"Unless they are all busy fighting each other, in which case Windemere could convince the Great Council to declare martial law, and seize control of the courts and the military. That is within their right, providing no Regent is available to do the same."

Blackthorn could not believe what he was hearing. "An unlikely scenario," he declared.

"Is it?" Lord British's advisor grabbed a handful of scrolls off the desk. As he did so, he uncovered an ornate box of sandalwood. Something stirred within Blackthorn as he stared at the box, something that he thought he should know, but then Whitelock distracted him when he rattled the air by shaking the scrolls. "For the past few nights I have been receiving reports from the contacts that I have throughout Britannia. Jhelom. Trinsic. Minoc. Moonglow. New Magincia." He tossed a scroll down for each city that he named. "All are wondering what is to be done, and all have a different idea of what should be done. Only the folks in Britain, Yew, and Skara Brae seem to be willing to wait for His Majesty's return. Britain, for obvious reasons, and Skara Brae because of Hassad's inexplicable fondness for thee. As for Yew, Dryden will ensure that it remains loyal. Felespar, too, but only should Yew's loyalty remain to his advantage."

The clock pealed twice, deep and resonant. "There was bound to be unrest in the beginning," Blackthorn said, when the clock returned to its steady, quiet count of the hour. "The realm will settle down once the Council issues its decree. Affairs will be conducted in an orderly manner. Britannia will not be torn apart. Lord British will return." His gaze drifted to the box.

"Let us hope he does," Whitelock said. He took up his quill, and pushed the scrolls from his parchment. The box was covered again, and Blackthorn blinked uncertainly. Whitelock looked up, the maimed half of his face hidden. "Be wary of Windemere, my Lord. He is very much like his father: Charismatic, a true leader, and rebellious. His reach extends well beyond his influence in New Magincia. Those who dwell within his family's stronghold consider their island a country in its own right. In addition, he has followers in every city, some visible, others not, lawmakers and lawbreakers, all with some influence over the local courts and militia. And like a crew of one of his captains, these men and women are loyal to Windemere, fiercely loyal, save for a few, who I happen to contact every now and then." He turned back to his writing, hair and shadow once again concealing his face. "Do not underestimate him. This is his opportunity, as it is thine." He interrupted his scribbling long enough to point the quill at the crown that had mysteriously reappeared in Blackthorn's hands. So startled was Blackthorn that he nearly dropped it.

"No," Blackthorn whispered. The metal of the crown burned. "This is not mine." Neither does it belong locked in here. It belongs with the other crown jewel, the Scepter of Lord British.

He took the crown to Lord British's throne room, empty at this hour, and a soaring vault of darkness. A tunnel of pale light burrowed through that blackness, bordered by the chamber's ghostly pillars, each so enormous that the torch bracketed to it could only illuminate a pale ellipse of marble. An elaborate carpet, crafted by the silk weavers of Buccaneer's Den, stretched forth from Blackthorn's feet. At its far end, the king's throne gleamed in a fragile island of light. And on the throne, where Lord British had told him he could find the scepter . . . the scepter was not.

Heart suddenly surging, Blackthorn ran to the throne. The indentation of His Majesty's scepter was clear in the cushions, but the scepter itself—"Someone has stolen it," he heard himself whisper.

Disbelief turned to shock, and shock melted into anger, all within seconds. He released his frustrations in a bellow of rage. The throne room screamed back at him, once, twice, more until the last of the echoes died. Windemere! He tossed the crown upon the throne, and room screeched with the drawing of his blade. I shall have thine head! He spun, ready to storm out to Windemere's quarters, then heard something.