The maelstrom had opened to the west, someone was reporting, and several of Windemere's ships were hopelessly caught within its rim. While the knight spoke, the three shadows behind him dissipated into the corner of the cabin. Their disappearance snapped Blackthorn from his reverie so fiercely that his breath rushed out of him. The cabin lolled, and he gripped the arms of the chair in which he sat.

"My Lord?" Sir Simon said. Lord Malone, also present, stepped forward to offer assistance.

Blackthorn waved him off. "'Tis nothing," he said.

The cabin continued to loll as the frigate cut north through the sea, now less than a mile from the shores of Windemere's island, a course he and the knights had not originally planned to take, but the news had arrived the night after Shaana had been poisoned, while Blackthorn still sat at her side, peering dully out of the window through his tears. He had lit a single candle and placed it on the sill. It had been barely enough to illuminate the room, but it had surrounded Shaana's pale, beautiful face with a lovely, serene aura.

In the window's reflection of the room, the door opened, allowing light to spill in. A hunched figure shuffled into the room and took a seat. The door closed by itself.

"I hope that thou hast learned something of importance, scribe," Blackthorn whispered, never taking his eyes from the window. "I was to be left alone."

Whitelock's sneer could be heard, if not seen. "'Tis time for thy grieving to end, my Lord. While thou hast spent thy time wallowing over what cannot be undone, I have been busy finding out who is responsible for it." The scribe tossed something forward. A flurry of parchment fluttered behind Blackthorn as it all settled on the floor. "Signed statements from the innkeeper, the healer, and half the residents of New Magincia. They all knew the woman with whom that didst speak last night. She was part of Lady Windemere's entourage."

Leather creaked as Blackthorn's gloved fists tightened. "Did she act under the Lady's orders?" Blackthorn said.

"What dost thou think?" Whitelock said, scornfully. "That she acted on her own?"

"'Tis what Windemere will claim, and what the Great Council will state that I cannot prove otherwise," Blackthorn said. "Just as they believe that I cannot prove that Windemere orchestrated the attack on Jhelom." He added, quietly, "And they are right. He hides his tracks too well, much like his mother."

Whitelock's figure rose from his chair. His posture was no longer hunched. "What needs to be proved? The links are there; they need only to be chained together. Certainly, that is what Sir Simon and Lord Malone have done. They have no doubts that Windemere is involved, and they are willing to support an assault on his keep to bring the Councilor and Lady to justice."

"If the Lady wishes to hole herself in her island, then so be it," Blackthorn said. "I will sanction an embargo upon her. There is no need for a siege. As for the Councilor, he sits in prison, and can answer for his family's atrocities."

"I am afraid not." Whitelock stooped again as he walked over to stand behind Blackthron's chair. "A courier from Britain arrived by moongate this evening. He brings . . . interesting news." He lowered himself so that the reflection of the ruined half of his face, a pale half-orb of scarred flesh, joined Blackthorn's in the window. "Councilor Windemere is free."