Mountains, a lowlander when all is said and done."

"Good, come along then," said Baldrick, as he rose. He held out his dagger pointing to the doorway, then slid the blade into its sheath. "We'll let you wheedle the woman with your soft graces, Master Merchant, although if it were up to me, I'd not stand on ceremony but bind and gag her and throw her into the boat's bilge, her and her whining imp. And I'm willing to bet you a full month's wages you'll be hard put to get her to agree that her husband should be moved in his death pangs."

Baldrick and Frysan left the summerhouse and turned onto a flagged footpath towards the buildings of the Silver Palace itself. The two pikemen provided them with lantern light, one ahead and one behind. They threaded their way across the grounds, where the sculptured hedges threw strange shadows in the flaring light, past flowerbeds and terraced gardens, their plants now faded with the summer's passing. Wincing at the surging stabs of pain, Frysan started to favour his left foot, lagging a step behind the Captain, who more than once cursed and prodded the pikeman who led the way in an effort to quicken their pace. Without warning Baldrick turned his head.

"What ails you, man?" he asked, stopping to regard Frysan with a ...