"Only talk, my Lord," said Ghaland. "As thou canst tell, a significant number of fighters and paladins have renewed their cries for Lord Malone to take his rule to Castle Britannia. Just as many others have rallied around Sir Simon. One cannot walk through the town center without hearing someone claim 'tis time for a new monarch." He faltered, as if regretting that last statement. Perhaps he had seen Blackthorn's fist clench. "As I said, my Lord, 'tis only talk. No action has been taken."

"Not against the throne, at least." This from Captain Kayden of Skara Brae. "Though the different factions are already at each other throats from what I hear. Half the duels last night were over the honor of Lord Malone or Sir Simon. And hath not the Black Company been openly attacked in Minoc for similar reasons?"

"A rather boisterous demonstration was held before the barracks one day, but nothing more." The voice of Minoc's captain, Lady Guinere, was as rich and throaty as her looks. "When they became obnoxious, they were quickly dispersed. However, there is growing support for Sir Simon."

"The opposite can be said of Moonglow," Moragwain sighed. "Neither Lord Michael of Empath Abbey nor Lord Shalineth of the Lycaeum have any interest in succeeding Lord British, so most magi have turned their loyalties to Serpent's Hold."

"And what of New Magincia?" Blackthorn asked, continuing to stare out to sea. Two frigates, both bearing the dark flags of the Shepherd's Crook, had sailed into view. Some of Windemere's ships, Blackthorn thought darkly. "Thou hast never been so quiet, Saduj. Certainly thou dost have something to report."

He turned and faced the shifty-eyed cutthroat. Blackthorn did not care for the little thief; he already had an excellent captain positioned in New Magincia, but Councilor Windemere kept a tight watch over the Black Company there. So Blackthorn kept a close watch over Windemere with this fellow, who assisted a few folk on Windemere's personal staff. Windemere obviously did not know of the fellow's sordid past. Blackthorn did, and that and the hefty sum Blackthorn paid him per month kept Saduj loyal in deed, if not in heart.

The normally arrogant man did not glance at Blackthorn while he spoke. Perhaps New Magincia had finally given him a dose of humility. "Councilor Windemere remains loyal to the Great Council," Saduj stammered. "He does not support Lord Malone or Sir Simon, but neither does he support thee, my Lord. He speaks openly against the monarchy, and demands the rule of the people. And he is gathering followers throughout Britannia. With Lord British lost—"

"Lord British is not lost!"

Blackthorn's council started at his outburst. They sat at a circular table of yew, an elegant piece of furniture, completely out of place in a tower of war, polished so fine that it mirrored those around it. Blackthorn stepped forward until his reflection joined those of his company. Positioned just to the right of Dryden, he leaned forward, prepared to speak, when another spoke for him.

"Lord British may not be lost, but the realm will remain divided until he returns."

The voice came from the corner of the room. In a chair hunched the crippled form of Whitelock, the hood of his ragged, gray robes sheltering the burnt half of his face. His good eye gleamed at Blackthorn, and he put down his pen. "Though I am loathe to admit it," said the scribe, "our friend from The Sword and Keg last night is correct. The Black Company has done nothing but react to the events in Britannia. Still, we are not completely at fault. We made a promise not to interfere with the rule of the Great Council, yet they have done little to address the current crisis. Their time has passed. 'Tis time for us to act."

"What dost thou propose, my Lord?" said Suturb to Blackthorn. He did not look at the scribe. No one ever did. Very few could stomach his appearance.