Legends II

 OUTLANDER

 DIANA GABALDON

 OUTLANDER(1991*)

 DRAGONFLY INAMBER(1992)

 VOYAGER(1994)

 DRUMS OFAUTUMN(1997)

 THEOUTLANDISHCOMPANION(nonfiction, 1999)

 THEFIERYCROSS(2001)

 A BREATH OFSNOW ANDASHES(forthcoming)

 THE LORD JOHN GREY BOOKS:

 “Hellfire” (novella—published in

 the U.K. anthology PASTPOISONS, 1998)

 LORDJOHN AND THEPRIVATEMATTER(2003)

 LORDJOHN AND THEBROTHERHOOD OF THEBLADE

 (forthcoming)

  

 In 1946, just after World War II, a young woman named Claire Beauchamp Randall

 goes to the Scottish Highlands on a second honeymoon. She and her husband,

 Frank, have been separated by the war, he as a British army officer, she as a

 combat nurse, and are now becoming reacquainted, rekindling their marriage, and

 thinking of starting a family. These plans hit a snag when Claire, walking by

 herself one afternoon, walks through a circle of standing stones and disappears.

 The first person she meets, upon regaining possession of her faculties, is a man

 in the uniform of an eighteenth-century English army officer—a man who bears a

 startling resemblance to her husband, Frank. This is not terribly surprising, as

 CaptainJohnathan Randall is her husband’s six-times-great-grandfather. However,

 Black Jack, as he’s called, does not resemble his descendant in terms of

 personality, being a sadistic bisexual pervert, and while attempting to escape

 from him, Claire falls into the hands of a group of Highland Scots, who are also

 eager to avoid the Captain for reasons of their own.

 Events culminate in Claire’s being obliged to marry Jamie Fraser, a young

 Highlander, in order to stay out of the hands of Black Jack Randall. Hoping to

 escape from the Scots long enough to get back to the stone circle and Frank,

 Claire agrees—only to find herself gradually falling in love with Jamie.

 TheOutlanderbooks are the story of Claire, Jamie, and Frank, and a complicated

 double marriage that occupies two separate centuries.

 * All dates are first U.S. hardcover publication, unless otherwise noted.

 They are also the story of theJacobite Rising under Bonnie Prince Charlie, the

 end of the Highland clans, and the flight of the Highlanders, after the

 slaughter of Culloden, to the refuge and promise of the New World—a world that

 promises to be just as dangerous as the old one. And along the way,theOutlander

 series is an exploration of the nuances, operation, and moral complexities of

 time travel—and history.

 The series encompasses hundreds of characters, both real and fictional. Among

 these, one of the most complex and interesting is Lord John Grey, whom we meet

 originallyinDragonfly in Amber , and who appears again in the succeeding books

 of the series. A gay man in a time when that particular predilection could get

 one hanged, Lord John is a man accustomed to keeping secrets. He’s also a man of

 honor and deep affections—whether returned or not.

 Lord John’s adventures are interpolations within the story line of the

 mainOutlandernovels—following the same timeline (complex as that may be), and

 involving the same universe and people—but focused on the character of Lord John

 Grey.

 LORD JOHN

 AND THE SUCCUBUS

 DIANA GABALDON

 Historical note: Between 1756 and 1763, Great Britain joined with her allies,

 Prussia and Hanover, to fight against the combined forces of Austria, Saxony—and

 England’s ancient foe, France. In the autumn of 1757, the Duke of Cumberland was

 obliged to surrender atKloster-Zeven , leaving the allied armies temporarily

 shattered and the forces of Frederick the Great of Prussia encircled by French

 and Austrian troops.

 CHAPTER 1

 DEATH RIDES A PALEHORSE

 Grey’s spoken German was improving by leaps and bounds, but found itself barely

 equal to the present task.

 After a long, boring day of rain and paperwork, there had come the sound of loud

 dispute in the corridor outside his office, and the head of Lance-Corporal

 Helwig appeared in his doorway wearing an apologetic expression.

 “Major Grey?” he said,“Ich habe ein kleines Englischproblem.”

 A moment later, Lance-Corporal Helwig had disappeared down the corridor like an

 heel sliding into mud, and Major John Grey, English liaison to the First Regiment

 of Hanoverian Foot, found himself adjudicating a three-way dispute among an

 English private, a gypsy prostitute, and a Prussian tavern owner.

 “A little English problem,” Helwig had described it as. The problem, as Grey saw

 it was rather the lack of English.

 The tavern owner spoke the local dialect with such fluency and speed that Grey

 grasped no more than one word in ten. The English private, who normally probably

 knew no more German than “Ja,” “Nein,” and the two or three crude phrases

 necessary to accomplish immoral transactions, was so stricken with fury that he

 was all but speechless in his own tongue as well.

 The gypsy, whose abundant charms were scarcely impaired by a missing tooth, had

 German that most nearly matched Grey’s own in terms of grammar—though her

 vocabulary was immensely more colorful and detailed.

 Using alternate hands to quell the sputterings of the private and the torrents

 of the Prussian, Grey concentrated his attention carefully on the gypsy’s

 explanations—meanwhile taking care to consider the source, which meant

 discounting the factual basis of most of what she said.

 “. . . and then the disgusting pig of an Englishman, he put his

 [incomprehensible colloquial expression] into my [unknown Gypsy word]! And then

 . . .”

 “She said, she said, she’d do it for sixpence, sir! She did, she said so—but,

 but, but then . . .”

 “These-barbarian-pig-dogs-did-revolting-things-under-the-table-and-made-it-fall-over-so-the-leg-of-the-table-was-broken-and-the-dishes-broken-too-even-my-large-platter-which-cost-six-thalers-at-St.-Martin’s-Fair-and-the-meat-was-ruined-by-falling-on-the-floor-and-even-if-it-was-not-the-dogs-fell-upon-it-snarling-so-that-I-was-bitten-when-I-tried-to-seize-it-away-from-them-and-all-the-time-these-vile-persons-were-copulating-like-filthy-foxes-on-the-floor-and-THEN

 . . .”

 At length, an accommodation was reached, by means of Grey’s demanding that all

 three parties produce what money was presently in their possession. A certain

 amount of shifty-eyed reluctance and dramatic pantomimes of purse and pocket

 searching having resulted in three small heaps of silver and copper, he firmly

 rearranged these in terms of size and metal value, without reference as to the

 actual coinage involved, as these appeared to include the currency of at least

 six different principalities.

 Eyeing the gypsy’s ensemble, which included both gold earrings and a crude but

 broad gold band around her finger, he assigned roughly equitable heaps to her

 and to the private, whose name, when asked, proved to be Bodger.

 Assigning a slightly larger heap to the tavern owner, he then scowled fiercely

 at the three combatants, jabbed a finger at the money, and jerked a thumb over

 his shoulder, indicating that they should take the coins and leave while he was

 still in possession of his temper.

 This they did, and storing away a most interesting gypsy curse for future

 reference, Grey returned tranquilly to his interrupted correspondence.

 26 September 1757

 To Harold, Earl of Melton

 From Lord John Grey

 The Township of Gundwitz,

 Kingdom of Prussia

 My Lord—

 In reply to your request for information regarding my situation, I beg to say

 that I am well suited. My duties are . . .He paused, considering, then

 wrote, interesting, smiling slightly to himself at thought of what interpretation

 Hal might put upon that,. . . and the conditions comfortable. I am quartered

 with several other English and German officers in the house of a Princess von

 Lowenstein, the widow of a minor Prussian noble, who possesses a fine estate

 near the town.

 We have two English regiments quartered here; Sir Peter Hicks’s 35th, and half

 of the 52nd—I am told Colonel Ruysdale is in command, but have not yet met him,

 the 52nd having arrived only days ago. As the Hanoverians to whom I am attached

 and a number of Prussian troops are occupying all the suitable quarters in the

 town, Hicks’s men are encamped some way to the south; Ruysdale to the north.

 French forces are reported to be within twenty miles, but we expect no immediate

 trouble. Still, so late in the year, the snow will come soon, and put an end to

 the fighting; they may try for a final thrust before the winter sets in. Sir

 Peter begs me send his regards.

 He dipped his quill again, and changed tacks.

 My grateful thanks to your good wife for the smallclothes, which are superior in

 quality to what is available here.

 At this point, he was obliged to transfer the pen to his left hand in order to

 scratch ferociously at the inside of his left thigh. He was wearing a pair of

 the local German product under his breeches, and while they were well laundered

 and not infested with vermin, they were made of coarse linen and appeared to

 have been starched with some substance derived from potatoes, which was

 irritating in the extreme.

 Tell Mother I am still intact, and not starving, he concluded, transferring the

 pen back to his right hand. Quite the reverse, in fact; Princess von Lowenstein

 has an excellent cook.

 Your Most Affec’t. Brother,

 J.

 Sealing this with a brisk stamp of his half-moon signet, he then took down one

 of the ledgers and a stack of reports, and began the mechanical work of

 recording deaths and desertions. There was an outbreak of bloody flux among the

 men; more than a score lost to it in the last two weeks.

 The thought brought the gypsy woman’s last remarks to mind. Blood and bowels had

 both come into that, though he feared he had missed some of the refinements.

 Perhaps she had merely been trying to curse him with the flux?

 He paused for a moment, twiddling the quill. It was rather unusual for the flux

 to occur in cold weather; it was more commonly a disease of hot summer, while

 winter was the season for consumption, catarrh, influenza, and fever.

 He was not at all inclined to believe in curses, but did believe in poison. A

 whore would have ample opportunity to administer poison to her customers . . .

 but to what end? He turned to another folder of reports and shuffled through

 them, but saw no increase in the report of robbery or missing items—and the dead

 soldiers’ comrades would certainly have noted anything of the kind. A man’s

 belongings were sold by auction at his death, the money used to pay his debts

 and—if anything was left—to be sent to his family.

 He put back the folder and shrugged, dismissing it. Illness and death trod

 closely in a soldier’s footsteps, regardless of season or gypsy curse. Still, it

 might be worth warning Private Bodger to be wary of what he ate, particularly in

 the company of light-frigates and other dubious women.

 A gentle rain had begun to fall again outside, and the sound of it against the

 windowpanes combined with the soothing shuffle of paper and scratch of quill to

 induce a pleasant sense of mindless drowsiness. He was disturbed from this

 trancelike state by the sound of footsteps on the wooden stair.

 Captain Stephan von Namtzen, Landgrave von Erdberg, poked his handsome blond

 head through the doorway, ducking automatically to avoid braining himself on the

 lintel. The gentleman following him had no such difficulty, being a foot or so

 shorter.

 “Captain von Namtzen,” Grey said, standing politely. “May I be of assistance?”

 “I have here Herr Blomberg,” Stephen said in English, indicating the small,

 round, nervous-looking individual who accompanied him. “He wishes to borrow your

 horse.”

 Grey was sufficiently startled by this that he merely said, “Which one?” rather

 than Who is Herr Blomberg? or What does he want with a horse?

 The first of these questions was largely academic in any case; Herr Blomberg

 wore an elaborate chain of office about his neck, done in broad, flat links of

 enamel and chased gold, from which depended a seven-pointed starburst, enclosing

 a plaque of enamel on which was painted some scene of historical interest. Herr

 Blomberg’s engraved silver coat buttons and shoe buckles were sufficient to

 proclaim his wealth; the chain of office merely confirmed his importance as

 being secular, rather than noble.

 “Herr Blomberg is Buergermeister of the town,” Stephan explained, taking matters

 in a strictly logical order of importance, as was his habit. “He requires a

 white stallion, in order that he shall discover and destroy a succubus. Someone

 has told him that you possess such a horse,” he concluded, frowning at the

 temerity of whoever had been bandying such information.

 “A succubus?” Grey asked, automatically rearranging the logical order of this

 speech, as was his habit.

 Herr Blomberg had no English but evidently recognized the word, for he nodded

 vigorously, his old-fashioned wig bobbing, and launched into impassioned speech,

 accompanied by much gesticulation.

 With Stephan’s assistance, Grey gathered that the town of Gundwitz had recently

 suffered a series of mysterious and disturbing events, involving a number of men

 who claimed to have been victimized in their sleep by a young woman of demonic

 aspect. By the time these events had made their way to the attention of Herr

 Blomberg, the situation was serious; a man had died.

 “Unfortunately,” Stephan added, still in English, “the dead man is ours.” He

 pressed his lips tightly together, conveying his dislike of the situation.

 “Ours?” Grey asked, unsure what this usage implied, other than that the victim

 had been a soldier.

 “Mine,” Stephan clarified, looking further displeased. “One of the Prussians.”

 The Landgrave von Erdberg had three hundred Hanoverian foot-troops, raised from

 his own lands, equipped and funded from his personal fortune. In addition,

 Captain von Namtzen commanded two further companies of Prussian horse, and was

 in temporary command of the fragments of an artillery company whose officers had

 all died in an outbreak of the bloody flux.

 Grey wished to hear more details regarding both the immediate death and—most

 particularly—the demoniac visitations, but his questions along these lines were

 interrupted by Herr Blomberg, who had been growing more restive by the moment.

 “It grows soon dark,” the Buergermeister pointed out in German. “We do not wish

 to fall into an open grave, so wet as it is.”

 “Ein offenes Grab?” Grey repeated, feeling a sudden chill draft on the back of

 his neck.

 “This is true,” Stephan said, with a nod of moody acquiescence. “It would be a

 terrible thing if your horse were to break his leg; he is a splendid creature.

 Come then, let us go.”

 “What is a s-succubus, me lord?” Tom Byrd’s teeth were chattering, mostly from

 chill. The sun had long since set, and it was raining much harder. Grey could

 feel the wet seeping through the shoulders of his officer’s greatcoat; Byrd’s

 thin jacket was already soaked through, pasted to the young valet’s stubby torso

 like butcher’s paper around a joint of beef.

 “I believe it is a sort of female . . . spirit,” Grey said, carefully avoiding

 the more evocative term, “demon.” The churchyard gates yawned before them like

 open jaws, and the darkness beyond seemed sinister in the extreme. No need to

 terrify the boy unnecessarily.

 “Horses don’t like ghosts,” Byrd said, sounding truculent. “Everybody knows

 that, me lord.”

 He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering, and huddled closer to Karolus,

 who shook his mane as though in agreement, showering water liberally over both

 Grey and Byrd.

 “Surely you don’t believe in ghosts, Tom?” Grey said, trying to be jocularly

 reassuring. He swiped a strand of wet fair hair out of his face, wishing Stephan

 would hurry.

 “ ’Tisn’t a matter what don’t believe in, me lord,” Byrd replied, “What if this

 lady’s ghost believes in us ? Who is she, anyway?” The lantern he carried was

 sputtering fitfully in the wet, despite its shield. Its dim light failed to

 illumine more than a vague outline of boy and horse, but perversely caught the

 shine of their eyes, lending them a disturbingly supernatural appearance, like

 staring wraiths.

 Grey glanced aside, keeping an eye out for Stephan and the Buergermeister, who

 had gone to assemble a digging party. There was some movement outside the

 tavern, just visible at the far end of the street. That was sensible of Stephan.

 Men with a fair amount of beer on board were much more likely to be enthusiastic

 about the current prospect than were sober ones.

 “Well, I do not believe that it is precisely a matter of ghosts,” he said. “The

 German belief, however, seems to be that the succubus . . . er . . . the

 feminine spirit . . . may possess the body of a recently dead person.”

 Tom cast a look into the inky depths of the churchyard, and glanced back at

 Grey.

 “Oh?” he said.

 “Ah,” Grey replied.

 Byrd pulled the slouch hat low on his forehead and hunched his collar up around

 his ears, clutching the horse’s halter rope close to his chest. Nothing of his

 round face now showed save a down turned mouth, but that was eloquent.

 Karolus stamped one foot and shifted his weight, tossing his head a little. He

 didn’t seem to mind either rain or churchyard, but was growing restive. Grey

 patted the stallion’s thick neck, taking comfort from the solid feel of the cold

 firm hide and massive body. Karolus turned his head and blew hot breath

 affectionately into his ear.

 “Almost ready,” he said soothingly, twining a fist in the horse’s soggy mane.

 “Now, Tom. When Captain von Namtzen arrives with his men, you and Karolus will

 walk forward very slowly. You are to lead him back and forth across the

 churchyard. Keep a few feet in front of him, but leave some slack in the rope.”

 The point of this procedure, of course, was to keep Karolus from stumbling over

 a gravestone or falling into any open graves, by allowing Tom to do it first.

 Ideally, Grey had been given to understand, the horse should be turned into the

 churchyard and allowed to wander over the graves at his own will, but neither he

 nor Stephan were willing to risk Karolus’s valuable legs in the dark.

 He had suggested waiting until the morning, but Herr Blomberg was insistent. The

 succubus must be found, without delay. Grey was more than curious to hear the

 details of the attacks, but had so far been told little more than that a Private

 Koenig had been found dead in the barracks, the body bearing marks that made his

 manner of death clear. What marks? Grey wondered.

 Classically educated, he had read of succubae and incubi, but had been taught to

 regard such references as quaintly superstitious, of a piece with other medieval

 Popish nonsense like saints who strolled about with their heads in their hands

 or statues of the Virgin whose tears healed the sick. His father had been a

 rationalist, an observer of the ways of nature and a firm believer in the logic

 of phenomena.

 His two months’ acquaintance with the Germans, though, had shown him that they

 were deeply superstitious; more so even than the English common soldiers. Even

 Stephan kept a small carved image of some pagan deity about his person at all

 times, to guard against being struck by lightning, and the Prussians seemed to

 harbor similar notions, judging from Herr Blomberg’s behavior.

 The digging party was making its way up the street now, bright with sputtering

 torches and emitting snatches of song. Karolus snorted and pricked his ears;

 Karolus, Grey had been told, was fond of parades.

 “Well, then.” Stephan loomed suddenly out of the murk at his side, looking

 pleased with himself under the broad shelf of his hat. “All is ready, Major?”

 “Yes. Go ahead then, Tom.”

 The diggers—mostly laborers, armed with spades, hoes, and mattocks—stood back,

 lurching tipsily and stepping on each other’s shoes. Tom, lantern held

 delicately before him in the manner of an insect’s feeler, took several steps

 forward—then stopped. He turned, tugging on the rope.

 Karolus stood solidly, declining to move.

 “I told you, me lord,” Byrd said, sounding more cheerful. “Horses don’t like

 ghosts. Me uncle had an old cart horse once, wouldn’t take a step past a

 churchyard. We had to take him clear round two streets to get him past.”

 Stephan made a noise of disgust.

 “It is not a ghost,” he said, striding forward, prominent chin held high. “It is

 a succubus. A demon. That is quite different.”

 “Daemon?” one of the diggers said, catching the English word and looking suddenly

 dubious.“Ein Teufel?”

 “Demon?” said Tom Byrd, and gave Grey a look of profound betrayal.

 “Something of the kind, I believe,” Grey said, and coughed. “If such a thing

 should exist, which I doubt it does.”

 A chill of uncertainty seemed to have overtaken the party with this

 demonstration of the horse’s reluctance. There was shuffling and murmuring, and

 heads turned to glance back in the direction of the tavern.

 Stephan, magnificently disregarding this tendency to pusillanimity in his

 troops, clapped Karolus on the neck and spoke to him encouragingly in German.

 The horse snorted and arched his neck, but still resisted Tom Byrd’s tentative

 yanks on his halter. Instead, he swiveled his enormous head toward Grey, jerking

 Byrd off his feet. The boy lost his grip on the rope, staggered off balance,

 trying vainly to keep hold of the lantern, and finally slipped on a stone

 submerged in the mud, landing on his buttocks with a rude splat.

 This mishap had the salutary effect of causing the diggers to roar with

 laughter, restoring their spirits. Several of the torches had by now been

 extinguished by the rain, and everyone was thoroughly wet, but goatskin flasks

 and pottery jugs were produced from a number of pockets and offered to Tom Byrd

 by way of restorative, being then passed around the company in sociable fashion.

 Grey took a deep swig of the fiery plum liquor himself, handed back the jug, and

 came to a decision.

 “I’ll ride him.”

 Before Stephan could protest, Grey had taken a firm grip on Karolus’s mane and

 swung himself up on the stallion’s broad back. Karolus appeared to find Grey’s

 familiar weight soothing; the broad white ears, which had been pointing to

 either side in suspicion, rose upright again, and the horse started forward

 willingly enough at Grey’s nudge against his sides.

 Tom, too, seemed heartened, and ran to pick up the trailing halter rope. There

 was a ragged cheer from the diggers, and the party moved awkwardly after them,

 through the yawning gates.

 It seemed much darker in the churchyard than it had looked from outside. Much

 quieter, too; the jokes and chatter of the men died away into an uneasy silence,

 broken only by an occasional curse as someone knocked against a tombstone in the

 dark. Grey could hear the patter of rain on the brim of his hat, and the suck

 and thump of Karolus’s hooves as he plodded obediently through the mud.

 He strained his eyes to see what lay ahead, beyond the feeble circle of light

 cast by Tom’s lantern. It was black-dark, and he felt cold, despite the shelter

 of his greatcoat. The damp was rising, mist coming up out of the ground; he

 could see wisps of it purling away from Tom’s boots, disappearing in the lantern

 light. More of it drifted in an eerie fog around the mossy tombstones of

 neglected graves, leaning like rotted teeth in their sockets.

 The notion, as it had been explained to him, was that a white stallion had the

 power to detect the presence of the supernatural. The horse would stop at the

 grave of the succubus, which could then be opened, and steps taken to destroy

 the creature.

 Grey found a number of logical assumptions wanting in this proposal, chief among

 which—putting aside the question of the existence of succubae, and why a sensible

 horse should choose to have anything to do with one—was that Karolus was not

 choosing his own path. Tom was doing his best to keep slack in the rope, but as

 long as he held it, the horse was plainly going to follow him.

 On the other hand, he reflected, Karolus was unlikely to stop anywhere so long as

 Tom kept walking. That being true, the end result of this exercise would be

 merely to cause them all to miss their suppers and to render them thoroughly wet

 and chilled. Still, he supposed they would be yet more wet and chilled if

 obliged actually to open graves and perform whatever ritual might follow—

 A hand clamped itself on his calf, and he bit his tongue—luckily, as it kept him

 from crying out.

 “You are all right, Major?” It was Stephan, looming up beside him, tall and dark

 in a woolen cloak. He had left aside his plumed helmet, and wore a soft-brimmed

 wide hat against the rain, which made him look both less impressive and more

 approachable.

 “Certainly,” Grey said, mastering his temper. “How long must we do this?”

 Von Namtzen lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

 “Until the horse stops, or until Herr Blomberg is satisfied.”

 “Until Herr Blomberg begins wanting his supper, you mean.” He could hear the

 Buergermeister’s voice at a distance behind them, lifted in exhortation and

 reassurance.

 A white plume of breath floated out from under the brim of von Namtzen’s hat,

 the laugh behind it barely audible.

 “He is more . . . resolute? . . . than you might suppose. It is his duty, the

 welfare of the village. He will endure as long as you will, I assure you.”

 Grey pressed his bitten tongue against the roof of his mouth, to prevent any

 injudicious remarks.

 Stephan’s hand was still curled about his leg, just above the edge of his boot.

 Cold as it was, he felt no warmth from the grasp, but the pressure of the big

 hand was both a comfort and something more.

 “The horse—he goes well,nicht wahr ?”

 “He is wonderful,” Grey said, with complete sincerity. “I thank you again.”

 Von Namtzen flicked his free hand in dismissal, but made a pleased sound, deep

 in his throat. He had—against Grey’s protests—insisted upon making the stallion

 a gift to Grey, “in token of our alliance and our friendship,” he had said

 firmly, clapping Grey upon both shoulders and then seizing him in fraternal

 embrace, kissing him formally upon both cheeks and mouth. At least Grey was

 obliged to consider it a fraternal embrace, unless and until circumstances might

 prove it otherwise.

 But Stephan’s hand still curled around his calf, hidden under the skirt of his

 greatcoat.

 Grey glanced toward the squat bulk of the church, a black mass that loomed

 beyond the churchyard.

 “I am surprised that the minister is not with us. Does he disapprove of

 this—excursion?”

 “The minister is dead. A fever of some kind,die roteRuhn , more than a month

 since. They will send another, fromStrausberg , but he has not come yet.” Little

 wonder; a large number of French troops lay betweenStrausberg and the town;

 travel would be difficult, if not impossible.

 “I see.” Grey glanced back over his shoulder. The diggers had paused to open a

 fresh jug, torches tilting in momentary distraction.

 “Do you believe in this—this succubus?” he asked, careful to keep his voice low.

 Rather to his surprise, von Namtzen didn’t reply at once. At last, the

 Hanoverian took a deep breath and hunched his broad shoulders in a gesture not

 quite a shrug.

 “I have seen . . . strange things from time to time,” von Namtzen said at last,

 very quietly. “In this country, particularly. And a man is dead, after all.”

 The hand on his leg squeezed briefly and dropped away, sending a small flutter

 of sensation up Grey’s back.

 He took a deep breath of cold, heavy air, tinged with smoke, and coughed. It was

 like the smell of grave-dirt, he thought, and then wished the thought had not

 occurred to him.

 “One thing I confess I do not quite understand,” he said, straightening himself

 in the saddle. “A succubus is a demon, if I am not mistaken. How is it, then,

 that such a creature should take refuge in a churchyard, in consecrated ground?”

 “Oh,” von Namtzen said, sounding surprised that this was not obvious. “The

 succubus takes possession of the body of a dead person, and rests within it by

 day. Such a person must of course be a corrupt and wicked sort, filled with

 depravity and perversion. So that even within the churchyard the succubus will

 suitable refuge find.”

 “How recently must the person have died?” Grey asked. Surely it would make their

 perambulations more efficient were they to go directly to the more recent

 graves. From the little he could see in the swaying light of Tom’s lantern, most

 of the stones nearby had stood where they were for decades, if not centuries.

 “That I do not know,” von Namtzen admitted. “Some people say that the body

 itself rises with the succubus; others say that the body remains in the grave,

 and by night the demon rides the air as a dream, seeking men in their sleep.”

 Tom Byrd’s figure was indistinct in the gathering fog, but Grey saw his

 shoulders rise, nearly touching the brim of his hat. He coughed again, and

 cleared his throat.

 “I see. And . . . er . . . what, precisely, do you intend to do, should a

 suitable body be located?”

 Here von Namtzen was on surer ground.

 “Oh, that is simple,” he assured Grey. “We will open the coffin, and drive an

 iron rod through the corpse’s heart. Herr Blomberg has brought one.”

 Tom Byrd made an inarticulate noise, which Grey thought it wiser to ignore.

 “I see,” he said. His nose had begun to run with the cold, and he wiped it on

 his sleeve. At least he no longer felt hungry.

 They paced for a little in silence. The Buergermeister had fallen silent, too,

 though the distant sounds of squelching andglugging behind them indicated that

 the digging party was loyally persevering, with the aid of more plum brandy.

 “The dead man,” Grey said at last. “Private Koenig. Where was he found? And you

 mentioned marks upon the body—what sort of marks?”

 Von Namtzen opened his mouth to answer, but was forestalled. Karolus glanced

 suddenly to the side, nostrils flaring. Then he flung up his head with a great

 “Harrumph!” ofstartlement , nearly hitting Grey in the face. At the same moment,

 Tom Byrd uttered a high, thin scream, dropped the rope, and ran.

 The big horse flexed his hindquarters, slewed round, and took off, leaping a

 small stone angel that stood in his path; Grey saw it as a looming pale blur,

 but had no time to worry about it before it passed beneath the stallion’s

 outstretched hooves, its stone mouth gaping as though in astonishment.

 Lacking reins and unable to seize the halter rope, Grey had no recourse but to

 grip the stallion’s mane in both hands, clamp his knees, and stick like a burr.

 There were shouts and screams behind him, but he had no attention to spare for

 anything but the wind in his ears and the elemental force between his thighs.

 They bounded like a skipping cannonball through the dark, striking the ground

 and rocketing upward, seeming to cover leagues at a stride. He leaned low and

 held on, the stallion’s mane whipping like stinging nettles across his face, the

 horse’s breath loud in his ears—or was it his own?

 Through streaming eyes, he glimpsed light flickering in the distance, and

 realized they were heading now for the village. There was a six-foot stone wall

 in the way; he could only hope the horse noticed it in time.

 He did; Karolus skidded to a stop, divots of mud and withered grass shooting up

 around him, sending Grey lurching up onto his neck. The horse reared, came down,

 then turned sharply, trotted several yards, and slowed to a walk, shaking his

 head as though to try to free himself of the flapping rope.

 Legs quivering as with ague, Grey slid off, and, with cold-stiff fingers,

 grasped the rope.

 “You bigwhitebastard ,” he said, filled with the joy of survival, and laughed.

 “You’re bloody marvelous!”

 Karolus took this compliment with tolerant grace, and shoved at him, whickering

 softly. The horse seemed largely over his fright, whatever had caused it; he

 could but hope Tom Byrd fared as well.

 Grey leaned against the wall, panting until his breath came back and his heart

 slowed a bit. The exhilaration of the ride was still with him, but he had now a

 moment’s heed to spare for other things.

 At the far side of the churchyard, the torches were clustered close together,

 lighting the fog with a reddish glow. He could see the digging party, standing

 in a knot shoulder to shoulder, all in attitudes of the most extreme interest.

 And toward him, a tall black figure came through the mist, silhouetted by the

 torch glow behind him. He had a moment’s turn, for the figure looked sinister,

 dark cloak swirling about it—but it was, of course, merely Captain von Namtzen.

 “Major Grey!” von Namtzen called. “Major Grey!”

 “Here!” Grey shouted, finding breath. The figure altered course slightly,

 hurrying toward him with long, stilted strides thatzigged andzagged to avoid

 obstacles in the path. How in God’s name had Karolus managed on that ground, he

 wondered, without breaking a leg or both their necks?

 “Major Grey,” Stephan said, grasping both his hands tightly. “John. You are all

 right?”

 “Yes,” he said, gripping back. “Yes, of course. What has happened? My valet—Mr.

 Byrd—is he all right?”

 “He has into a hole fallen, but he is not hurt. We have found a body. A dead

 man.”

 Grey felt a sudden lurch of the heart.

 “What—”

 “Not in a grave,” the Captain hastened to assure him. “Lying on the ground,

 leaning against one of the tombstones. Your valet saw the corpse’s face most

 suddenly in the light of his lantern, and was frightened.”

 “I am not surprised. Is he one of yours?”

 “No. One of yours.”

 “What?” Grey stared up at the Hanoverian. Stephan’s face was no more than a

 black oval in the dark. He squeezed Grey’s hands gently and let them go.

 “An English soldier. You will come?”

 He nodded, feeling the cold air heavy in his chest. It was not impossible; there

 were English regiments to north and to south of the town, no more than an hour’s

 ride away. Men off duty would often come into town in search of drink, dice, and

 women. It was, after all, the reason for his own presence here—to act as liaison

 between the English regiments and their German allies.

 The body was less horrible in appearance than he might have supposed; while

 plainly dead, the man seemed quite peaceful, slumped half sitting against the

 knee of a stern stone matron holding a book. There was no blood nor wound

 apparent, and yet Grey felt his stomach clench with shock.

 “You know him?” Stephan was watching him intently, his own face stern and clean

 as those of the stone memorials about them.

 “Yes.” Grey knelt by the body. “I spoke to him only a few hours ago.”

 He put the backs of his fingers delicately against the dead man’s throat—the

 slack flesh was clammy, slick with rain, but still warm. Unpleasantly warm. He

 glanced down, and saw that PrivateBodger’s breeches were opened, the stuff of

 his shirttail sticking out, rumpled over the man’s thighs.

 “Does he still have his dick, or did the she-thing eat it?” said a low voice in

 German. A faint, shocked snigger ran through the men. Grey pressed his lips

 tight together and jerked up the soggy shirttail. Private Bodger was somewhat

 more than intact, he was glad to see. So were the diggers; there was an audible

 sigh of mass relief behind him.

 Grey stood, conscious all at once of tiredness and hunger, and of the rain

 pattering on his back.

 “Wrap him in a canvas; bring him . . .” Where? The dead man must be returned to

 his own regiment, but not tonight. “Bring him to theSchloss . Tom? Show them the

 way; ask the gardener to find you a suitable shed.”

 “Yes, me lord.” Tom Byrd was nearly as pale as the dead man, and covered with

 mud, but once more in control of himself. “Will I take the horse, me lord? Or

 will you ride him?”

 Grey had forgotten entirely about Karolus, and looked blankly about. Where had

 he gone?

 One of the diggers had evidently caught the word “horse” and understood it, for

 a murmurof“DasPferd ” rippled through the group, and the men began to look

 around, lifting the torches high and craning their necks.

 One man gave an excited shout, pointing into the dark. A large white blur stood

 a little distance away.

 “He’s on a grave! He’s standing still! He’s found it!”

 This caused a stir of sudden excitement; everyone pressed forward together, and

 Grey feared lest the horse should take alarm and run again.

 No such danger; Karolus was absorbed in nibbling at the soggy remnants of

 several wreaths, piled at the foot of an imposing tombstone. This stood guard

 over a small group of family graves—one very recent, as the wreaths and raw

 earth showed. As the torchlight fell upon the scene, Grey could easily read the

 name chiseled black into the stone.

 BLOMBERG,itread.

 CHAPTER 2

 BUTWHAT, EXACTLY, DOESASUCCUBUSDo ?

 They foundSchloss Lowenstein alight with candles and welcoming fires, despite

 the late hour of their return. They were far past the time for dinner, but there

 was food in abundance on the sideboard, and Grey and von Namtzen refreshed

 themselves thoroughly, interrupting their impromptu feast periodically to give

 particulars of the evening’s adventures to the house’s other inhabitants, who

 were agog with curiosity.

 “No! HerrBlomberg’smother ?” The Princess von Lowenstein pressed fingers to her

 mouth, eyes wide in delighted shock. “OldAgathe ? I don’t believe it!”

 “Nor does Herr Blomberg,” von Namtzen assured her, reaching for a leg of roast

 pheasant. “He was most . . . vehement?” He turned toward Grey, eyebrows raised,

 then turned back to the Princess, nodding with assurance. “Vehement.”

 He had been. Grey would have chosen “apoplectic” as the better description, but

 was reasonably sure that none of the Germans present would know the term, and he

 had no idea how to translate it. They were all speaking English, as a courtesy

 to the British officers present, who included a Captain of Horse namedBillman ,

 Colonel Sir Peter Hicks, and a LieutenantDundas , a young Scottish officer in

 charge of an ordnance survey party.

 “The old woman was a saint, absolutely a saint!” protested the Dowager Princess

 Lowenstein, crossing herself piously. “I do not believe it, I cannot!”

 The younger Princess cast a brief glance at her mother-in-law, then away—meeting

 Grey’s eyes. The Princess had bright blue eyes, all the brighter for

 candlelight, brandy—and mischief.

 The Princess was a widow of a year’s standing. Grey judged from the large

 portrait over the mantelpiece in the drawing room that the late Prince had been

 roughly thirty years older than his wife; she bore her loss bravely.

 “Dear me,” she said, contriving to look winsome, despite her anxiety. “As if the

 French were not enough! Now we are to be threatened with nightmare demons?”

 “Oh, you will be quite safe, madam, I assure you,” Sir Peter assured her.

 “What-what? With so many gallant gentlemen in the house?”

 The ancient Dowager glanced at Grey, and said something about gentlemen in

 highly accented German that Grey didn’t quite catch, but the Princess flushed

 like a peony in bloom, and von Namtzen, within earshot, choked on a swallow of

 wine.

 CaptainBillman smote the Hanoverian helpfully on the back.

 “Is there news of the French?” Grey asked, thinking that perhaps the

 conversation should be guided back to more earthly concerns before the party

 retired to bed.

 “Look to be a few of the bastards milling round,”Billman said casually, cutting

 his eyes at the women in a manner suggesting that the word “few” was a highly

 discreet euphemism. “Expect they’ll be moving on, heading for the west within a

 day or so.”

 Or heading forStrausberg , to join with the French regiment reported there, Grey

 thought. He returnedBillman’s meaningful look. Gundwitz lay in the bottom of a

 river valley—directly between the French position andStrausberg .

 “So,”Billman said, changing the subject with a heavy jocularity, “your succubus

 got away, did she?”

 Von Namtzen cleared his throat.

 “I would not say that, particularly,” he said. “Herr Blomberg refused to allow

 the men to disturb the grave, of course, but I have men ordered to guard it.”

 “That’ll be popular duty, I shouldn’t think,” said Sir Peter, with a glance at a

 nearby window, where even multiple thicknesses of silk and woolen draperies and

 heavy shutters failed to muffle the thrum of rain and the occasional distant

 boom of thunder.

 “A good idea,” one of the German officers said, in heavily accented but very

 correct English. “We do not wish to have rumors fly about, that there is a

 succubus behaving badly in the vicinity of the soldiers.”

 “But what, exactly, does asuccubusdo ?” the Princess inquired, looking

 expectantly from face to face.

 There was a sudden massive clearing of throats and gulping of wine as all the

 men present tried to avoid her eye. A explosive snort from the Dowager indicated

 whatshethought of this cowardly behavior.

 “A succubus is a she-demon,” the old lady said, precisely. “It comes to men in

 dreams, and has congress with them, in order to extract from them their seed.”

 The Princess’s eyes went perfectly round.Shehadn’t known, Grey observed.

 “Why?” she asked. “What does she do with it? Demons do not give birth, do they?”

 Grey felt a laugh trying to force its way up under his breastbone, and hastily

 took another drink.

 “Well, no,” said Stephan von Namtzen, somewhat flushed, but still

 self-possessed. “Not exactly. The succubus procures the . . . er . . . essence,”

 he gave a slight bow of apology to the Dowager at this, “and then will mate with

 an incubus—this being a male demon, you see?”

 The old lady looked grim, and placed a hand upon the religious medal she wore

 pinned to her gown.

 Von Namtzen took a deep breath, seeing that everyone was hanging upon his words,

 and fixed his gaze upon the portrait of the late Prince.

 “The incubus then will seek out a human woman by night, couple with her, and

 impregnate her with the stolen seed—thus producing demon-spawn.”

 LieutenantDundas , who was very young and likely a Presbyterian, looked as

 though he were being strangled by his stock. The other men, all rather red in

 the face, attempted to look as though they were entirely familiar with the

 phenomenon under discussion and thought little of it. The Dowager looked

 thoughtfully at her daughter-in-law, then upward at the picture of her deceased

 son, eyebrows raised as though in silent conversation.

 “Ooh!” Despite the late hour and the informality of the gathering, the Princess

 had a fan, which she spread now before her face in shock, big blue eyes wide

 above it. These eyes swung toward Grey, and blinked in pretty supplication.

 “And do you really think, Lord John, that there is such a creature . . .” she

 shuddered, with an alluring quiver of the bosom, “. . . prowling near?”

 Neither eyes nor bosom swayed him, and it was clear to him that the Princess

 found considerably more excitement than fear in the notion, but he smiled

 reassuringly, an Englishman secure in his rationality.

 “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

 As though in instant contradiction of this stout opinion, a blast of wind struck

 theSchloss , carrying with it a burst of hail that rattled off the shutters and

 fell hissing down the chimney. The thunder of the hailstorm upon roof and walls

 and outbuildings was so great that for a moment it drowned all possibility of

 conversation.

 The party stood as though paralyzed, listening to the roar of the elements.

 Grey’s eyes met Stephan’s; the Hanoverian lifted his chin a little in defiance

 of the storm, and gave him a small, private smile. Grey smiled back, then

 glanced away—just in time to see a dark shape fall from the chimney and plunge

 into the flames with a piercing shriek.

 The shriek was echoed at once by the women—and possibly by LieutenantDundas ,

 though Grey could not quite swear to it.

 Something was struggling in the fire, flapping and writhing, and the stink of

 scorched skin came sharp and acrid in the nose. Acting by sheer instinct, Grey

 seized a poker and swept the thing out of the fire and onto the hearth, where it

 skittered crazily, emitting sounds that pierced his eardrums.

 Stephan lunged forward and stamped on the thing, putting an end to the unnerving

 display.

 “A bat,” he said calmly, removing his boot. “Take it away.”

 The footman to whom he addressed this command came hastily and, flinging a

 napkin over the blackened corpse, scooped it up and carried it out on a tray,

 this ceremonial disposal giving Grey a highly inappropriate vision of the bat

 making a second appearance at breakfast, roasted and garnished with stewed

 prunes.

 A sudden silence had fallen upon the party. This was broken by the sudden

 chiming of the clock, which made everyone jump, then laugh nervously.

 The party broke up, the men standing politely as the women withdrew, then

 pausing for a few moments’ conversation as they finished their wine and brandy.

 With no particular sense of surprise, Grey found Sir Peter at his elbow.

 “A word with you, Major?” Sir Peter said quietly.

 “Of course, sir.”

 The group had fragmented into twos and threes; it was not difficult to draw

 aside a little, under the pretext of examining a small, exquisite statue of Eros

 that stood on one of the tables.

 “You’ll be taking the body back to the Fifty-second in the morning, I expect?”

 The English officers had all had a look at Private Bodger, declaring that he was

 none of theirs; by elimination, he must belong to ColonelRuysdale’s

 Fifty-second Foot, presently encamped on the other side of Gundwitz.

 Without waiting for Grey’s nod, Sir Peter went on, touching the statue

 abstractedly.

 “The French are up to something; had a scout’s report this afternoon, great deal

 of movement among the troops. They’re preparing to move, but we don’t yet know

 where or when. I should feel happier if a few more ofRuysdale’s troops were to

 move to defend the bridge atAschenwald , just in case.”

 “I see,” Grey said cautiously. “And you wish me to carry a message to that

 effect to Colonel Ruysdale.”

 Sir Peter made a slight grimace.

 “I’ve sent one. I think it might be helpful, though, if you were to suggest that

 von Namtzen wished it, as well.”

 Grey made a noncommittal noise. It was common knowledge that Sir Peter and

 Ruysdale were not on good terms. The Colonel might well be more inclined to

 oblige a German ally.

 “I will mention it to Captain von Namtzen,” he said, “though I expect he will be

 agreeable.” He would have taken his leave then, but Sir Peter hesitated,

 indicating that there was something further.

 “Sir?” Grey said.

 “I think . . .” Sir Peter said, glancing around and lowering his voice still

 further, “. . . that perhaps the Princess should be advised—cautiously; no need

 to give alarm—that there is some slight possibility . . . if theFrenchwere in

 fact to cross the valley . . .” He rested a hand thoughtfully upon the head of

 Eros and glanced at the other furnishings of the room, which included a number

 of rare and costly items. “She might wish to withdraw her family to a place of

 safety. Not amiss to suggest a few things be put safely away in the meantime.

 Shouldn’t like to see a thing like that decorating a French general’s desk, eh?”

 “That” was the skull of an enormous bear—an ancient cave-bear, the Princess had

 informed the party earlier—that stood by itself upon a small, draped table. The

 skull was covered with gold, hammered flat and etched in primitive designs, with

 a row of semiprecious stones running up the length of the snout, then diverging

 to encircle the empty eye sockets. It was a striking object.

 “Yes,” Grey said, “I quite . . . oh. You wish me to speak with the Princess?”

 Sir Peter relaxed a little, having accomplished his goal.

 “She seems quite taken by you, Grey,” he said, his original joviality returning.

 “Advice might be better received from you, eh? Besides, you’re a liaison, aren’t

 you?”

 “To be sure,” Grey said, less than pleased, but aware that he had received a

 direct order. “I shall attend to it as soon as I may, sir.” He took leave of the

 others remaining in the drawing room, and made his way to the staircase that led

 to the upper floors.

 The Princess vonLowensteindid seem most taken with him; he wasn’t surprised

 that Sir Peter had noticed her smiles andlanguishings . Fortunately, she seemed

 equally taken with Stephan von Namtzen, going so far as to have Hanoverian

 delicacies served regularly at dinner in his honor.

 At the top of the stair, he hesitated. There were three corridors opening off

 the landing, and it always took a moment to be sure which of the stone-floored

 halls led to his own chamber. A flicker of movement to the left attracted his

 eye, and he turned that way, to see someone dodge out of sight behind a tall

 armoire that stood against the wall.

 “Woistdas?”heasked sharply, and got a stifled gasp in reply.

 Moving cautiously, he went and peered around the edge of the armoire, to find a

 small, dark-haired boy pressed against the wall, both hands clasped over his

 mouth and eyes round as saucers. The boy wore a nightshirt and cap, and had

 plainly escaped from his nursery. He recognized the child, though he had seen

 him only once or twice before; it was the Princess’s young son—what was the

 boy’s name? Heinrich? Reinhardt?

 “Don’t be afraid,” he said gently to the boy, in his slow, careful German. “I am

 your mother’s friend. Where is your room?”

 The boy didn’t reply, but his eyes flicked down the hallway and back. Grey saw

 no open doors, but held out a hand to the boy.

 “It is very late,” he said. “Shall we find your bed?”

 The boy shook his head so hard that the tassel of his nightcap slapped against

 the wall.

 “I don’t want to go to bed. There is a bad womanthere.EineHexe . ”

 “A witch?” Grey repeated, and felt an odd frisson run down his back, as though

 someone had touched his nape with a cold finger. “What did this witch look

 like?”

 The child stared back at him, uncomprehending.

 “Like a witch,” he said.

 “Oh,” said Grey, momentarily stymied. He rallied, though, and beckoned, curling

 his fingers at the boy. “Come, then; show me. I am a soldier, I am not afraid of

 a witch.”

 “You will kill her and cut out her heart and fry it over the fire?” the boy

 asked eagerly, peeling himself off the wall. He reached out to touch the hilt of

 Grey’s dagger, still on his belt.

 “Well, perhaps,” Grey temporized. “Let us go find her first.” He picked the boy

 up under the arms and swung him up; the child came willingly enough, curling his

 legs around Grey’s waist and cuddling close to him for warmth.

 The hallway was dark; only a rush-light sputtered in a sconce near the farther

 end, and the stones emanated a chill that made the child’s own warmth more than

 welcome. Rain was still coming down hard; a small dribble of moisture had seeped

 in through the shutters at the end of the hall, and the flickering light shone

 on the puddle.

 Thunder boomed in the distance, and the child threw his arms around Grey’s neck

 with a gasp.

 “It is all right.” Grey patted the small back soothingly, though his own heart

 had leapt convulsively at the sound. No doubt the noise of the storm had wakened

 the boy.

 “Where is your chamber?”

 “Upstairs.” The boy pointed vaguely toward the far end of the hallway;

 presumably there was a back stair somewhere near. TheSchloss was immense and

 sprawling; Grey had learned no more of its geography than what was necessary to

 reach his own quarters. He hoped that the boy knew the place better, so they

 were not obliged to wander the chilly hallways all night.

 As he approached the end of the hall, the lightning flashed again, a vivid line

 of white that outlined the window—and showed him clearly that the window was

 open, the shutters unfastened. With the boom of thunder came a gust of wind, and

 one loose shutter flung back suddenly, admitting a freezing gust of rain.

 “Oooh!” The boy clutched him tightly around the neck, nearly choking him.

 “It is all right,” he said, as calmly as possible, shifting his burden in order

 to free one hand.

 He leaned out to seize the shutter, trying at the same time to shelter the boy

 with his body. A soundless flash lit up the world in a burst of black and white,

 and he blinked, dazzled, a pinwheel of stark images whirling at the back of his

 eyes. Thunder rolled past, with a sound so like an oxcart full of stones that he

 glanced up involuntarily, half expecting to see one of the old German gods go

 past, driving gleefully through the clouds.

 The image he saw was not of the storm-tossed sky, though, but of something

 glimpsed when the lightning flashed. He blinked hard, clearing his sight, and

 then looked down.Itwas there. A ladder, leaning against the wall of the house.

 Well, then. Perhaps thechildhad seen someone strange in his room.

 “Here,” he said to the boy, turning to set him down. “Stay out of the rain while

 I fasten the shutter.”

 He turned back, and, leaning out into the storm, pushed the ladder off so that

 it fell away into the dark. Then he closed and fastened the shutters, and picked

 up the shivering boy again. The wind had blown out the rush-light, and he was

 obliged to feel his way into the turning of the hall.

 “It’s very dark,” said the boy, with a tremor in his voice.

 “Soldiers are not afraid of the dark,” he reassured the child, thinking of the

 graveyard.

 “I’m not afraid!” The little boy’s cheek was pressed against his neck.

 “Of course you are not. How are you called, young sir?” he asked, in hopes of

 distracting the boy.

 “Siggy.”

 “Siggy,” he repeated, feeling his way along the wall with one hand. “I am John.

 Johannes, in your tongue.”

 “I know,” said the boy, surprising him. “The servant girls think you are good

 looking. Not so big as Landgrave Stephan, but prettier. Are you rich? The

 Landgrave is very rich.”

 “I won’t starve,” Grey said, wondering how long the blasted hallway was, and

 whether he might discover the staircase by falling down it in the dark.

 At least the boy seemed to have lost some of his fear; he cuddled close, rubbing

 his head under Grey’s chin. There was a distinct smell about him; nothing

 unpleasant—rather like the smell of a month-old litter of puppies, Grey thought;

 warmly animal.

 Something occurred to him, then; something he should have thought to ask at

 once.

 “Where is your nurse?” A boy of this age would surely not sleep alone.

 “I don’t know. Maybe the witch ate her.”

 This cheering suggestion coincided with a welcome flicker of light in the

 distance, and the sound of voices. Hastening toward these, Grey at last found

 the nursery stair, just as a wild-eyed woman in nightgown, cap, and shawl popped

 out, holding a pottery candlestick.

 “Siegfried!” she cried. “MasterSiggy , where have you been? What has—oh!” At

 this point, she realized that Grey was there, and reared back as though struck

 forcibly in the chest.

 “GutenAbend,Madam,”he said, politely. “Is this your nurse,Siggy ?”

 “No,” saidSiggy , scornful of such ignorance. “That’s justHetty . Mama’s maid.”

 “Siggy? Siegfried, is it you? Oh, my boy, my boy!” The light from above dimmed

 as a fluttering body hurtled down the stair, and the Princess von Lowenstein

 seized the boy from Grey’s arms, hugging her son and kissing him so passionately

 that his nightcap fell off.

 More servants were coming downstairs, less precipitously. Two footmen and a

 woman who might be a parlor maid, all in varying degrees of undress, but

 equipped with candles or rush-lights. Evidently, Grey had had the good fortune

 to encounter a search party.

 There was a good deal of confused conversation, as Grey’s attempt at explanation

 was interrupted bySiggy’s own rather disjointed account of his adventures,

 punctuated by exclamations of horror and surprise from the Princess andHetty .

 “Witch?” the Princess was saying, looking down at her son in alarm. “You saw a

 witch? Did you have an evil dream, child?”

 “No. I just woke up and there was a witch in my room. Can I have some marzipan?”

 “Perhaps it would be a good idea to search the house,” Grey managed to get in.

 “It is possible that the . . . witch . . . is still inside.”

 The Princess had very fine, pale skin, radiant in the candlelight, but at this,

 it went a sickly color, like toadstools. Grey glanced meaningfully atSiggy , and

 the Princess at once gave the child toHetty , telling the maid to take him to

 his nursery.

 “Tell me what is happening,” she said, gripping Grey’s arm, and he did,

 finishing the account with a question of his own.

 “The child’s nurse? Where is she?”

 “We don’t know. I went to the nursery to look at Siegfried before retiring—” The

 Princess’s hand fluttered to her bosom as she became aware that she was wearing

 a rather unbecoming woolen nightgown and cap, with a heavy shawl and thick,

 fuzzy stockings. “He wasn’t there; neither was the nurse.Jakob , Thomas—” She

 turned to the footmen, suddenly taking charge. “Search! The house first, then

 the grounds.”

 A distant rumbling of thunder reminded everyone that it was still pouring with

 rain outside, but the footmen vanished with speed.

 The sudden silence left in the wake of their departure gave Grey a slightly

 eerie feeling, as though the thick stone walls had moved subtly closer. A

 solitary candle burned, left behind on the stairs.

 “Who would do this?” said the Princess, her voice suddenly small and frightened.

 “Did they mean to take Siegfried? Why?”

 It looked very much to Grey as though kidnapping had been the plan; no other

 possibility had entered his mind, until the Princess seized him by the arm

 again.

 “Do you think—do you think it was . . . her?” she whispered, eyes dilated to

 pools of horror. “The succubus?”

 “I think not,” Grey said, taking hold of her hands for reassurance. They were

 cold as ice—hardly surprising, in view of the temperature inside theSchloss . He

 smiled at her, squeezing her fingers gently. “A succubus would not require a

 ladder, surely?” Heforebore to add that a boy ofSiggy’s age was unlikely to

 have much that a succubus would want, if he had correctly understood the nature

 of such a creature.

 A little color came back into the Princess’s face, as she saw the logic in this.

 “No, that’s true.” The edge of her mouth twitched, in an attempt at a smile,

 though her eyes were still fearful.

 “It might be advisable to set a guard near your son’s room,” Grey suggested.

 “Though I expect the . . . person . . . has been frightened off by now.”

 She shuddered, whether from cold or at the thought of roving intruders, he

 couldn’t tell. Still, she was clearly steadier at the thought of action, and

 that being so, he rather reluctantly took the opportunity to share with her Sir

 Peter Hicks’s cautions, feeling that perhaps a solid enemy such as the French

 would be preferable to phantasms and shadowy threats.

 “Ha, those frog-eaters,” she said, proving his supposition by drawing herself up

 with a touch of scorn in her voice. “They have tried before, theSchloss to

 take. They have never done it; they will not do it now.” She gestured briefly at

 the stone walls surrounding them, by way of justification in this opinion. “My

 husband’s great-great-great-grandfather built theSchloss ; we have a well inside

 the house, a stable, food stores. This place was built to withstand siege.”

 “I am sure you are right,” Grey said, smiling. “But you will perhaps take some

 care?” He let go her hands, willing her to draw the interview to a close.

 Excitement over, he was very much aware that it had been a long day, and that he

 was freezing.

 “I will,” she promised him. She hesitated a moment, not quite sure how to take

 her leave gracefully, then stepped forward, rose onto her toes, and, with her

 hands on his shoulders, kissed him on the mouth.

 “Good night, Lord John,” she said softly, inEnglish.“Danke .” She turned and

 hurried up the stairs, picking up her skirts as she went.

 Grey stood for a startled moment looking after her, the disconcerting feel of

 heruncorseted breasts still imprinted on his chest, then shook his head and

 went to pick up the candlestick she had left on the stair for him.

 Straightening up, he was overtaken by a massive yawn, the fatigues of the day

 coming down upon him like athousandweight of grapeshot. He only hoped he could

 find his own chamber again, in this ancient labyrinth. Perhaps he should have

 asked the Princess for direction.

 He made his way back down the hallway, his candle flame seeming puny and

 insignificant in the oppressive darkness cast by the great stone blocks of

 SchlossLowenstein. It was only when the light gleamed on the puddle on the

 floor that the thought suddenly occurred to him: Someone had to have opened the

 shutters—from the inside.

 Grey made his way back as far as the head of the main stair, only to find

 Stephan von Namtzen coming up it. The Hanoverian was a little flushed with

 brandy, but still clearheaded, and listened to Grey’s account of events with

 consternation.

 “Dreckskerle!”hesaid, and spat on the floor to emphasize his opinion of

 kidnappers. “The servants are searching, you say—but you think they will find

 nothing?”

 “Perhaps they will find the nurse,” Grey said. “But if the kidnapper has an ally

 inside the house—and he must . . . or she, I suppose,” he added. “The boy did

 say he saw a witch.”

 “Ja,Isee.” Von Namtzen looked grim. One big hand fisted at his side, but then

 relaxed. “I will perhaps go and speak to the Princess. My men, I will have them

 come to guard the house. If there is a criminal within, he will not get out.”

 “I’m sure the Princess will be grateful.” Grey felt all at once terribly tired.

 “I must take Bodger—the body—back to his regiment in the morning. Oh—in that

 regard . . .” He explained Sir Peter’s wishes, to which von Namtzen agreed with

 a flip of the hand.

 “Have you any messages for me to carry, to the troops at the bridge?” Grey

 asked. “Since I will be going in that direction, anyway.” One English regiment

 lay to the south of the town, the other—Bodger’s—to the north, between the town

 and the river. A small group of the Prussian artillery under Stephan’s command

 was stationed a few miles beyond, guarding the bridge atAschenwald .

 Von Namtzen frowned, thinking, then nodded.

 “Ja,youare right. It is best they hear officially of the—” He looked suddenly

 uneasy, and Grey was slightly amused to see that Stephan did not want to speak

 the word “succubus.”

 “Yes, better to avoid rumors,” he agreed, saving Stephan’s awkwardness.

 “Speaking of that—do you suppose Herr Blomberg will let the villagers exhume his

 mother?”

 Stephan’s broad-boned face broke into a smile.

 “No,” he said. “I think he would make them drive an iron rod through his own

 heart, first. Better, though,” he added, the humor fading from his face, “if

 someone finds who plays these tricks, and a stop to it makes. Quickly.”

 Stephan was tired, too, Grey saw; his English grammar was slipping. They stood

 together for a moment, silent, listening to the distant hammer of the rain, both

 feeling still the chill touch of the graveyard in their bones.

 Von Namtzen turned to him suddenly, and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing.

 “You will take care, John,” he said, and before Grey could speak or move,

 Stephan pulled him close and kissed his mouth. Then he smiled, squeezed Grey’s

 shoulder once more, and, with aquiet“GuteNacht .” went up the stairs toward his

 own room.

 Grey shut the door of his chamber behind him and leaned against it, in the

 manner of a man pursued. Tom Byrd, curled up asleep on the hearth rug, sat up

 and blinked at him.

 “Me lord?”

 “Who else?” Grey asked, made jocular from the fatigues and excitements of the

 evening. “Did you expect a visit from the succubus?”

 Tom’s face lost all its sleepiness at that, and he glanced uneasily at the

 window, closed and tightly shuttered against the dangers of the night.

 “You oughtn’t jest that way, me lord,” he said reproachfully. “It’s an

 Englishman what’s dead now.”

 “You are right, Tom; I beg pardon of Private Bodger.” Grey found some justice in

 the rebuke, but was too much overtaken by events to be stung by it. “Still, we

 do not know the cause of his death. Surely there is no proof as yet that it was

 occasioned by any sort of supernatural interference. Have you eaten?”

 “Yes, me lord. Cook had gone to bed, but she got up and fetched us out some

 bread and dripping, and some ale. Wanting to know all about what I found in the

 churchyard,” he added practically.

 Grey smiled to himself; the faint emphasis on “I” in this statement indicated to

 him that Tom’s protests on behalf of the late Private Bodger sprang as much from

 a sense ofproprietariness as from a sense of propriety.

 Grey sat down, to let Tom pull off his boots and still-damp stockings. The room

 he had been given was small but warm and bright, the shadows from the

 well-tended fire flickering over striped damask wallpaper. After the wet cold of

 the churchyard and the bleak chill of theSchloss’s stone corridors, the heat

 upon his skin was a grateful feeling—much enhanced by the discovery of a pitcher

 of hot water for washing.

 “Shall I come with you, me lord? In the morning, I mean.” Tom undid the binding

 of Grey’s hair and began to comb it, dipping the comb occasionally in a cologne

 of bay leaves and chamomile, meant to discourage lice.

 “No, I think not. I shall ride over and speak to Colonel Ruysdale first; one of

 the servants can follow me with the body.” Grey closed his eyes, beginning to

 feel drowsy, though small jolts of excitement still pulsed through his thighs

 and abdomen. “If you would, Tom, I should like you to talk with the servants;

 find out what they are saying about things.” God knew, they would have plenty to

 talk about.

 Clean, brushed, warmed, and cozily ensconced in nightshirt, cap and banyan, Grey

 dismissed Tom, the valet’s arms piled high with filthy uniform bits.

 He shut the door behind the boy and hesitated, staring into the polished surface

 of the wood as though to look through it and see who might be standing on the

 other side. Only the blur of his own face met his gaze, though, and only the

 creak of Tom’s footsteps was audible, receding down the corridor.

 Thoughtfully, he touched his lips with a finger. Then he sighed, and bolted the

 door.

 Stephan had kissed him before—kissed innumerable people, for that matter, the

 man was aninveterateembrasseur . But surely this had been somewhat more than

 the fraternal embrace of a fellow soldier or particular friend. He could still

 feel the grip of Stephan’s hand, curled around his leg. Or was he deluded by

 fatigue and distraction, imagining more to it than there was?

 And if he were right?

 He shook his head, took the warming pan from his sheets, and crawled between

 them, reflecting that, of all the men in Gundwitz that night, he at least was

 safe from the attentions of any roving succubae.

 CHAPTER 3

 A REMEDY FORSLEEPLESSNESS

 Regimental headquarters for the Fifty-second were inBonz , a small hamlet that

 stood some ten miles from Gundwitz. Grey found Colonel Ruysdale in the central

 room of the largest inn, in urgent conference with several other officers, and

 indisposed to take time to deal with an enlisted body.

 “Grey? Oh, yes, know your brother. You found what? Where? Yes, all right. See,

 um . . . Sergeant-Major Sapp. Yes, that’s it. Sapp will know who . . .” The

 Colonel waved a vague hand, indicating that Grey would doubtless find whatever

 assistance he required elsewhere.

 “Yes, sir,” Grey said, settling his boot heels into the sawdust. “I shall do so

 directly. Am I to understand, though, that there are developments of which our

 allies should be informed?”

 Ruysdale stared at him, eyes cold and upper lip foremost.

 “Who told you that, sir?”

 As though he needed telling. Troops were being mustered outside the village,

 drummers beating the call to arms and corporals shouting through the streets,

 men pouring out from their quarters like an anthill stirred with a stick.

 “I am a liaison officer, sir, seconded to Captain von Namtzen’s Hanoverian

 foot,” Grey replied, evading the question. “They are at present quartered in

 Gundwitz; will you require their support?”

 Ruysdale looked grossly offended at the notion, but a captain wearing an

 artillery cockade coughed tactfully.

 “Colonel, shall I give Major Grey such particulars of the situation as may seem

 useful? You have important matters to deal with . . .” He nodded around at the

 assembled officers, who seemed attentive, but hardly on the brink of action.

 The Colonel snorted briefly and made a gesture somewhere between gracious

 dismissal and the waving away of some noxious insect, and Grey bowed, murmuring,

 “Your servant, sir.”

 Outside, the clouds of last night’s storm were making a hasty exodus, scudding

 away on a fresh, cold wind. The artillery captain clapped a hand to his hat, and

 jerked his head toward a pot-house down the street.

 “A bit of warmth, Major?”

 Gathering that the village was in no danger of imminent invasion, Grey nodded

 and accompanied his new companion into a dark, smoky womb, smelling of pig’s

 feet and fermented cabbage.

 “BenjaminHiltern ,” the Captain said, putting back his cloak and holding up two

 fingers to the barman. “You’ll take a drink, Major?”

 “John Grey. I thank you. I collect we shall have time to drink it, before we are

 quite overrun?”

 Hilternlaughed, and sat down across from Grey, rubbing a knuckle under a

 cold-reddened nose.

 “We should have time for our gracious host—” He nodded at the wizened creature

 fumbling with a jug, “—to hunt a boar, roast it, and serve it up with an apple

 in its mouth, if you should be so inclined.”

 “I am obliged, Captain,” Grey said, with a glance at the barman, who upon closer

 inspection appeared to have only one leg, the other being supported by a stout

 peg of battered aspect. “Alas, I have breakfasted but recently.”

 “Too bad. Ihaven’t.BratkartoffelnmitRührei ,”Hiltern said to the barman, who

 nodded and disappeared into some still more squalid den to the rear of the

 house. “Potatoes, fried with eggs and ham,” he explained, taking out a kerchief

 and tucking it into the neck of his shirt. “Delicious.”

 “Quite,” Grey said politely. “One would hope that your troops are fed as well,

 after the effort I saw being expended.”

 “Oh, that.”Hiltern’s cherubic countenance lost a little of its cheerfulness,

 but not much. “Poor sods. At least it’s stopped raining.”

 In answer to Grey’s raised brows, he explained.

 “Punishment. There was a game of bowls yesterday, between a party of men from

 ColonelBampton -Howard’s lot and our lads—local form of skittles. Ruysdale had a

 heavy wager on withBampton -Howard, see?”

 “And your lot lost. Yes, I see. So your lads are—”

 “Ten-mile run to the river and back, in full kit. Keep them fit and out of

 trouble, at least,”Hiltern said, half closing his eyes and lifting his nose at

 the scent of frying potatoes that had begun to waft through the air.

 “I see. One assumes that the French have moved, then? Our last intelligence

 reported them as being a few miles north of the river.”

 “Yes, gave us a bit of excitement for a day or two; thought they might come this

 way. They seem to have sheered off, though—gone round to the west.”

 “Why?” Grey felt a prickle of unease go down his spine. There was a bridge at

 Aschenwald, a logical crossing point—but there was another several miles north,

 atGruneberg .Aschenwald was defended by a company of Prussian artillery; a

 detachment of grenadiers, under ColonelBampton -Howard, presumably held the

 other crossing.

 “There’s a mass ofFrenchies beyond the river,”Hiltern replied. “We think they

 have it in mind to join up with that lot.”

 That was interesting. It was also information that should have been shared with

 the Hanoverian and Prussian commanders by official dispatch—not acquired

 accidentally by the random visit of a liaison officer. Sir Peter Hicks was

 scrupulous in maintaining communications with the allies; Ruysdale evidently saw

 no such need.

 “Oh!”Hiltern said, divining his thought. “I’m sure we would have let you know,

 only for things here being in a bit of confusion. And truly, it didn’t seem

 urgent; scouts just said the French were shining their gear, biffing up the

 supplies, that sort of thing. After all, they’ve got togosomewhere before the

 snow comes down.”

 He raised one dark brow, smiling in apology—an apology that Grey accepted with

 no more than a second’s hesitation. If Ruysdale was going to be erratic about

 dispatches, it would be as well for Grey to keep himself informed by other

 means—andHiltern was obviously well placed to know what was going on.

 They chatted casually until the host came out withHiltern’s breakfast, but Grey

 learned no more of interest—save thatHiltern wasremarkablyun interested in the

 death of Private Bodger. He was also vague about the “confusion” to which he had

 referred, dismissing it with a wave of the hand as “bit of a muddle in the

 commissary—damn bore.”

 The sound of hooves and wheels, moving slowly, came from the street outside, and

 Grey heard a loud voice with a distinctly Hanoverian accent, requesting

 direction“ZumEnglanderlager.”

 “Whatisthat ?”Hiltern asked, turning on his stool.

 “I expect that will be Private Bodger coming home,” Grey replied, rising. “I’m

 obliged to you, sir. Is Sergeant-Major Sapp still in camp, do you know?”

 “Mmm. . . no.”Hiltern spoke thickly, through a mouthful of potatoes and eggs.

 “Gone to the river.”

 That was inconvenient; Grey had no desire to hang about all day, waiting for

 Sapp’s return in order to hand over the corpse and responsibility for it.

 Another idea occurred to him, though.

 “And the regimental surgeon?”

 “Dead. Flux.”Hiltern spooned in more egg, concentrating. “Mmp. Try Keegan. He’s

 the surgeon’s assistant.”

 With most of the men emptying out of camp, it took some time to locate the

 surgeon’s tent. Once there, Grey had the body deposited on a bench, and at once

 sent the wagon back to theSchloss . He was taking no chances on being left in

 custody of Private Bodger.

 Keegan proved to be a scrappy Welshman, equipped with rimless spectacles and an

 incongruous mop of reddish ringlets. Blinking through the spectacles, he bent

 close to the corpse and poked at it with a smudgy exploratory finger.

 “No blood.”

 “No.”

 “Fever?”

 “Probably not. I saw the man several hours before his death, and he seemed in

 reasonable health then.”

 “Hmmm.” Keegan bent and peered keenly upBodger’s nostrils, as though suspecting

 the answer to the private’s untimely death might be lurking there.

 Grey frowned at the fellow’s grubby knuckles and the thin crust of blood that

 rimmed his cuff. Nothing out of the way for a surgeon, but the dirt bothered

 him.

 Keegan tried to thumb up one of the eyelids, but it resisted him. Bodger had

 stiffened during the night, and while the hands and arms had gone limp again,

 the face, body, and legs were all hard as wood. Keegan sighed and began tugging

 off the corpse’s stockings. These were greatly the worse for wear, the soles

 stained with mud; the left one had a hole worn through, andBodger’s great toe

 poked out like the head of an inquisitive worm.

 Keegan rubbed a hand on the skirt of his already grubby coat, leaving further

 streaks, then rubbed it under his nose, sniffing loudly. Grey had an urge to

 step away from the man. Then he realized, with a small sense ofstartlement

 mingled with annoyance, that he was thinking of the Woman again. Fraser’s wife.

 Fraser had spoken of her very little—but that reticence only added to the

 significance of whathedid say.

 One late night, in the Governor’s quarters atArdsmuir Prison, they had sat

 longer than usual over their chess game—a hard-fought draw, in which Grey took

 more pleasure than he might have taken in victory over a lesser opponent. They

 usually drank sherry, but not that night; he had a special claret, a present

 from his mother, and had insisted that Fraser must help him to finish it, as the

 wine would not keep, once opened.

 It was a strong wine, and between the headiness of it and the stimulation of the

 game, even Fraser had lost a little of his formidable reserve.

 Past midnight, Grey’s orderly had come to take away the dishes from their

 repast, and, stumbling sleepily on the threshold in his leaving, had sprawled

 full length, cutting himself badly on a shard of glass. Fraser had leapt up like

 a cat, snatched the boy up, and pressed a fold of his shirt to the wound to stop

 the bleeding. But then, when Grey would have sent for a surgeon, had stopped

 him, saying tersely that Grey could do so if he wished to kill the lad, but if

 not, had best allow Fraser to tend him.

 This he had done with skill and gentleness, washing first his hands, and then

 the wound, with wine, then demanding needle and silk thread—which he had

 astonished Grey by dipping into the wine as well, and passing the needle through

 the flame of a candle.

 “My wife would do it so,” he’d said, frowning slightly in concentration. “There

 are the wee beasties, called germs,d’ye see, and if they—” He set his teeth

 momentarily into his lip as he made the first stitch, then went on.

 “If they should be getting into a wound, it will suppurate. So ye must wash well

 before ye tend the wound, and put flame or alcohol to your instruments, to kill

 the germs.” He smiled briefly at the orderly, who was white-faced and wobbling

 on his stool. “Never let a surgeonwi ’ dirty hands touch ye, she said. Better to

 bleed to death quickly than die slow of the pus, aye?”

 Grey was as skeptical of the existence of germs as of succubae, but ever

 afterward had glanced automatically at the hands of any medical man—and it did

 seem to him that perhaps the more cleanly of the breed tended to lose fewer

 patients, though he had made no real study of the matter.

 In the present instance, though, Mr. Keegan offered no hazard to the late

 Private Bodger, and despite his distaste Grey made no protest as the surgeon

 undressed the corpse, making small interested “Tut!” noises in response to the

 postmortem phenomena thus revealed.

 Grey was already aware that the private had died in a state of arousal. This

 state appeared to be permanent, even though the limbs had begun to relax from

 their rigor, and was the occasion of a surprised “Tut!” from Mr. Keegan.

 “Well, he died happy, at least,” Keegan said, blinking. “Sweet God Almighty.”

 “Is this a . . . normal manifestation, do you think?” Grey inquired. He had

 rather expected PrivateBodger’s condition to abate postmortem. If anything, it

 seemed particularly pronounced, viewed by daylight. Though of course that might

 be merely an artifact of the color, which was now a virulent dark purple, in

 stark contrast to the pallid flesh of the body.

 Keegan prodded the condition cautiously with a forefinger.

 “Stiff as wood,” he said, unnecessarily. “Normal? Don’t know. Mind, what chaps I

 see here have mostly died of fever or flux, and men what are ill aren’t mostly

 of a mind to . . . hmmm.” He relapsed into a thoughtful contemplation of the

 body.

 “What did the woman say?” he asked, shaking himself out of this reverie after a

 moment or two.

 “Who, the woman he was with? Gone. Not that one might blame her.” Always

 assuming that it had been a woman, he added to himself. Though given Private

 Bodger’searlier encounter with the gypsy,onewould assume . . .

 “Can you say what caused his death?” Grey inquired, seeing that Keegan had begun

 to inspect the body as a whole, though his fascinated gaze kept returning to . .

 . color notwithstanding, it really was remarkable.

 The assistant surgeon shook his ringlets, absorbed in wrestling off the corpse’s

 shirt.

 “No wound that I can see. Blow to the head, perhaps?” He bent close, squinting

 at the corpse’s head and face, poking here and there in an exploratory fashion.

 A group of men in uniform came toward them at the trot, hastily doing up straps

 and buttons, hiking packs and muskets into place, and cursing as they went. Grey

 removed his hat and placed it strategically abaft the corpse, not wishing to

 excite public remark—but no one bothered to spare a glance at the tableau by the

 surgeon’s tent; one dead man was much like another.

 Grey reclaimed his hat and watched them go, grumbling like a miniature

 thunderstorm on the move. Most of the troops were already massed on the parade

 ground. He could see them in the distance, moving in a slow, disorderly mill

 that would snap into clean formation at the Sergeant-Major’s shout.

 “I know Colonel Ruysdale by reputation,” Grey said, after a thoughtful pause,

 “though not personally. I have heard him described as ‘a bit of aGawd-’elp-us ,’

 but I have not heard that he is altogether an ass.”

 Keegan smiled, keeping his eyes on his work.

 “Shouldn’t think he is,” he agreed. “Not altogether.”

 Grey kept an inviting silence, to which invitation the surgeon acquiesced within

 moments.

 “He means to wear them out, see. Bring them back so tired they fall asleep in

 their suppers.”

 “Oh, yes?”

 “They been a-staying up all night, you see? Nobody wanting to fall asleep, lest

 the thing—asucky -bus, is it?—should come round in their dreams. Mind, it’s good

 for the tavern owners, but not so good for discipline, what with men falling

 asleep on sentry-go, or in the midst of drill . . .”

 Keegan glanced up from his inspections, observing Grey with interest.

 “Not sleeping so well yourself, Major?” He tapped a dirty finger beneath his

 eye, indicating the presence of dark rings, and chuckled.

 “I kept rather late hours last night, yes,” Grey replied equably. “Owing to the

 discovery of Private Bodger.”

 “Hmmm. Yes, I see.” Keegan said, straightening up. “Seems as though the

 sucky-bus had her fill of him, then.”

 “So you do know about the rumors of a succubus?” Grey asked, ignoring the

 attempt at badinage.

 “Of course I do.” Keegan looked surprised. “Everybody knows. Aren’t I just

 telling you?”

 Keegan did not know how the rumor had reached the encampment, but it had spread

 like wildfire, reaching every man in camp within twenty-four hours. Original

 scoffing had become skeptical attention, and then reluctant belief, as more

 stories began to circulate of the dreams and torments suffered by men in the

 town—and had become outright panic, with the news of the Prussian soldier’s

 death.

 “I don’t suppose you saw that body?” Grey asked, interested.

 The Welshman shook his head.

 “The word is that the poor bugger was drained of blood—but who’s to know the

 truth of it? Perhaps it was an apoplexy; I’ve seen ’emtaken so, sometimes—the

 blood comes bursting from the nose, so as to relieve the pressure on the brain.

 Messy enough to look at.”

 “You seem a rational man, sir,” Grey said, in compliment.

 Keegan gave a small, huffing sort of laugh, dismissing it, and straightened up,

 brushing his palms once more against his coat skirts.

 “Deal with soldiers for as long as I have, Major, and you get used to wild

 stories, that’s all I can say. Men in camp, ’specially. Not enough to keep them

 busy, and a good tale will spread like butter on hot toast. And when it comes to

 dreams—!” He threw up his hands.

 Grey nodded, acknowledging the truth of this. Soldiers put great store in

 dreams.

 “So you can tell me nothing regarding the cause of PrivateBodger’s death?”

 Keegan shook his head, scratching at a row of flea bites on his neck as he did

 so.

 “Don’t see a thing, sir, I’m sorry to say. Other than the . . . um . . .

 obvious,” he nodded delicately toward the corpse’smidregion , “and that’s not

 generally fatal. You might ask the fellow’s friends, though. Just in case.”

 This cryptic allusion made Grey glance up in question, and Keegan coughed.

 “I did say the men didn’t sleep, sir? Not wanting to give anysucky -bus an

 invitation, so to speak. Well, some went a bit further than that, and took

 matters—so to speak—into their own hands.”

 A few bold souls, Keegan said, had reasoned that if what the succubus desired

 was the male essence, safety lay in removing this temptation—“so to speak, sir.”

 While most of those choosing this expedient had presumably chosen to take their

 precautions in privacy, the men lived in very close quarters. It was in fact

 complaints from more than one citizen of gross mass indecency by the soldiers

 quartered on his premises that had provoked GeneralRuysdale’s edict.

 “Only thinking, sir, as a wet graveyard is maybe not the place I’d choose for

 romance, was the opportunity to come my way. But I could see, maybe, a group of

 men thinking they’d face down thesucky -bus on her own ground, perhaps? And if

 Private . . . Bodger, you said was his name, sir? . . . was to have keeled over

 in the midst of such proceedings . . . well, I expect his comrades would have

 buggered off smartly, not hung about to answer questions.”

 “You have a very interesting turn of mind, Mr. Keegan,” Grey said. “Highly

 rational. I don’t suppose it was you who suggested this particular . . .

 precaution?”

 “Who, me?” Keegan tried—and failed—to exhibit outrage. “The idea, Major!”

 “Quite,” Grey said, and took his leave.

 In the distance, the troops were departing the parade ground in orderly fashion,

 each rank setting off in turn, to the clank and rattle of canteens and muskets

 and the staccato cries of corporals and sergeants. He stopped for a moment to

 watch them, enjoying the warmth of the autumn sun on his back.

 After the fury of the night’s storm, the day had dawned clear and calm, and

 promised to be mild. Very muddy underfoot, though, he noted, seeing the churned

 earth of the parade ground, and the spray of clods flying off the feet of the

 runners, spattering their breeches. It would be heavy going, and the devil of a

 sweat to clean up afterward. Ruysdale might not have intended this exercise

 principally as punishment, but that’s what it would be.

 Artilleryman that he was, Grey automatically evaluated the quality of the

 terrain for the passage of caissons. Not a chance. The ground was soft as sodden

 cheese. Even the mortars would bog down in nothing flat.

 He turned, eyeing the distant hills where the French were said to be. If they

 had cannon, chances were that they were going nowhere for the moment.

 The situation still left him with a lingering sense of unease, loath though he

 was to admit it. Yes, the French likely were intending to move toward the north.

 No, there was no apparent reason for them to cross the valley; Gundwitz had no

 strategic importance, nor was it of sufficient size to be worth a detour to

 loot. Yes,Ruysdale’s troops were between the French and the town. But he looked

 at the deserted parade ground, and the troops vanishing in the distance, and

 felt a tickle between the shoulder blades, as though someone stood behind him

 with a loaded pistol.

 “I should feel a little happier if an additional detachment could be sent to

 guard thebridge.”Hicks’s words echoed in memory. So Sir Peter felt that itch,

 as well. It was possible, Grey reflected, thatRuysdalewas an ass.

 CHAPTER 4

 THEGUN-CREW

 It was past midday by the time he reached the river. From a distance, it was a

 tranquil landscape under a high, pale sun, the river bordered by a thick growth

 of trees in autumn leaf, their ancientgolds and bloody reds a-shimmer, in

 contrast to the black-and-dun patchwork of fallow fields and meadows gone to

 seed.

 A little closer, though, and the river itself dispelled this impression of

 pastoral charm. It was a broad, deep stream, turbulent and fast moving, much

 swollen by the recent rains. Even at a distance, he could see the tumbling forms

 of uprooted trees and bushes, and the occasional carcass of a small animal,

 drowned in the current.

 The Prussian artillery were placed upon a small rise of ground, concealed in a

 copse. Only one ten-pounder, he saw, with a sense of unease, and a small

 mortar—though there were sufficient stores of shot and powder, and these were

 commendably well kept, with a Prussian sense of order, tidily sheltered under

 canvas against the rain.

 The men greeted him with great cordiality; any diversion from the boredom of

 bridge guarding was welcome—the more welcome if it came bearing beer, which Grey

 did, having thoughtfully procured two large ale-skins before leaving camp.

 “You will with us eat, Major,” said the Hanoverian Lieutenant in charge,

 accepting both beer and dispatches, and waving a gracious hand toward a

 convenient boulder.

 It was a long time since breakfast, and Grey accepted the invitation with

 pleasure. He took off his coat and spread it over the boulder, rolled up his

 sleeves, and joined companionably in the hard biscuit, cheese, and beer,

 accepting with gratitude a few bites of chewy, spicy sausage as well.

 Lieutenant Dietrich, a middle-aged gentleman with a luxuriant beard and eyebrows

 to match, opened the dispatches and read them while Grey practiced his German

 with the gun-crew. He kept a careful eye upon the Lieutenant as he chatted,

 though, curious to see what the artilleryman would make of von Namtzen’s

 dispatch.

 The Lieutenant’s eyebrows were an admirable indication of his interior

 condition; they remained level for the first moments of reading, then rose to an

 apex of astonishment, where they remained suspended for no little time,

 returning to their original position with small flutters of dismay as the

 Lieutenant decided how much of this information it was wise to impart to his

 men.

 The Lieutenant folded the paper, shooting Grey a sharp interrogative glance.

 Grey gave a slight nod; yes, he knew what the dispatch said.

 The Lieutenant glanced around at the men, then back over his shoulder, as though

 judging the distance across the valley to the British camp and the town beyond.

 Then he looked back at Grey, thoughtfully chewing his mustache, and shook his

 head slightly. He would not mention the matter of a succubus.

 On the whole, Grey thought that wise, and inclined his head an inch in

 agreement. There were only ten men present; if any of them had already known of

 the rumors, all would know. And while the Lieutenant seemed at ease with his

 command, the fact remained that these were Prussians, and not his own men. He

 could not be sure of their response.

 The Lieutenant folded away his papers and came to join the conversation.

 However, Grey observed with interest that the substance of the dispatch seemed

 to weigh upon the Lieutenant’s mind, in such a way that the conversation

 turned—with no perceptible nudge in that direction, but with the inexorable

 swing of a compass needle—to manifestations of the supernatural.

 It being a fine day, with golden leaves drifting gently down around them, the

 gurgle of the river nearby, and plenty of beer to hand, the varied tales of

 ghosts, bleeding nuns, and spectral battles in the sky were no more than the

 stuff of entertainment. In the cold shadows of the night, it would be

 different—though the stories would still be told. More thancannonshot ,

 bayonets, or disease, boredom was a soldier’s greatest enemy.

 At one point, though, an artilleryman told the story of a fine house in his

 town, where the cries of a ghostly child echoed in the rooms at night, to the

 consternation of the householders. In time, they traced the sound to one

 particular wall, chipped away the plaster, and discovered a bricked-up chimney,

 in which lay the remains of a young boy, next to the dagger that had cut his

 throat.

 Several of the soldiers made the sign of the horns at this, but Grey saw

 distinct expressions of unease on the faces of two of the men. These two

 exchanged glances, then looked hurriedly away.

 “You have heard such a story before, perhaps?” Grey asked, addressing the

 younger of the two directly. He smiled, doing his best to look harmlessly

 engaging.

 The boy—he could be no more than fifteen—hesitated, but such was the press of

 interest from those around him that he could not resist.

 “Not a story,” he said. “I—we—” He nodded at his fellow. “—last night, in the

 storm. Samson and I heard a child crying, near the river. We went to look, with

 a lantern, but there was nothing there. Still, we heard it. It went on and on,

 though we walked up and down, calling and searching, until we were wet through,

 and nearly frozen.”

 “Oh, is that what you were doing?” a fellow in his twenties interjected,

 grinning. “And here we thought you and Samson were just buggering each other

 under the bridge.”

 Blood surged up into the boy’s face with a suddenness that made his eyes bulge,

 and he launched himself at the older man, knocking him off his seat and rolling

 with him into the leaves in a ball of fists and elbows.

 Grey sprang to his feet and kicked them apart, seizing the boy by the scruff of

 the neck and jerking him up. The Lieutenant was shouting at them angrily in

 idiomatic German, which Grey ignored. He shook the boy slightly, to bring him to

 his senses, and said, very quietly, “Laugh. It was a joke.”

 He stared hard into the boy’s eyes, willing him to come to his senses. The thin

 shoulders under his hands vibrated with the need to strike out, to hit

 something—and the brown eyes were glassy with anguish and confusion.

 Grey shook him harder, then released him, and under the guise of slapping dead

 leaves from his uniform, leaned closer. “If you act like this, they will know,”

 he said, speaking in a rapid whisper. “For God’s sake, laugh!”

 Samson, experienced enough to know what to do in such circumstances, was doing

 it—elbowing away joking comrades, replying to crude jests with cruder ones. The

 young boy glanced at him, a flicker of awareness coming back into his face. Grey

 let him go, and turned back to the group, saying loudly, “If I were going to

 bugger someone, I would wait for good weather. A man must be desperate to

 swiveanythingin such rain and thunder!”

 “It’s been a long time, Major,” said one of the soldiers, laughing. He made a

 crude thrusting gesture with his hips. “Even a sheep in a snowstorm would look

 good now!”

 “Haha. Go fuck yourself,Wulfie . The sheep wouldn’t have you.” The boy was still

 flushed and damp-eyed, but back in control of himself. He rubbed a hand across

 his mouth and spat, forcing a grin as the others laughed.

 “Youcouldfuck yourself,Wulfie —if your dick is as long as you say it is.”

 Samson leered atWulf , who stuck out an amazingly long tongue in reply, waggling

 it in derision.

 “Don’t you wish you knew!”

 The discussion was interrupted at this point by two soldiers who came puffing up

 the rise, wet to the waist and dragging with them a large dead pig, fished out

 of the river. This addition to supper was greeted with cries of approbation, and

 half the men fell at once to the work of butchery, the others returning in

 desultory fashion to their conversation.

 The vigor had gone out of it, though, and Grey was about to take his leave, when

 one of the men said something, laughing, about gypsy women.

 “What did you say? I mean—washabtIhrdasgesagt?He groped for his German.

 “Gypsies? You have seen them recently?”

 “Oh,ja, Major,” said the soldier, obligingly. “This morning. They came across

 the bridge, six wagons with mules. They go back and forth. We’ve seen them

 before.”

 With a little effort, Grey kept his voice calm.

 “Indeed?” He turned to the Lieutenant. “Does it not seem possible that they may

 have dealings with the French?”

 “Of course.” The Lieutenant looked mildly surprised, then grinned. “What are

 they going to tell the French? That we’re here? I think they know that, Major.”

 He gestured toward a gap in the trees. Through it, Grey could see the English

 soldiers ofRuysdale’s regiment, perhaps a mile away, their ranks piling up on

 the bank of the river like driftwood as they flung down their packs and waded

 into the shallows to drink, hot and mud-caked from their run.

 It was true: The presence of the English and Hanoverian regiments could be a

 surprise to no one; anyone on the cliffs with a spyglass could likely count the

 spots on ColonelRuysdale’s dog. As for information regarding their movements .

 . . well, since neither Ruysdale nor Hicks had any idea where they were going or

 when, there wasn’t any great danger of that intelligence being revealed to the

 enemy.

 He smiled, and took gracious leave of the Lieutenant, though privately resolving

 to speak to Stephan von Namtzen. Perhaps the gypsies were harmless—but they

 should be looked into. If nothing else, the gypsies were in a position to tell

 anyone who cared to ask them how few men were guarding that bridge. And somehow,

 he thought that Ruysdale was not of a mind to consider Sir Peter’s request for

 reinforcement, though Grey had delivered it.

 He waved casually to the artillerymen, who took little notice, elbow-deep in

 blood and pig guts. The boy was by himself, chopping green wood for the spit.

 Leaving the artillery camp, he rode up to the head of the bridge and paused,

 reining Karolus in as he looked across the river. The land was flat for a little

 way, but then broke into rolling hills that rose to a steep promontory. Above,

 on the cliffs, the French presumably still lurked. He took a small spyglass from

 his pocket and scanned theclifftops , slowly. Nothing moved on the heights: no

 horses, no men, no swaying banners—and yet a faint gray haze drifted up there, a

 cloud in an otherwise cloudless sky. The smoke of campfires; many of them. Yes,

 the French were still there.

 He scanned the hills below, looking carefully—but if the gypsies were there as

 well, no rising plume of smoke betrayed their presence.

 He should find the gypsy camp and question its inhabitants himself—but it was

 growing late, and he had no stomach for that now. He reined about and turned the

 horse’s head back toward the distant town, not glancing at the copse that hid

 the cannon and its crew.

 The boy had best learn—and quickly—to hide his nature, or he would become in

 short orderbumboy to any man who cared to use him. And many would.Wulf had

 been correct: After months in the field, soldiers were not particular, and the

 boy was much more appealing than a sheep, with those soft red lips and tender

 skin.

 Karolus tossed his head, and he slowed, uneasy. Grey’s hands were trembling on

 the reins, gripped far too tightly. He forced them to relax, stilled the

 trembling, and spoke calmly to the horse, nudging him back to speed.

 He had been attacked once, in camp somewhere in Scotland, in the days after

 Culloden. Someone had come upon him in the dark, and taken him from behind with

 an arm across his throat. He had thought he was dead, but his assailant had

 something else in mind. The man had never spoken, and was brutally swift about

 his business, leaving him moments later, curled in the dirt behind a wagon,

 speechless with shock and pain.

 He had never known who it was: officer, soldier, or some anonymous intruder.

 Never known whether the man had discerned something in his own appearance or

 behavior that led to the attack, or had only taken him because he was there.

 Hehadknown the danger of telling anyone about it. He washed himself, stood

 straight and walked firmly, spoke normally and looked men in the eye. No one had

 suspected the bruised andriven flesh beneath his uniform, or the hollowness

 beneath his breastbone. And if his attacker sat at meals and broke bread with

 him, he had not known it. From that day, he had carried a dagger at all times,

 and no one had ever touched him again, against his will.

 The sun was sinking behind him, and the shadow of horse and rider stretched out

 far before him, flying, and faceless in their flight.

 CHAPTER 5

 DARKDREAMS

 Once more he was late for dinner. This time, though, a tray was brought for him,

 and he sat in the drawing room, taking his supper while the rest of the company

 chatted.

 The Princess saw to his needs and sat with him for a time, flatteringly

 attentive. He was worn out from a day of riding, though, and his answers to her

 questions were brief. Soon enough, she drifted away and left him to a peaceful

 engagement with some cold venison and a tart of mushrooms and onions.

 He had nearly finished when he felt a large, warm hand on his shoulder.

 “So, you have seen the gun-crew at the bridge? They are in good order?” von

 Namtzen asked.

 “Yes, very good,” Grey replied. No point—not yet—in mentioning the young soldier

 to von Namtzen. “I told them more men will come, fromRuysdale’s regiment. I

 hope they will.”

 “The bridge?” The Dowager, catching the word, turned from her conversation,

 frowning. “You have no need to worry, Landgrave. The bridge is safe.”

 “I am sure it will be safe, madam,” Stephan said, clicking his heels gallantly

 as he bowed to the old lady. “You may be assured, Major Grey and I will protect

 you.”

 The old lady looked faintly put out at the notion.

 “The bridge is safe,” she repeated, touching the religious medal on the bodice

 of her gown, and glancing pugnaciously from man to man. “No enemy has crossed

 the bridge atAschenwald in three hundred years. No enemy will ever cross it!”

 Stephan glanced at Grey, and cleared his throat slightly. Grey cleared his own

 throat and made a gracious compliment upon the food.

 When the Dowager had moved away, Stephan shook his head behind her back, and

 exchanged a brief smile with Grey.

 “You know about that bridge?”

 “No, is there something odd about it?”

 “Only a story.” Von Namtzen shrugged, with a tolerant scorn for the superstition

 of others. “They say that there is a guardian; a spirit of some kind that

 defends the bridge.”

 “Indeed,” Grey said, with an uneasy memory of the stories told by the gun-crew

 stationed near the bridge. Were any of them local men, he wondered, who would

 know the story?

 “MeinGott,”Stephansaid, shaking his massive head as though assailed by gnats.

 “These stories! How can sane men believe such things?”

 “I collect you do not mean that particular story?” Grey said. “The succubus,

 perhaps?”

 “Don’t speak to me of that thing,” von Namtzen said gloomily. “My men look like

 scarecrows and jump at a bird’s shadow. Every one of them is scared to lay his

 head upon a pillow, for fear that he will turn and look into the night-hag’s

 face.”

 “Your chaps aren’t the only ones.” Sir Peter had come to pour himself another

 drink. He lifted the glass and took a deep swallow, shuddering slightly.

 Billman, behind him, nodded in glum confirmation.

 “Bloody sleepwalkers, the lot.”

 “Ah,” said Grey thoughtfully. “If I might make a suggestion . . . not my own,

 you understand. A notion mentioned byRuysdale’s surgeon . . .”

 He explained Mr. Keegan’s remedy, keeping his voice discreetly low. His

 listeners were less discreet in their response.

 “What,Ruysdale’s chaps are all boxing the Jesuit and begetting cockroaches?”

 Grey thought Sir Peter would expire from suffocated laughter. Just as well

 LieutenantDundas wasn’t present, he thought.

 “Perhaps not all of them,” he said. “Evidently enough, though, to be of concern.

 I take it you have not experienced a similar phenomenon among your troops . . .

 yet?”

 Billmancaught the delicate pause and whooped loudly.

 “Boxing the Jesuit?” Stephan nudged Grey with an elbow, and raised thick blond

 brows in puzzlement. “Cockroaches? What does this mean, please?”

 “Ahhh. . .” Having no notion of the German equivalent of this expression, Grey

 resorted to a briefly graphic gesture with one hand, looking over his shoulder

 to be sure that none of the women was watching.

 “Oh!” Von Namtzen looked mildly startled, but then grinned widely. “I see, yes,

 very good!” He nudged Grey again, more familiarly, and dropped his voice a

 little. “Perhaps wise to take some such precaution personally, do you think?”

 The women and the German officers, heretofore intent on a card game, were

 looking toward the Englishmen in puzzlement. One man called a question to von

 Namtzen, and Grey was fortunately saved from reply.

 Something occurred to him, though, and he grasped von Namtzen by the arm, as the

 latter was about to go and join the others at a hand of bravo.

 “A moment, Stephan. I had meant to ask—that man of yours who died—Koenig? Did

 you see the body yourself?”

 Von Namtzen was still smiling, but at this, his expression grew more somber, and

 he shook his head.

 “No, I did not see him. They said, though, that his throat was most terribly

 torn—as though a wild animal had been at him. And yet he was not outside; he was

 found in his quarters.” He shook his head again, and left to join the card game.

 Grey finished his meal amid cordial conversation with Sir Peter andBillman ,

 though keeping an inconspicuous eye upon the progress of the card game.

 Stephan was in dress uniform tonight. A smaller man would have been overwhelmed

 by it; German taste in military decoration was grossly excessive, to an English

 eye. With his big frame and leonine blond head though, the Landgrave von Erdberg

 was merely . . . eye catching.

 He appeared to have caught the eye not only of the Princess Louisa, but also of

 three young women, friends of the Princess. These surrounded him like a moony

 triplet, caught in his orbit. Now he reached into the breast of his coat and

 withdrew some small object, causing them to cluster around to look at it.

 Grey turned to answer some question ofBillman’s , but then turned back, trying

 not to look too obviously.

 He had been trying to suppress the feeling Stephan roused in him, but in the

 end, such things were never controllable—they rose up. Sometimes like the

 bursting of a mortar shell, sometimes like the inexorable green spike of a

 crocus pushing through snow and ice—but they rose up.

 Was he in love with Stephan? There was no question of that. He liked and

 respected the Hanoverian, but there was no madness in it, no yearning. Did

 hewantStephan? A soft warmth in his loins, as though his blood had begun

 somehow to simmer over a low flame, suggested that he did.

 The ancient bear’s skull still sat in its place of honor, below the old Prince’s

 portrait. He moved slowly to examine it, keeping half an eye on Stephan.

 “Surely you have not eaten enough, John!” A delicate hand on his elbow turned

 him, and he looked down into the Princess’s face, smiling up at him with pretty

 coquetry. “A strong man, out all day—let me call the servants to bring you

 something special.”

 “I assure you, Your Highness . . .” But she would have none of it, and, tapping

 him playfully with her fan, she scudded away like a gilded cloud, to have some

 special dessert prepared for him.

 Feeling obscurely like a fatted calf being readied for the slaughter, Grey

 sought refuge in male company, coming to rest beside von Namtzen, who was

 folding up whatever he had been showing to the women, who had all gone to peer

 over the card players’ shoulders and make bets.

 “What is that?” Grey asked, nodding at the object.

 “Oh—” Von Namtzen looked a little disconcerted at the question, but with only a

 moment’s hesitation, handed it to Grey. It was a small leather case, hinged,

 with a gold closure. “My children.”

 It was a miniature, done by an excellent hand. The heads of two children, close

 together, one boy, one girl, both blond. The boy, clearly a little older, was

 perhaps three or four.

 Grey felt momentarily as though he had received an actual blow to the pit of the

 stomach; his mouth opened, but he was incapable of speech. Or at least he

 thought he was. To his surprise, he heard his own voice, sounding calm, politely

 admiring.

 “They are very handsome indeed. I am sure they are a consolation to your wife,

 in your absence.”

 Von Namtzen grimaced slightly, and gave a brief shrug.

 “Their mother is dead. She died in childbirth when Elise was born.” A huge

 forefinger touched the tiny face, very gently. “My mother looks after them.”

 Grey made the proper sounds of condolence, but had ceased to hear himself, for

 the confusion of thought and speculation that filled his mind.

 So much so, in fact, that when the Princess’s special dessert—an enormous

 concoction of preserved raspberries, brandy, sponge cake, and cream—arrived, he

 ate it all, despite the fact that raspberries made him itch.

 He continued to think, long after the ladies had left. He joined the card game,

 bet extensively, and played wildly—winning, with Luck’s usual perversity, though

 he paid no attention to his cards.

 Had he been entirely wrong? It was possible. All of Stephan’s gestures toward

 him had been within the bounds of normalcy—and yet . . .

 And yet it was by no means unknown for men such as himself to marry and have

 children. Certainly men such as von Namtzen, with a title and estates to

 bequeath, would wish to have heirs. That thought steadied him, and though he

 scratched occasionally at chest or neck, he paid more attention to his game—and

 finally began to lose.

 The card game broke up an hour later. Grey loitered a bit, in the hopes that

 Stephan might seek him out, but the Hanoverian was detained in argument with

 KaptainSteffens, and at last Grey went upstairs, still scratching.

 The halls were well lit tonight, and he found his own corridor without

 difficulty. He hoped Tom was still awake; perhaps the young valet could fetch

 him something for the itching. Some ointment, perhaps, or—he heard the rustle of

 fabric behind him, and turned to find the Princess approaching him.

 She was once again in nightdress—but not the homely woolen garment she had worn

 the night before. This time, she wore a flowing thing of diaphanous lawn, which

 clung to her bosom and rather clearly revealed her nipples through the thin

 fabric. He thought she must be very cold, despite the lavishly embroidered robe

 thrown over the nightgown.

 She had no cap, and her hair had been brushed out, but not yet plaited for the

 night: it flowed becomingly in golden waves below her shoulders. Grey began to

 feel somewhat cold, too, in spite of the brandy.

 “My Lord,” she said. “John,” she added, and smiled. “I have something for you.”

 She was holding something in one hand, he saw; a small box of some sort.

 “Your Highness,” he said, repressing the urge to take a step backward. She was

 wearing a very strong scent, redolent of tuberoses—a scent he particularly

 disliked.

 “My name is Louisa,” she said, taking another step toward him. “Will you not

 call me by my name? Here, in private?”

 “Of course. If you wish it—Louisa.” Good God, what had brought this on? He had

 sufficient experience to see what she was about—he was a handsome man, of good

 family, and with money; it had happened often enough—but not with royalty, who

 tended to be accustomed to taking what they wanted.

 He took her outstretched hand, ostensibly for the purpose of kissing it; in

 reality, to keep her at a safe distance. What did she want? And why?

 “This is—to thank you,” she said as he raised his head from herberinged

 knuckles. She thrust the box into his other hand. “And to protect you.”

 “I assure you, madam, no thanks are necessary. I did nothing.” Christ, was that

 it? Did she think she must bed him, in token of thanks—or rather, had she

 convinced herself that she must, because she wanted to? She did want to; he

 could see her excitement, in the slightly widened blue eyes, the flushed cheeks,

 the rapid pulse in her throat. He squeezed her fingers gently and released them,

 then tried to hand back the box.

 “Really, madam—Louisa—I cannot accept this; surely it is a treasure of your

 family.” It certainly looked valuable; small as it was, it was remarkably

 heavy—made either of gilded lead or of solid gold—and sported a number of

 crudely cut cabochon stones, which he feared were precious.

 “Oh, it is,” she assured him. “It has been in my husband’s family for hundreds

 of years.”

 “Oh, well, then certainly—”

 “No, you must keep it,” she said vehemently. “It will protect you from the

 creature.”

 “Creature. You mean the—”

 “DerNachtmahr,”shesaid, lowering her voice and looking involuntarily over one

 shoulder, as though fearing that some vile thing hovered in the air nearby.

 Nachtmahr.“Nightmare,” it meant. Despite himself, a brief shiver tightened

 Grey’s shoulders. The halls were better lighted, but still harbored drafts that

 made the candles flicker and the shadows flow like moving water down the walls.

 He glanced down at the box. There were letters etched into the lid, in Latin,

 but of so ancient a sort that it would take close examination to work out what

 they said.

 “It is a reliquary,” she said, moving closer, as though to point out the

 inscription. “Of SaintOrgevald .”

 “Ah? Er . . . yes. Most interesting.” He thought this mildly gruesome. Of all

 the objectionable Popish practices, this habit of chopping up saints and

 scattering their remnants to the far ends of the earth was possibly the most

 reprehensible. But why should the Princess have such an item? The von

 Lowensteinswere Lutheran. Of course,itwas very old—no doubt she regarded it as

 no more than a family talisman.

 She was very close, her perfume cloying in his nostrils. How was he to get rid

 of the woman? The door to his room was only a foot or two away; he had a strong

 urge to open it, leap in, and slam it shut, but that wouldn’t do.

 “You will protect me, protect my son,” she murmured, looking trustfully up at

 him from beneath golden lashes. “So I will protect you, dear John.”

 She flung her arms about his neck, and once more glued her lips to his in a

 passionate kiss. Sheer courtesy required him to return the embrace, though his

 mind was racing, looking feverishly for some escape. Where the devil were the

 servants? Why did no one interrupt them?

 Then someone did interrupt them. There was a gruff cough near at hand, and Grey

 broke the embrace with relief—a short-lived emotion, as he looked up to discover

 the Landgrave von Erdberg standing a few feet away, glowering under heavy brows.

 “Your pardon, Your Highness,” Stephan said, in tones of ice. “I wished to speak

 to Major Grey; I did not know anyone was here.”

 The Princess was flushed, but quite collected. She smoothed her gown down across

 her body, drawing herself up in such a way that her fine bust was strongly

 emphasized.

 “Oh,” she said, very cool. “It’s you, Erdberg. Do not worry, I was just taking

 my leave of the Major. You may have him now.” A small, smug smile twitched at

 the corner of her mouth. Quite deliberately, she laid a hand along Grey’s heated

 cheek, and let her fingers trail along his skin as she turned away. Then she

 strolled—curse the woman,shestrolled away, switching the tail of her robe.

 There was a profound silence in the hallway.

 Grey broke it, finally.

 “You wished to speak with me, Captain?”

 Von Namtzen looked him over coldly, as though deciding whether to step on him.

 “No,” he said at last. “It will wait.” He turned on his heel and strode away,

 making a good deal more noise in his departure than had the Princess.

 Grey pressed a hand to his forehead, until he could trust his head not to

 explode, then shook it, and lunged for the door to his room before anything else

 should happen.

 Tom was sitting on a stool by the fire, mending a pair of breeches that had

 suffered injury to the seams while Grey was demonstrating saber lunges to one of

 the German officers. He looked up at once when Grey came in, but if he had heard

 any of the conversation in the hall, he made no reference to it.

 “What’s that, me lord?” he asked instead, seeing the box in Grey’s hand.

 “What? Oh, that.” Grey put it down, with a faint feeling of distaste. “A relic.

 Of SaintOrgevald , whoever he might be.”

 “Oh, I know him!”

 “You do?” Grey raised one brow.

 “Yes, me lord. There’s a little chapel to him, down the garden.Ilse —she’s one

 of the kitchen maids—was showing me. He’s right famous hereabouts.”

 “Indeed.” Grey began to undress, tossing his coat across the chair and starting

 on his waistcoat buttons. His fingers were impatient, slipping on the small

 buttons. “Famous for what?”

 “Stopping them killing the children. Will I help you, me lord?”

 “What?” Grey stopped, staring at the young valet, then shook his head and

 resumed twitching buttons. “No, continue. Killing what children?”

 Tom’s hair was standing up on end, as it tended to do whenever he was interested

 in a subject, owing to his habit of running one hand through it.

 “Well,d’ye see, me lord, it used to be the custom, when they’d build something

 important, they’d buy a child from the gypsies—or just take one, Is’pose —and

 wall it up in the foundation. ’Specially for a bridge. It keeps anybody wicked

 from crossing over, see?”

 Grey resumed his unbuttoning, more slowly. The hair prickled uneasily on his

 nape.

 “The child—the murdered child—would cry out, I suppose?”

 Tom looked surprised at his acumen.

 “Yes, me lord. However did you know that?”

 “Never mind. So SaintOrgevald put a stop to this practice, did he? Good for

 him.” He glanced, more kindly, at the small gold box. “There’s a chapel, you

 say—is it in use?”

 “No, me lord. It’s full of bits of stored rubbish. Or, rather—’tisn’tin use for

 what you might call devotions. Folk do go there.” The boy flushed a bit, and

 frowned intently at his work. Grey deduced thatIlse might have shown him

 another use for a deserted chapel, but chose not to pursue the matter.

 “I see. WasIlse able to tell you anything else of interest?”

 “Depends upon what you call ‘interesting,’ me lord.” Tom’s eyes were still fixed

 upon his needle, but Grey could tell from the way in which he caught his upper

 lip between his teeth that he was in possession of a juicy bit of information.

 “At this point, my chief interest is in my bed,” Grey said, finally extricating

 himself from the waistcoat, “but tell me anyway.”

 “Reckon you know the nursemaid’s still gone?”

 “I do.”

 “Did you know her name was Koenig, and that she was wife to the Hun soldier what

 the succubus got?”

 Grey had just about broken Tom of calling the Germans “Huns,” at least in their

 hearing, but chose to overlook this lapse.

 “I did not.” Grey unfastened hisneckcloth , slowly. “Was this known to all the

 servants?” More importantly, did Stephan know?

 “Oh, yes, me lord.” Tom had laid down his needle, and now looked up, eager with

 his news. “See, the soldier, he used to do work here, at theSchloss .”

 “When? Was he a local man, then?” It was quite usual for soldiers to augment

 their pay by doing work for the local citizenry in their off hours, but

 Stephan’s men hadbeenin situ for less than a month. But if the nursery maid was

 the man’s wife—

 “Yes, me lord. Born here, the both of them. He joined the local regiment some

 years a-gone, and came here to work—”

 “What work did he do?” Grey asked, unsure whether this had any bearing on

 Koenig’s demise, but wanting a moment to encompass the information.

 “Builder,” Tom replied promptly. “Part of the upper floors got the wood-worm,

 and had to be replaced.”

 “Hmm. You seem remarkably well informed. Just how long did you spend in the

 chapel with youngIlse ?”

 Tom gave him a look of limpid innocence, much moreinculpatory than an open

 leer.

 “Me lord?”

 “Never mind. Go on. Was the man working here at the time he was killed?”

 “No, me lord. He left with the regiment two years back. He did come round a week

 or so ago,Ilse said, only to visit his friends among the servants, but he

 didn’t work here.”

 Grey had now got down to his drawers, which he removed with a sigh of relief.

 “Christ, what sort of perverse country is it where they put starch in a man’s

 smallclothes? Can you not deal with the laundress, Tom?”

 “Sorry, me lord.” Tom scrambled to retrieve the discarded drawers. “I didn’t

 know the word for ‘starch.’ I thought I did, but whatever I said just made ’em

 laugh.”

 “Well, don’t makeIlse laugh too much. Leaving the maidservants with child is an

 abuse of hospitality.”

 “Oh, no, me lord,” Tom assured him earnestly. “We was too busy talking to, er .

 . .”

 “To be sure you were,” Grey said equably. “Did she tell you anything else of

 interest?”

 “Mebbe.” Tom had the nightshirt already aired and hanging by the fire to warm;

 he held it up for Grey to draw over his head, the wool flannel soft and grateful

 as it slid over his skin. “Mind, it’s only gossip.”

 “Mmm?”

 “One of the older footmen, who used to work with Koenig—after Koenig came to

 visit, he wastalkin ’ with one of the other servants, and he said inIlse’s

 hearing as how little Siegfried was growing up to be the spit of him—of Koenig,

 I mean, not the footman. But then he saw her listening and shut up smart.”

 Grey stopped in the act of reaching for his banyan, and stared.

 “Indeed,” he said. Tom nodded, looking modestly pleased with the effect of his

 findings.

 “That’s the Princess’s old husband, isn’t it, over the mantelpiece in the

 drawing room?Ilse showed me the picture. Looks a proper old bugger, don’t he?”

 “Yes,” said Grey, smiling slightly. “And?”

 “Heain’t had—hadn’t, I mean—any children more than Siegfried, though he was

 married twice before. And Master Siegfried was born six months to the day after

 the old fellow died. That kind of thing always causes talk, don’t it?”

 “I should say so, yes.” Grey thrust his feet into the proffered slippers. “Thank

 you, Tom. You’ve done more than well.”

 Tom shrugged modestly, though his round face beamed as though illuminated from

 within.

 “Will I fetch you tea, me lord? Or a nice syllabub?”

 “Thank you, no. Find your bed, Tom, you’ve earned your rest.”

 “Very good, me lord.” Tom bowed; his manners were improving markedly, under the

 example of theSchloss’s servants. He picked up the clothes Grey had left on the

 chair, to take away for brushing, but then stopped to examine the little

 reliquary, which Grey had left on the table.

 “That’s a handsome thing, me lord. A relic, did you say? Isn’t that a bit of

 somebody?”

 “It is.” Grey started to tell Tom to take the thing away with him, but stopped.

 It was undoubtedly valuable; best to leave it here. “Probably a finger or a toe,

 judging from the size.”

 Tom bent, peering at the faded lettering.

 “What does it say, me lord? Can you read it?”

 “Probably.” Grey took the box, and brought it close to the candle. Held thus at

 an angle, the worn lettering sprang into legibility. So did the drawing etched

 into the top, which Grey had to that point assumed to be merely decorative

 lines. The words confirmed it.

 “Isn’t that a? . . .” Tom said, goggling at it.

 “Yes, it is.” Grey gingerly set the box down.

 They regarded it in silence for a moment.

 “Ah . . . where did you get it, me lord?” Tom asked, finally.

 “The Princess gave it me. As protection from the succubus.”

 “Oh.” The young valet shifted his weight to one foot, and glanced sidelong at

 him. “Ah . . .d’ye think it will work?”

 Grey cleared his throat.

 “I assure you, Tom, if the phallus of SaintOrgevald does not protect me,

 nothing will.”

 Left alone, Grey sank into the chair by the fire, closed his eyes, and tried to

 compose himself sufficiently to think. The conversation with Tom had at least

 allowed him a little distance from which to contemplate matters with the

 Princess and Stephan—save that they didn’t bear contemplation.

 He felt mildly nauseated, and sat up to pour a glass of plum brandy from the

 decanter on the table. That helped, settling both his stomach and his mind.

 He sat slowly sipping it, gradually bringing his mental faculties to bear on the

 less personal aspects of the situation.

 Tom’s discoveries cast a new and most interesting light on matters. If Grey had

 ever believed in the existence of a succubus—and he was sufficiently honest to

 admit that there had been moments, both in the graveyard and in the

 dark-flickering halls of theSchloss —he believed no longer.

 The attempted kidnapping was plainly the work of some human agency, and the

 revelation of the relationship between the twoKoenigs —the vanished nursemaid

 and her dead husband—just as plainly indicated that the death of Private Koenig

 was part of the same affair, no matter what hocus-pocus had been contrived

 around it.

 Grey’s father had died when he was twelve, but had succeeded in instilling in

 his sons his own admiration for the philosophy of reason. In addition to the

 concept ofOccam’s razor, his father had also introduced him to the useful

 doctrineofCui bono ?

 The plainly obvious answer there was the Princess Louisa. Granting for the

 present that the gossip was true, and that Koenig had fathered little Siegfried

 . . . the last thing the woman could want was for Koenig to return and hang

 about where awkward resemblances could be noted.

 He had no idea of the German law regarding paternity. In England, a child born

 in wedlock was legally the offspring of the husband, even when everyone and the

 dog’s mother knew that the wife had been openly unfaithful. By such means,

 several gentlemen of his acquaintance had children, even though he was quite

 sure that the men had never even thought of sharing their wives’ beds. Had

 Stephan perhaps—

 He caught that thought by the scruff of the neck and shoved it aside. Besides,

 if the miniaturist had been faithful, Stephan’s son was the spitting image of

 his father. Though painters naturally would produce what image they thought most

 desired by the patron, despite the reality—

 He picked up the glass and drank from it until he felt breathless and his ears

 buzzed.

 “Koenig,” he said firmly, aloud. Whether the gossip was true or not—and having

 kissed the Princess, he rather thought it was; no shrinking violet, she!—and

 whether or not Koenig’s reappearance might threatenSiggy’s legitimacy, the

 man’s presence must certainly be unwelcome.

 Unwelcome enough to have arranged his death?

 Why, when he would be gone again soon? The troops were likely to move within the

 week—surely within the month. Had something happened that made the removal of

 Private Koenig urgent? Perhaps Koenig himself had been in ignorance of

 Siegfried’s parentage—and upon discovering the boy’s resemblance to himself on

 his visit to the castle, determined to extort money or favor from the Princess?

 And bringing the matter full circle . . . had the entire notion of the succubus

 been introduced merely to disguise Koenig’s death? If so, how? The rumor had

 seized the imagination of both troops and townspeople to a marked extent—and

 Koenig’s death had caused it to reach the proportions of a panic—but how had

 that rumor been started?

 He dismissed that question for the moment, as there was no rational way of

 dealing with it. As for the death, though . . .

 He could without much difficulty envision the Princess Louisa conspiring in the

 death of Koenig; he had noticed before that women were quite without mercy where

 their offspring were concerned. Still . . . the Princess had presumably not

 entered a soldier’s quarters and done a man to death with her own lily-white

 hands.

 Who had done it? Someone with great ties of loyalty to the Princess, presumably.

 Though, upon second thought, it need not have been anyone from theSchloss .

 Gundwitz was not the teeming boil that London was, but the town was still of

 sufficient size to sustain a reasonable number of criminals; one of these could

 likely have been induced to perform the actual murder—if it was a murder, he

 reminded himself. He must not lose sight of the null hypothesis, in his

 eagerness to reach a conclusion.

 And further . . . even if the Princess had in some way contrived both the rumor

 of thesuccubusand the death of Private Koenig—who was the witch inSiggy’s

 room? Had someone truly tried to abduct the child? Private Koenig was already

 dead; clearly he could have had nothing to do with it.

 He ran a hand through his hair, rubbing his scalp slowly to assist thought.

 Loyalties. Who was most loyal to the Princess? Her butler? Stephan?

 He grimaced, but examined the thought carefully. No. There were no circumstances

 conceivable under which Stephan would have conspired in the murder of one of his

 own men. Grey might be in doubt of many things concerning the Landgrave von

 Erdberg, but not his honor.

 This led back to the Princess’s behavior toward himself. Did she act from

 attraction? Grey was modest about his own endowments, but also honest enough to

 admit that he possessed some, and that his person was reasonably attractive to

 women.

 He thought it more likely, if the Princess had indeed conspired in Koenig’s

 removal, that her actions toward himself were intended as distraction. Though

 therewasyet another explanation.

 One of the minor corollaries toOccam’s razor that he had himself derived

 suggested that quite often, the observed result of an action really was the

 intended end of that action. The end result of that encounter in the hallway was

 that Stephan von Namtzen had discovered him in embrace with the Princess, and

 been noticeably annoyed by said discovery.

 Had Louisa’s motive been the very simple one of making von Namtzen jealous?

 And ifStephanwere jealous . . . of whom?

 The room had grown intolerably stuffy, and he rose, restless, and went to the

 window, unlatching the shutters. The moon was full, a great, fecund yellow orb

 that hung low above the darkened fields, and cast its light over the slated

 roofs of Gundwitz and the paler sea of canvas tents that lay beyond.

 DidRuysdale’s troops sleep soundly tonight, exhausted from their healthful

 exercise? He felt as though he would profit from such exercise himself. He

 braced himself in the window frame and pushed, feeling the muscles pop in his

 arms, envisioning escape into that freshening night, running naked and silent as

 a wolf, soft earth cool, yielding to his feet.

 Cold air rushed past his body, raising the coarse hairs on his skin, but his

 core felt molten. Between the heat of fire and brandy, the nightshirt’s original

 grateful warmth had become oppressive; sweat bloomed upon his body, and the

 woolen cloth hung limp upon him.

 Suddenly impatient, he stripped it off and stood in the open window, fierce and

 restless, the cold air caressing his nakedness.

 There was a whir and rustle in the ivy nearby, and then something—several

 somethings—passed in absolute silence so close and so swiftly by his face that

 he had not even time to start backward, though his heart leapt to his throat,

 strangling his involuntary cry.

 Bats. The creatures had disappeared in an instant, long before his startled mind

 had collected itself sufficiently to put a name to them.

 He leaned out, searching, but the bats had disappeared at once into the dark,

 swift about their hunting. It was no wonder that legends of succubae abounded, in

 a place so bat-haunted. The behavior of the creatures indeed seemed

 supernatural.

 The bounds of the small chamber seemed at once intolerably confining. He could

 imagine himself some demon of the air, taking wing to haunt the dreams of a man,

 seize upon a sleeping body, and ride it—could he fly as far as England? he

 wondered. Was the night long enough?

 The trees at the edge of the garden tossed uneasily, stirred by the wind. The

 night itself seemed tormented by an autumn restlessness, the sense of things

 moving, changing, fermenting.

 His blood was still hot, having now reached a sort of full, rolling boil, but

 there was no outlet for it. He did not know whether Stephan’s anger was on his

 own behalf—or Louisa’s. In neither case, though, could he make any open

 demonstration of feeling toward von Namtzen, now; it was too dangerous. He was

 unsure of the German attitude toward sodomites, but felt it unlikely to be more

 forgiving than the English stance. Whether stolid Protestant morality, or a

 wilder Catholic mysticism—he cast a brief look at the reliquary—neither was

 likely to have sympathy with his own predilections.

 The mere contemplation of revelation, and the loss of its possibility, though,

 had shown him something important.

 Stephan von Namtzen both attracted and aroused him, but it was not because of

 his own undoubted physical qualities. It was, rather, the degree to which those

 qualities reminded Grey of James Fraser.

 Von Namtzen was nearly the same height as Fraser, a powerful man with broad

 shoulders, long legs, and an instantly commanding presence. However, Stephan was

 heavier, more crudely constructed, and less graceful than the Scot. And while

 Stephan warmed Grey’s blood, the fact remained that the German did not burn his

 heart like living flame.

 He lay down finally upon his bed, and put out the candle. Lay watching the play

 of firelight on the walls, seeing not the flicker of wood-flame, but the play of

 sun upon red hair, the sheen of sweat on a pale bronzed body . . .

 A brief and brutal dose of Mr. Keegan’s remedy left him drained, if not yet

 peaceful. He lay staring upward into the shadows of the carved wooden ceiling,

 able at least to think once more.

 The only conclusion of which he was sure was that he needed very much to talk to

 someone who had seen Koenig’s body.

 CHAPTER 6

 HOCUS-POCUS

 Finding Private Koenig’s last place of residence was simple. Thoroughly

 accustomed to having soldiers quartered upon them, Prussians sensibly built

 their houses with a separate chamber intended for the purpose. Indeed, the

 populace viewed such quartering not as an imposition, but as a windfall, since

 the soldiers not only paid for board and lodging, and would often do chores such

 as fetching wood and water—but were also better protection against thieves than

 a large watchdog might be, without the expense.

 Stephan’s records were of course impeccable; he could lay hands on any one of

 his men at a moment’s notice. And while he received Grey with extreme coldness,

 he granted the request without question, directing Grey to a house toward the

 western side of the town.

 In fact, von Namtzen hesitated for a moment, clearly wondering whether duty

 obliged him to accompany Grey upon his errand, but Lance-Corporal Helwig

 appeared with a new difficulty—he averaged three per day—and Grey was left to

 carry out the errand on his own.

 The house where Koenig had lodged was nothing out of the ordinary, so far as

 Grey could see. The owner of the house was rather remarkable, though, being a

 dwarf.

 “Oh, the poor man! So much blood you have before not seen!”

 HerrHuckel stood perhaps as high as Grey’s waist—a novel sensation, to look

 down so far to an adult conversant. HerrHuckel was nonetheless intelligent and

 coherent, which was also novel in Grey’s experience; most witnesses to violence

 tended to lose what wits they had and either to forget all details, or to

 imagine impossible ones.

 HerrHuckel , though, showed him willingly to the chamber where the death had

 occurred, and explained what he had himself seen.

 “It was late, you see, sir, and my wife and I had gone to our beds. The soldiers

 were out—or at least we supposed so.” The soldiers had just received their pay,

 and most were busy losing it in taverns or brothels. TheHuckels had heard no

 noises from the soldiers’ room, and thus assumed that all four of the soldiers

 quartered with them were absent on such business.

 Somewhere in the small hours, though, the good-folk had been awakened by

 terrible yells coming from the chamber. These were produced not by Private

 Koenig, but by one of his companions, who had returned in a state of advanced

 intoxication and stumbled into the blood-soaked shambles.

 “He lay here, sir. Just so?” HerrHuckel waved his hands to indicate the

 position the body had occupied at the far side of the cozy room. There was

 nothing there now, save irregular dark blotches that stained the wooden floor.

 “Not even lye would get it out,” said FrauHuckel , who had come to the door of

 the room to watch. “And we had to burn the bedding.”

 Rather to Grey’s surprise, she was not only of normal size, but quite pretty,

 with bright, soft hair peeking out from under her cap. She frowned at him in

 accusation.

 “None of the soldiers will stay here, now. They thinktheNachtmahr will get

 them, too!” Clearly, this was Grey’s fault. He bowed apologetically.

 “I regret that, madam,” he said. “Tell me, did you see the body?”

 “No,” she said promptly, “but I saw the night-hag.”

 “Indeed,” Grey said, surprised. “Er . . . what did it—she—it look like?” He

 hoped he was not going to receive some form ofSiggy’s logical but unhelpful

 description,“Likea night-hag.”

 “Now,Margarethe ,” said HerrHuckel , putting a warning hand up to his wife’s

 arm. “It might not have been—”

 “Yes, it was!” She transferred the frown to her husband, but did not shake off

 his hand, instead putting her own over it before returning her attention to

 Grey.

 “It was an old woman, sir, with her white hair in braids. Her shawl slipped off

 in the wind, and I saw. There are two old women who live nearby, this is

 true—but one walks only with a stick, and the other does not walk at all. This .

 . . thing, she moved very quickly, hunched a little, but light on her feet.”

 HerrHuckel was looking more and more uneasy as this description progressed, and

 opened his mouth to interrupt, but was not given the chance.

 “I am sure it was oldAgathe !” FrauHuckel said, her voice dropping to a

 portentous whisper. HerrHuckel shut his eyes with a grimace.

 “OldAgathe ?” Grey asked, incredulous. “Do you mean Frau Blomberg—the

 Buergermeister’s mother?”

 FrauHuckel nodded, face fixed in grave certainty.

 “Something must be done,” she declared. “Everyone is afraid at night—either to

 go out, or to stay in. Men whose wives will not watch over them as they sleep

 are falling asleep as they work, as they eat . . .”

 Grey thought briefly of mentioning Mr. Keegan’s patent preventative, but

 dismissed the notion, instead turning to HerrHuckel to inquire for a close

 description of the state of the body.

 “I am told that the throat was pierced, as with an animal’s teeth,” he said, at

 which HerrHuckel made a quick sign against evil and nodded, going a little

 pale. “Was the throat torn quite open—as though the man were attacked by a wolf?

 Or—” But HerrHuckel was already shaking his head.

 “No, no! Only two marks—two holes. Like a snake’s fangs.” He poked two fingers

 into his own neck in illustration. “But so much blood!” He shuddered, glancing

 away from the marks on the floorboards.

 Grey had once seen a man bitten by a snake, when he was quite young—but there

 had been no blood, that he recalled. Of course, the man had been bitten in the

 leg.

 “Large holes, then?” Grey persisted, not liking to press the man to recall

 vividly unpleasant details, but determined to obtain as much information as

 possible.

 With some effort, he established that the tooth marks had been sizable—perhaps a

 bit more than a quarter inch or so in diameter—and located on the front of

 Koenig’s throat, about halfway up. He madeHuckel show him, repeatedly, after

 ascertaining that the body had shown no other wound, when undressed for

 cleansing and burial.

 He glanced at the walls of the room, which had been freshly whitewashed.

 Nonetheless, there was a large dark blotch showing faintly, down near the

 floor—probably where Koenig had rolled against the wall in his death throes.

 He had hoped that a description of Koenig’s body would enable him to discover

 some connection between the two deaths—but the only similarity between the

 deaths of Koenig and Bodger appeared to be that both men were indeed dead, and

 both dead under impossible circumstances.

 He thanked theHuckels and prepared to take his leave, only then realizing that

 FrauHuckel had resumed her train of thought and was speaking to him quite

 earnestly.

 “. . . call a witch to cast the runes,” she said.

 “I beg your pardon, madam?”

 She drew in a breath of deep exasperation, but refrained from open rebuke.

 “Herr Blomberg,” she repeated, giving Grey a hard look. “He will call a witch to

 cast the runes. Then we will discover the truth of everything!”

 “He willdowhat ?” Sir Peter squinted at Grey in disbelief. “Witches?”

 “Only one, I believe, sir,” Grey assured Sir Peter. According to FrauHuckel ,

 matters had been escalating in Gundwitz. The rumor that Herr Blomberg’s dead

 mother was custodian to the succubus was rampant in the town, and public opinion

 was in danger of overwhelming the little Buergermeister.

 Herr Blomberg, however, was a stubborn man, and most devoted to his mother’s

 memory. He refused entirely to allow her coffin to be dug up and her body

 desecrated.

 The only solution, which Herr Blomberg had contrived out of desperation, seemed

 to be to discover the true identity and hiding place of the succubus. To this

 end, the Buergermeister had summoned a witch, who would cast runes—

 “What are those?” Sir Peter asked, puzzled.

 “I am not entirely sure, sir,” Grey admitted. “Some object for divination, I

 suppose.”

 “Really?” Sir Peter rubbed his knuckles dubiously beneath a long, thin nose.

 “Sounds very fishy, what? This witch could say anything, couldn’t she?”

 “I suppose Herr Blomberg expects that if he is paying for the . . . er . . .

 ceremony, the lady is perhaps more likely to say something favorable to his

 situation,” Grey suggested.

 “Hmmm. Still don’t like it,” Sir Peter said. “Don’t like it at all. Could be

 trouble, Grey, surely you see that?”

 “I do not believe you can stop him, sir.”

 “Perhaps not, perhaps not.” Sir Peter ruminated fiercely, brow crinkled under

 his wig. “Ah! Well, how’s this, then—you go round and fix it up, Grey. Tell Herr

 Blomberg he can have his hocus-pocus, but he must do it here, at theSchloss .

 That way we can keep a lid on it, what, see there’s no untoward excitement?”

 “Yes, sir,” Grey said, manfully suppressing a sigh, and went off to execute his

 orders.

 By the time he reached his room to change for dinner, Grey felt dirty,

 irritable, and thoroughly out of sorts. It had taken most of the afternoon to

 track down Herr Blomberg and convince him to hold his . . . Christ, what was it?

 His rune-casting? . . . at theSchloss . Then he had run across the pest Helwig,

 and before he was able to escape had been embroiled in an enormous controversy

 with a gang of mule drovers who claimed not to have been paid by the army.

 This in turn had entailed a visit to two army camps, an inspection of

 thirty-four mules, trying interviews with both Sir Peter’s paymaster and von

 Namtzen’s—and involved a further cold interview with Stephan, who had behaved as

 though Grey was personally responsible for the entire affair, then turned his

 back, dismissing Grey inmidsentence , as though unable to bear the sight of him.

 He flung off his coat, sent Tom to fetch hot water, and irritably tugged off his

 stock, wishing he could hit someone.

 A knock sounded on the door, and he froze, irritation vanishing upon the moment.

 What to do? Pretend he wasn’t in, was the obvious course, in case it was Louisa,

 in her sheer lawn shift or something worse. But if it were Stephan, come either

 to apologize or to demand further explanation?

 The knock sounded again. It was a good, solid knock. Not what one would expect

 of a female—particularly not of a female intent on dalliance. Surely the

 Princess would be more inclined to a discreet scratching?

 The knock came again, peremptory, demanding. Taking an enormous breath and

 trying to still the thumping of his heart, Grey jerked the door open.

 “I wish to speak to you,” said the Dowager, and sailed into the room, not

 waiting for invitation.

 “Oh,” said Grey, having lost all grasp of German on the spot. He closed the door

 and turned to the old lady, instinctivelyrebuttoning his shirt.

 She ignored his mute gesture toward the chair, but stood in front of the fire,

 fixing him with a steely gaze. She was completely dressed, he saw, with a faint

 sense of relief. He really could not have borne the sight of theDowageren

 déshabille.

 “I have come to ask you,” she said without preamble, “if you have intentions to

 marry Louisa.”

 “I have not,” he said, his German returning with miraculouspromptitude.“Nein .”

 One sketchy gray brow twitched upward.

 “Ja?Thatis not what she thinks.”

 He rubbed a hand over his face, groping for some diplomatic reply—and found it,

 in the feel of the stubble on his own jaw.

 “I admire Princess Louisa greatly,” he said. “There are few women who are her

 equal—” And thank God for that, he added to himself. “—but I regret that I am

 not free to undertake any obligation. I have . . . an understanding. In

 England.” His understanding with James Fraser was that if he were ever to lay a

 hand on the man or speak his heart, Fraser would break his neck instantly. It

 was, however, certainly an understanding, and clear as Irish crystal.

 The Dowager looked at him with a narrow gaze of suchpenetrance that he wanted

 to take several steps backward. He stood his ground, though, returning the look

 with one of patient sincerity.

 “Hmph!” she said at last. “Well, then. That is good.” Without another word, she

 turned on her heel. Before she could close the door behind her, he reached out

 and grasped her arm.

 She swung around to him, surprised and outraged at his presumption. He ignored

 this, though, absorbed in what he had seen as she turned.

 “Pardon, Your Highness,” he said. He touched the medal pinned to the bodice of

 her gown. He had seen it a hundred times, and assumed it always to contain the

 image of some saint—which, he supposed, it did, but certainly not in the

 traditional manner.

 “SaintOrgevald ?” he inquired. The image was crudely embossed, and could easily

 be taken for something else—if one hadn’t seen the larger version on the lid of

 the reliquary.

 “Certainly.” The old lady fixed him with a glittering eye, shook her head, and

 went out, closing the door firmly behind her.

 For the first time, it occurred to Grey that whoeverOrgevald had been, it was

 entirely possible that he had not originally been a saint. Pondering this, he

 went to bed, scratching absentmindedly at a cluster of fleabites obtained from

 the mules.

 CHAPTER 7

 AMBUSH

 The next day dawned cold and windy. Grey saw pheasants huddling under the cover

 of shrubs as he rode, crows hugging the ground in thestubbled fields, and slate

 roofs thick with shuffling doves, feathered bodies packed together in the quest

 for heat. Despite their reputed brainlessness, he had to think that the birds

 were more sensible than he.

 Birds had no duty—but it wasn’t quite duty that propelled him on this ragged,

 chilly morning. It was in part simple curiosity, in part official suspicion. He

 wished to find the gypsies; in particular, he wished tofindone gypsy: the woman

 who had quarreled with Private Bodger, soon before his death.

 If he were quite honest—and he felt that he could afford to be, so long as it

 was within the privacy of his own mind—he had another motive for the journey. It

 would be entirely natural for him to pause at the bridge for a cordial word with

 the artillerymen, and perhaps see for himself how the boy with the red lips was

 faring.

 While all these motives were undoubtedly sound, though, the real reason for his

 expedition was simply that it would remove him from theSchloss . He did not feel

 safe in a house containing the Princess Louisa, let alone her mother-in-law.

 Neither could he go to his usual office in the town, for fear of encountering

 Stephan.

 The whole situation struck him as farcical in the extreme; still, he could not

 keep himself from thinking about it—about Stephan.

 Had he been deluding himself about Stephan’s attraction to him? He was as vain

 as any man, he supposed, and yet he could swear . . . his thoughts went around

 and around in the same weary circle. And yet, each time he thought to dismiss

 them entirely, he felt again the overwhelming sense of warmth and casual

 possession with which Stephan had kissed him. He had not imagined it. And yet .

 . .

 Embrangled in this tedious but inescapable coil, he reached the bridge by

 midmorning, only to find that the young soldier was not in camp.

 “Franz? Gone foraging, maybe,” said the Hanoverian Lieutenant, with a shrug. “Or

 got homesick and run. They do that, the young ones.”

 “Got scared,” one of the other men suggested, overhearing.

 “Scared of what?” Grey asked sharply, wondering whether, despite everything,

 word of the succubus had reached the bridge.

 “Scared of his shadow, that one,” said the man he recalled as Samson, making a

 face. “He keeps talking about the child, he hears a crying child at night.”

 “Thought you heard it, too, eh?” said the Hanoverian, not sounding entirely

 friendly. “The night it rained so hard?”

 “Me? I didn’t hear anything then but Franz’s squealing.” There was a rumble of

 laughter at that, the sound of which made Grey’s heart drop to hisboots.Too

 late, he thought. “At the lightning,” Samson added blandly, catching his glance.

 “He’s run for home,” the Lieutenant declared. “Let him go; no use here for a

 coward.”

 There was a small sense of disquiet in the man’s manner that belied his

 confidence, Grey thought—and yet there was nothing to be done about it. He had

 no direct authority over these men, could not order a search to be undertaken.

 As he crossed the bridge, though, he could not help but glance over. The water

 had subsided only a little; the flood still tumbled past, choked with torn

 leaves and half-seen sodden objects. He did not want to stop, to be caught

 looking, and yet looked as carefully as he could, half expecting to see little

 Franz’s delicate body broken on the rocks, or the blind eyes of a drowned face

 trapped beneath the water.

 He saw nothing but the usual flood debris, though, and with a slight sense of

 relief he continued on toward the hills.

 He knew nothing save the direction the gypsy wagons had been going when last

 observed. It was long odds that he would find them, but he searched doggedly,

 pausing at intervals to scan the countryside with his spyglass, or to look for

 rising plumes of smoke.

 These last occurred sporadically, but proved invariably to be peasant huts or

 charcoal burners. The peasants either disappeared promptly when they saw his red

 coat, or stared and crossed themselves, but none of them admitted to having

 heard of the gypsies, let alone seen them.

 The sun was coming down the sky, and he realized that he must turn back soon or

 be caught in open country by night. He had a tinderbox and a bottle of ale in

 his saddlebag, but no food, and the prospect of being marooned in this fashion

 was unwelcome, particularly with the French forces only a few miles to the west.

 If the British army had scouts, so did the frogs, and he was lightly armed, with

 no more than a pair of pistols, a rather dented cavalry saber, and his dagger to

 hand.

 Not wishing to risk Karolus on the boggy ground, he was riding another of his

 horses, a thickset bay who went by the rather unflattering name of Hognose, but

 who had excellent manners and a steady foot. Steady enough that Grey could

 ignore the ground, trying to focus his attention, strained from prolonged

 tension, into a last look around. The foliage of the hills around him faded into

 patchwork, shifting constantly in the roiling wind. Again and again, he thought

 he saw things—human figures, animals moving, the briefly seen corner of a

 wagon—only to have them prove illusory when he ventured toward them.

 The wind whined incessantly in his ears, adding spectral voices to the illusions

 that plagued him. He rubbed a hand over his face, gone numb from the cold,

 imagining momentarily that he heard the wails of Franz’s ghostly child. He shook

 his head to dispel the impression—but it persisted.

 He drew Hognose to a stop, turning his head from side to side, listening

 intently. He was sure he heard it—but what was it? No words were distinguishable

 above the moaning of the wind, buttherewas a sound, he was sure of it.

 At the same time, it seemed to come from nowhere in particular; try as he might,

 he could not locate it. The horse heard it, too, though—he saw the bay’s ears

 prick and turn nervously.

 “Where?” he said softly, laying the rein on the horse’s neck. “Where is it? Can

 you find it?”

 The horse apparently had little interest in finding the noise, but some in

 getting away from it; Hognose backed, shuffling on the sandy ground, kicking up

 sheaves of wet yellow leaves. Grey drew him up sharply, swung down, and wrapped

 the reins around a bare-branched sapling.

 With the horse’s revulsion as guide, he saw what he had overlooked: the churned

 earth of a badger’ssett , half hidden by the sprawling roots of a large elm.

 Once focused on this, he could pinpoint the noise as coming from it. And damned

 if he’d ever heard a badger carry on like that!

 Pistol drawn and primed, he edged toward the bank of earth, keeping a wary eye

 on the nearby trees.

 It was certainly crying, but not a child; a sort of muffled whimpering,

 interspersed with the kind of catch in the breath that injured men often made.

 “Weristda?”hedemanded, halting just short of the opening to thesett , pistol

 raised. “You are injured?”

 There was a gulp of surprise, followed at once by scrabbling sounds.

 “Major? Major Grey? It is you?”

 “Franz?” he said, flabbergasted.

 “Ja,Major! Help me, help me, please!”

 Uncockingthe pistol and thrusting it back in his belt, he knelt and peered into

 the hole. Badgersetts are normally deep, running straight down for six feet or

 more before turning, twisting sideways into the badger’s den. This one was no

 exception; the grimy, tear-streaked face of the young Prussian soldier stared up

 at him, his head a good foot below the rim of the narrow hole.

 The boy had broken his leg in falling, and it was no easy matter to lift him

 straight up. Grey managed it at last by improvising a sling of his own shirt and

 the boy’s, tied to a rope anchored toHognose’s saddle.

 At last he had the boy laid on the ground, covered with his coat and taking

 small sips from the bottle of ale.

 “Major—” Franz coughed and spluttered, trying to rise on one elbow.

 “Hush, don’t try to talk.” Grey patted his arm soothingly, wondering how best to

 get him back to the bridge. “Everything will be—”

 “But Major—the redcoats!Die Englander! ”

 “What? What are you talking about?”

 “Dead Englishmen! It was the little boy, I heard him, and I dug, and—” The boy’s

 story was spilling out in a torrent of Prussian, and it took no little time for

 Grey to slow him down sufficiently to disentangle the threads of what he was

 saying.

 He had, Grey understood him to say, repeatedly heard the crying near the bridge,

 but his fellows either didn’t hear or wouldn’t admit to it, instead teasing him

 mercilessly about it. At last he determined to go by himself and see if he could

 find a source for the sound—perhaps wind moaning through a hole, as his friend

 Samson had suggested.

 “But it wasn’t.” Franz was still pale, but small patches of hectic color glowed

 in the translucent skin of his cheeks. He had poked about the base of the

 bridge, discovering eventually a small crack in the rocks at the foot of a

 pillar on the far side of the river. Thinking that this might indeed be the

 source of the crying, he had inserted his bayonet and pried at the rock—which

 had promptly come away, leaving him face to face with a cavity inside the

 pillar, containing a small, round, very white skull.

 “More bones, too, I think. I didn’t stop to look.” The boy swallowed. He had

 simply run, too panicked to think. When he stopped at last, completely out of

 breath and with legs like jelly, he had sat down to rest and think what to do.

 “They couldn’t beat me more than once for being gone,” he said, with the ghost

 of a smile. “So I thought I would be gone a little longer.”

 This decision was enhanced by the discovery of a grove of walnut trees, and

 Franz had made his way up into the hills, gathering both nuts and wild

 blackberries—his lips were still stained purple with the juice, Grey saw.

 He had been interrupted in this peaceful pursuit by the sound of gunfire.

 Throwing himself flat on the ground, he had then crept a little forward, until

 he could see over the edge of a little rocky escarpment. Below, in a hollow, he

 saw a small group of English soldiers, engaged in mortal combat with Austrians.

 “Austrians? You are sure?” Grey asked, astonished.

 “I know what Austrians look like,” the boy assured him, a little tartly. Knowing

 what Austrians were capable of, too, he had promptly backed up, risen to his

 feet, and run as fast as he could in the opposite direction—only to fall into

 the badger’ssett in his haste.

 “You were lucky the badger wasn’t at home,” Grey remarked, teeth beginning to

 chatter. He had reclaimed the remnants of his shirt, but this was insufficient

 shelter against dropping temperature and probing wind. “But you said dead

 Englishmen.”

 “I think they were all dead,” the boy said. “I didn’t go see.”

 Grey, however, must. Leaving the boy covered with his coat and a mound of dead

 leaves, he untied the horse and turned his head in the direction Franz had

 indicated.

 Proceeding with care and caution in case of lurking Austrians, it was nearly

 sunset before he found the hollow.

 It wasDundas and his survey party; he recognized the uniforms at once. Cursing

 under his breath, he flung himself off his horse and scrabbled hurriedly from

 one body to the next, hoping against hope as he pressed shaking fingers against

 flaccid cheeks and cooling breasts.

 Two were still alive:Dundas and a Corporal. The Corporal was badly wounded and

 unconscious;Dundas had taken a gun butt to the head and a bayonet through the

 chest, but the wound had fortunately sealed itself. The Lieutenant was disabled

 and in pain, but not yet on the verge of death.

 “Hundreds of the buggers,” he croaked breathlessly, gripping Grey’s arm. “Saw .

 . . whole battalion . . . guns. Going to . . . the French.Fanshawe —followed

 them. Spying. Heard. Fuckingsucc —succ—” He coughed hard, spraying a little

 blood with the saliva, but it seemed to ease his breath temporarily.

 “It was a plan. Got whores—agents. Slept with men, gave them o-opium. Dreams.

 Panic, aye?” He was half sitting up, straining to make words, make Grey

 understand.

 Grey understood, only too well. He had been given opium once, by a doctor, and

 remembered vividly the weirdly erotic dreams that had ensued. Do the same to men

 who had likely never heard of opium, let alone experienced it—and at the same

 time, start rumors of ademoness who preyed upon men in their dreams?

 Particularly with a flesh-and-blood avatar, who could leave such marks as would

 convince a man he had been so victimized?

 Only too effective, and one of the cleverest notions he had ever come across for

 demoralizing an enemy before attack. It was that alone that gave him some hope,

 as he comfortedDundas , piling him with coats taken from the dead, dragging the

 Corporal to lie near the Lieutenant for the sake of shared warmth, digging

 through a discarded rucksack for water to give him.

 If the combined forces of French and Austrians were huge, there would be no need

 for such subtleties—the enemy would simply roll over the English and their

 German allies. But if the numbers were closer to equal—and it was still

 necessary to funnel them across that narrow bridge—then yes, it was desirable to

 face an enemy who had not slept for several nights, whose men were tired and

 jumpy, whose officers were not paying attention to possible threat, being too

 occupied with the difficulties close at hand.

 He could see it clearly: Ruysdale was busy watching the French, who were sitting

 happily on the cliffs, moving just enough to keep attention diverted from the

 Austrian advance. The Austrians would come down on the bridge—likely at

 night—and then the French on their heels.

 Dundaswas shivering, eyes closed, teeth set hard in his lower lip against the

 pain of the movement.

 “Christopher, can you hear me? Christopher!” Grey shook him, as gently as

 possible. “Where’sFanshawe ?” He didn’t know the members ofDundas’s party; if

 Fanshawehad been taken captive, or—butDundas was shaking his head, gesturing

 feebly toward one of the corpses, lying with his head smashed open.

 “Go on,”Dundas whispered. His face was gray, and not only from the waning

 light. “Warn Sir Peter.” He put a trembling arm about the unconscious Corporal,

 and nodded to Grey. “We’ll . . . wait.”

 CHAPTER 8

 THEWITCH

 Grey had been staring with great absorption at his valet’s face for some

 moments, before he realized even what he was looking at, let alone why.

 “Uh?” he said.

 “Isaid,” Tom repeated, with some emphasis, “you best drink this, me lord, or

 you’re going to fall flat on your face, and that won’t do, will it?”

 “It won’t? Oh. No. Of course not.” He took the cup, adding a belated, “Thank

 you, Tom. What is it?”

 “I told you twice, I’m not going to try and say the name of it again.Ilse says

 it’ll keep you on your feet, though.” He leaned forward and sniffed approvingly

 at the liquid, which appeared to be brown and foamy, indicating the presence in

 it of eggs, Grey thought.

 He followed Tom’s lead and sniffed, too, recoiling only slightly at the

 eye-watering reek.Hartshorn , perhaps? It had quite a lot of brandy, no matter

 what else was in it. And he did need to stay on his feet. With no more than a

 precautionary clenching of his belly muscles, he put back his head and drained

 it.

 He had been awake for nearly forty-eight hours, and the world around him had a

 tendency to pass in and out of focus, like the scene in a spyglass. He had also

 a proclivity to go intermittently deaf, not hearing what was said to him—and Tom

 was correct, that wouldn’t do.

 He had taken time, the night before, to fetch Franz, put him on the horse—with a

 certain amount of squealing, it must be admitted, as Franz had never been on a

 horse before—and take him to the spot whereDundas lay, feeling that they would

 be better together. He had pressed his dagger into Franz’s hands, and left him

 guarding the Corporal and the Lieutenant, who was by then, passing in and out of

 consciousness.

 Grey had then donned his coat and come back to raise the alarm, riding a

 flagging horse at the gallop over pitch-black ground, by the light of a sinking

 moon. He’d fallen twice, when Hognose stumbled, jarring bones and jellying

 kidneys, but luckily escaped injury both times.

 He had alerted the artillery crew at the bridge, ridden on toRuysdale’s

 encampment, roused everyone, seen the Colonel despite all attempts to prevent

 him waking the man, gathered a rescue party, and ridden back to retrieveDundas

 and the others, arriving in the hollow near dawn to find the Corporal dead and

 Dundasnearly so, with his head in Franz’s lap.

 CaptainHiltern had of course sent someone with word to Sir Peter at the

 Schloss, but it was necessary for Grey to report personally to Sir Peter and von

 Namtzen, when he returned at midday with the rescue party. After which, officers

 and men had flapped out of the place like a swarm of bats, the whole military

 apparatus moving like the armature of some great engine, creaking, groaning, but

 coming to life with amazing speed.

 Which left Grey alone in theSchloss at sunset, blank in mind and body, with

 nothing further to do. There was no need for liaison; couriers were flitting to

 and from all the regiments, carrying orders. He had no duty to perform; no one

 to command, no one to serve.

 He would ride out in the morning with Sir Peter Hicks, part of Sir Peter’s

 personal guard. But there was no need for him now; everyone was about his own

 business; Grey was forgotten.

 He felt odd; not unwell, but as though objects and people near him were not

 quite real, not entirely firm to the touch. He should sleep, he knew—but could

 not, not with the whole world in flux around him, and a sense of urgency that

 hummed on his skin, yet was unable to penetrate to the core of his mind.

 Tom was talking to him; he made an effort to attend.

 “Witch,” he repeated, awareness struggling to make itself known. “Witch. You

 mean Herr Blomberg still intends to hold his—ceremony?”

 “Yes, me lord.” Tom was sponging Grey’s coat, frowning as he tried to remove a

 pitch stain from the skirt. “Ilsesays he won’t rest until he’s cleared his

 mother’s name, and damned if the Austrians will stop him.”

 Awareness burst through Grey’s fog like a pricked soap bubble.

 “Christ! He doesn’t know!”

 “About what, me lord?” Tom turned to look at him curiously, sponging cloth and

 vinegar in hand.

 “The succubus. I must tell him—explain.” Even as he said it, though, he realized

 how little force such an explanation would have upon Herr Blomberg’s real

 problem. Sir Peter and Colonel Ruysdale might accept the truth—the townspeople

 would be much less likely to accept having been fooled—and by Austrians!

 Grey knew enough about gossip and rumor to realize that no amount of explanation

 from him would be enough. Still less if that explanation were to be filtered

 through Herr Blomberg, whose bias in the matter was clear.

 Even Tom was frowning doubtfully at him as he rapidly explained the

 matter.Superstitionand sensation are always so much more appealing than truth

 and rationality. The words echoed as though spoken in his ear, with the same

 humorously rueful intonation with which his father had spoken them, many years

 before.

 He rubbed a hand vigorously over his face, feeling himself come back to life.

 Perhaps he had one more task to complete, in his role as liaison.

 “This witch, Tom—the woman who is to cast the runes—whatever in God’s name that

 might involve. Do you know where she is?”

 “Oh, yes, me lord.” Tom had put down his cloth now, interested. “She’s here—in

 theSchloss , I mean. Locked up in the larder.”

 “Locked up in the larder? Why?”

 “Well, it has a good lock on the door, me lord, to keep the servants from—oh,

 you mean why’s she locked up at all?Ilse says she didn’t want to come; dug in

 her heels entire, and wouldn’t hear of it. But Herr Blomberg wouldn’t hear of

 hernot, and had her dragged up here, and locked up ’til this evening. He’s

 fetching up the Town Council, and the Magistrate, and all the bigwigs he can lay

 hands on,Ilse says.”

 “Take me to her.”

 Tom’s mouth dropped open. He closed it with a snap and looked Grey up and down.

 “Notlikethat . You’re not even shaved!”

 “Precisely like this,” Grey assured him, tucking in the tails of his shirt.

 “Now.”

 The game larder was locked, but, as Grey had surmised,Ilse knew where the key

 was kept and was not proof against Tom’s charm. The room itself was in an alcove

 behind the kitchens, and it was a simple matter to reach it without detection.

 “You need not come farther, Tom,” Grey said, low-voiced. “Give me the keys; if

 anyone finds me here, I’ll say I took them.”

 Tom, who had taken the precaution of arming himself with a toasting fork, merely

 clutched the keys tighter in his other hand, and shook his head.

 The door swung open silently on leather hinges. Someone had given the captive

 woman a candle; it lit the small space and cast fantastic shadows on the walls,

 from the hanging bodies of swans and pheasants, ducks and geese.

 The drink had restored a sense of energy to Grey’s mind and body, but without

 quite removing the sense of unreality that had pervaded his consciousness. It

 was therefore with no real surprise that he saw the woman who turned toward him,

 and recognized the gypsy prostitute who had quarreled with Private Bodger a few

 hours before the soldier’s death.

 She obviously recognized him, too, though she said nothing. Her eyes passed over

 him with cool scorn, and she turned away, evidently engrossed in some silent

 communion with a severed hog’s head that sat upon a china plate.

 “Madam,” he said softly, as though his voice might rouse the dead fowl to sudden

 flight. “I would speak with you.”

 She ignored him, and folded her hands elaborately. The light winked gold from

 the rings in her ears and the rings on her fingers—and Grey saw that one was a

 crude circlet, with the emblem of SaintOrgevald’s protection.

 He was overcome with a sudden sense of premonition, though he did not believe in

 premonition. He felt things in motion around him, things that he did not

 understand and could not control, things settling of themselves into an ordained

 and appointed position, like the revolving spheres of his father’sorrery —and he

 wished to protest this state of affairs, but could not.

 “Me lord.” Tom’s hissed whisper shook him out of this momentary disorientation,

 and he glanced at the boy, eyebrows raised. Tom was staring at the woman, who

 was still turned away, but whose face was visible in profile.

 “Hanna,” he said, nodding at the gypsy. “She looks like Hanna,Siggy’s

 nursemaid. You know, me lord, the one what disappeared?”

 The woman had swung round abruptly at mention of Hanna’s name, and stood glaring

 at them both.

 Grey felt the muscles of his back loosen, very slightly, as though some force

 had picked him up and held him by the scruff of the neck. As though he, too,

 were one of the objects being moved, placed in the spot ordained for him.

 “I have a proposition for you, madam,” he said calmly, and pulled a cask of

 salted fish out from beneath a shelf. He sat on it, and, reaching behind him,

 pulled the door closed.

 “I do not wish to hear anything yousay,Schweinehund ,” she said, very coldly.

 “As for you, piglet . . .” Her eyes darkened with no very pleasant light as she

 looked at Tom.

 “You have failed,” Grey went on, ignoring this digression. “And you are in

 considerable danger. The Austrian plan is known; you can hear the soldiers

 preparing for battle, can’t you?” It was true; the sounds of drums and distant

 shouting, the shuffle of many marching feet, were audible even here, though

 muffled by the stone walls of theSchloss .

 He smiled pleasantly at her, and his fingers touched the silvergorget that he

 had seized before leaving his room. It hung about his neck, over his

 half-buttoned shirt, the sign of an officer on duty.

 “I offer you your life, and your freedom. In return . . .” He paused. She said

 nothing, but one straight black brow rose, slowly.

 “I want a bit of justice,” he said. “I want to know how Private Bodger died.

 Bodger,” he repeated, seeing her look of incomprehension, and realizing that she

 had likely never known his name. “The English soldier who said you had cheated

 him.”

 She sniffed contemptuously, but a crease of angry amusement lined the edge of

 her mouth.

 “Him. God killed him. Or the Devil, take your choice. Or, no—” The crease

 deepened, and she thrust out the hand with the ring on it, nearly in his face.

 “I think it was my saint. Do you believe in saints, Pig-soldier?”

 “No,” he said calmly. “What happened?”

 “He saw me, coming out of a tavern, and he followed me. I didn’t know he was

 there; he caught me in an alley, but I pulled away and ran into the churchyard.

 I thought he wouldn’t follow me there, but he did.”

 Bodger had been both angry and aroused, insisting that he would take the

 satisfaction she had earlier denied him. She had kicked and struggled, but he

 was stronger than she.

 “And then—” She shrugged. “Poof. He stops what he is doing, and makes a sound.”

 “What sort of sound?”

 “How should I know? Men make all kinds of sounds. Farting, groaning, belching .

 . .pff .” She bunched her fingers and flicked them sharply, disposing of men and

 all their doings with the gesture.

 At any rate, Bodger had then dropped heavily to his knees, and still clinging to

 her dress, had fallen over. The gypsy had rapidly pried loose his fingers and

 run, thanking the intercession of SaintOrgevald .

 “Hmmm.” A sudden weakness of the heart? An apoplexy? Keegan had said such a

 thing was possible—and there was no evidence to belie the gypsy’s statement.

 “Not like Private Koenig, then,” Grey said, watching carefully.

 Her head jerked up and she stared hard at him, lips tight.

 “Me lord,” said Tom softly behind him. “Hanna’s name is Koenig.”

 “It is not!” the gypsy snapped. “It isMulengro , as is mine!”

 “First things first, if you please, madam,” Grey said, repressing the urge to

 stand up as she leaned glowering over him. “WhereisHanna? And what is she to

 you? Sister, cousin, daughter? . . .”

 “Sister,” she said, biting the word off like a thread. Her lips were tight as a

 seam, but Grey touched hisgorget once again.

 “Life,” he said. “And freedom.” He regarded her steadily, watching indecision

 play upon her features like the wavering shadows on the walls. She had no way of

 knowing how powerless he was; he could neither condemn nor release her—nor would

 anyone else, all being caught up in the oncoming maelstrom of war.

 In the end, he had his way, as he had known he would, and sat listening to her

 in a state that was neither trance nor dream; just a tranquil acceptance as the

 pieces fell before him, one upon one.

 She was one of the women recruited by the Austrians to spread the rumors of the

 succubus—and had much enjoyed the spreading, judging from the way she licked her

 lower lip while telling of it. Her sister Hanna had been married to the soldier

 Koenig, but had rejected him, he being a faithless hound, like all men.

 Bearing in mind the gossip regarding Siegfried’s paternity, Grey nodded

 thoughtfully, motioning to her with one hand to go on.

 She did. Koenig had gone away with the army, but then had come back, and had had

 the audacity to visit theSchloss , trying to rekindle the flame with Hanna.

 Afraid that he might succeed in seducing her sister again—“She is weak, Hanna,”

 she said with a shrug, “shewilltrust men!”—she had gone to visit Koenig at

 night, planning to drug him with wine laced with opium, as she had done with the

 others.

 “Only this time, a fatal dose, I suppose.” Grey had propped his elbow upon his

 crossed knee, hand under his chin. The tiredness had come back; it hovered near

 at hand, but was not yet clouding his mental processes.

 “I meant it so, yes.” She uttered a short laugh. “But he knew the taste of

 opium. He threw it at me, and grabbed me by the throat.”

 Whereupon she had drawn the dagger she always carried at her belt and stabbed at

 him—striking upward into his open mouth, and piercing his brain.

 “You never saw so much blood in all your life,” the gypsy assured Grey,

 unconsciously echoing HerrHuckel .

 “Oh, I rather think I have,” Grey said politely. His hand went to his own

 waist—but of course, he had left his dagger with Franz. “But pray go on. The

 marks, as of an animal’s fangs?”

 “A nail,” she said, and shrugged.

 “So, was it him—Koenig, I mean—was it him tried to snatch littleSiggy ?” Tom,

 deeply absorbed in the revelations, could not keep himself from blurting out the

 question. He coughed and tried to fade back into the woodwork, but Grey

 indicated that this was a question which he himself found of some interest.

 “You did not tell me where your sister is. But I assume that it was you the boy

 saw in hischamber?”“What did she look like?” he hadasked.“Like awitch,”the

 child replied. Did she? She did not look like Grey’s conception of a witch—but

 what was that, save the fabrication of a limited imagination?

 She was tall for a woman, dark, and her face mingled an odd sexuality with a

 strongly forbidding aspect—a combination that many men would find intriguing.

 Grey thought it was not something that would have struckSiggy , but something

 else about her evidently had.

 She nodded. She was fingering her ring, he saw, and watching him with

 calculation, as though deciding whether to tell him a lie.

 “I have seen the Dowager Princess’s medal,” he said politely. “Is she an

 Austrian, by birth? I assume that you and your sister are.”

 The woman stared at him and said something in her own tongue, which sounded

 highly uncomplimentary.

 “And youthinkI am a witch!” she said, evidently translating the thought.

 “No, I don’t,” Grey said. “But others do, and that is what brings us here. If

 you please, madam, let us conclude our business. I expect someone will shortly

 come for you.” TheSchloss was at dinner; Tom had earlier brought Grey a tray,

 which he had been too tired to eat. No doubt the rune-casting would be the

 after-dinner entertainment, and he must make his desires clear before that.

 “Well, then.” The gypsy regarded him, her awe at his perspicacity fading back

 into the usual derision. “It was your fault.”

 “I beg your pardon?”

 “It was Princess Gertrude—the Dowager, so you call her. She saw Louisa—that

 slut—” She spat casually on the floor, almost without pausing, and went on.

 “—making sheep’s eyes at you, and was afraid she meant to marry you. Louisa

 thought she would marry you and go to England, to be safe and rich. But if she

 did, she would take with herher son.”

 “And the Dowager did not wish to be parted from her grandson,” Grey said slowly.

 Whether the gossip was true or not, the old woman loved the boy.

 The gypsy nodded. “So she arranged that we would take the boy—my sister and me.

 He would be safe with us, and after a time, when the Austrians had killed you

 all or driven you away, we would bring him back.”

 Hanna had gone down the ladder first, meaning to comfortSiggy if he woke in the

 rain. ButSiggy had wakened before that, and bollixed the scheme by running

 away. Hanna had no choice but to flee when Grey had tipped the ladder over,

 leaving her sister to hide in theSchloss and make her way out at daybreak, with

 the help of the Dowager.

 “She is with our family,” the gypsy said, with another shrug. “Safe.”

 “The ring,” Grey said, nodding at the gypsy’s circlet. “Do you serve the

 Dowager? Is that what it means?”

 So much confessed, the gypsy evidently felt now at ease. Casually, she pushed a

 platter of dead doves aside and sat down upon the shelf, feet dangling.

 “We are Rom,” she said, drawing herself up proudly. “The Rom serve no one. But

 we have known theTrauchtenbergs —the Dowager’s family—for generations, and there

 is tradition between us. It was her great-great-grandfather who bought the child

 who guards the bridge—and that child was the younger brother of my own

 four-times-great-grandfather. The ring was given to my ancestor then, as a sign

 of the bargain.”

 Grey heard Tom grunt slightly with confusion, but took no heed. The words struck

 him as forcibly as a blow, and he could not speak for a moment. The thing was

 too shocking. He took a deep breath, fighting the vision of Franz’s words—the

 small, round, white skull, looking out at him from the hollow in the bridge.

 Sounds of banging and clashing dishes from the scullery nearby brought him to

 himself, though, and he realized that time was growing short.

 “Very well,” he said, as briskly as he could. “I want one last bit of justice,

 and our bargain is made.Agathe Blomberg.”

 “OldAgathe ?” The gypsy laughed, and, despite her missing tooth, he could see

 how attractive she could be. “How funny! How could they suppose such an old fish

 might be a demon of desire? A hag, yes, but a night-hag?” She went off into

 peals of laughter, and Grey jumped to his feet, seizing her by the shoulder to

 silence her.

 “Be quiet,” he said, “someone will come.”

 She stopped, then, though she still snorted with amusement.

 “So, then?”

 “So, then,” he said firmly. “When you do your hocus-pocus—whatever it is they’ve

 brought you here to do—I wish you particularly to exonerateAgathe Blomberg. I

 don’t care what you say or how you do it—I leave that to your own devices, which

 I expect are considerable.”

 She looked at him for a moment, looked down at his hand upon her shoulder, and

 shrugged it off.

 “That’s all, is it?” she asked sarcastically.

 “That’s all. Then you may go.”

 “Oh, I may go? How kind.” She stood smiling at him, but not in a kindly way. It

 occurred to him quite suddenly that she had required no assurances from him; had

 not asked for so much as his word as a gentleman—though he supposed she would

 not have valued that, in any case.

 She did not care, he realized, with a small shock. She had not told him anything

 for the sake of saving herself—she simply wasn’t afraid. Did she think the

 Dowager would protect her, for the sake either of their ancient bond, or because

 of what she knew about the failed kidnapping?

 Perhaps. Perhaps she had confidence in something else. And if she had, he chose

 not to consider what that might be. He rose from the cask of fish and pushed it

 back under the shelves.

 “AgatheBlomberg was a woman, too,” he said.

 She rose, too, and stood looking at him, rubbing her ring with apparent thought.

 “So she was. Well, perhaps I will do it, then. Why should men dig up her coffin

 and drag her poor old carcass through the streets?”

 He could feel Tom behind him, vibrating with eagerness to be gone; the racket of

 the dinner-clearing was much louder.

 “For you, though—”

 He glanced at her, startled by the tone in her voice, which held something

 different. Neither mockery nor venom, nor any other emotion that he knew.

 Her eyes were huge, gleaming in the candlelight, but so dark that they seemed

 void pools, her face without expression.

 “Let me tell you this. You will never satisfy a woman,” she said softly. “Never.

 Any woman who shares your bed will leave after no more than a single night,

 cursing you.”

 Grey rubbed a knuckle against hisstubbled chin, and nodded.

 “Very likely, madam,” he said. “Good night.”

 EPILOGUE

 AMONG THETRUMPETS

 The order of battle was set. The autumn sun had barely risen, and the troops

 would march within the hour to meet their destiny at the bridge ofAschenwald .

 Grey was in the stable block, checking Karolus’s tack, tightening the girth,

 adjusting the bridle, marking second by second the time until he should depart,

 as though each second marked an irretrievable and most precious drop of his

 life.

 Outside the stables, all was confusion, as people ran hither and thither,

 gathering belongings, searching for children, calling for wives and parents,

 strewing away objects gathered only moments before, heedless in their

 distraction. His heart beat fast in his chest, and intermittent small thrills

 coursed up the backs of his legs and curled between them, tightening his

 scrotum.

 The drums were beating in the distance, ordering the troops. The thrum of them

 beat in his blood, in his bone. Soon, soon, soon. His chest was tight; it was

 difficult to draw full breath.

 He did not hear the footsteps approaching through the straw of the stables.

 Keyed up as he was, though, he felt the disturbance of air nearby, that

 intimation of intrusion that now and then had saved his life, and whirled, hand

 on his dagger.

 It was Stephan von Namtzen, gaudy in full uniform, his great plumed helmet

 underneath one arm—but with a face sober by contrast to his clothing.

 “It is nearly time,” the Hanoverian said quietly. “I would speak with you—if you

 will hear me.”

 Grey slowly let his hand fall away from the dagger, and took the full breath he

 had been longing for.

 “You know that I will.”

 Von Namtzen inclined his head in acknowledgment, but did not speak at once,

 seeming to need to gather his words—although they were speaking German now.

 “I will marry Louisa,” he said, finally, formally. “If I live until Christmas.

 My children—” He hesitated, free hand flat upon the breast of his coat. “It will

 be good they should have a mother once more. And—”

 “You need not give reasons,” Grey interrupted. He smiled at the big German, with

 open affection. Caution was no longer necessary. “If you wish this, then I wish

 you well.”

 Von Namtzen’s face lightened a bit. He ducked his head a little, and took a

 breath.

 “Danke.Isay, I will marry, if I am alive. If I am not . . .” His hand still

 rested on his breast, above the miniature of his children.

 “If I live, and you do not, then I will go to your home,” Grey said. “I will

 tell your son what I have known of you—as a warrior, and as a man. Is this your

 desire?”

 The Hanoverian’s graveness did not alter, but a deep warmth softened his gray

 eyes.

 “It is. You have known me, perhaps, better than anyone.”

 He stood still, looking at Grey, and all at once, the relentless marking of

 fleeting time stopped. Confusion and danger still hastened without, and drums

 beat loud, but inside the stables, there was a great peace.

 Stephan’s hand left his breast, and reached out. Grey took it, and felt love

 flow between them. He thought that heart and body must be entirely melted—if

 only for that moment.

 Then they parted, each drawing back, each seeing the flash of desolation in the

 other’s face, both smiling ruefully to see it.

 Stephan was turning to go, when Grey remembered.

 “Wait!” he called, and turned to fumble in his saddlebag. He found what he was

 looking for, and thrust it into the German’s hands.

 “What is this?” Stephan turned the small, heavy box over, looking puzzled.

 “A charm,” Grey said, smiling. “A blessing. My blessing—and SaintOrgevald’s .

 May it protect you.”

 “But—” Von Namtzen frowned with doubt, and tried to give the reliquary back, but

 Grey would not accept it.

 “Believe me,” he said in English, “it will do you more good than me.”

 Stephan looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded and, tucking the little

 box away in his pocket, turned and left. Grey turned back to Karolus, who was

 growing restive, tossing his head and snorting softly through his nose.

 The horse stamped, hard, and the vibration of it ran through the long bones of

 Grey’s legs. “Hast thou given the horse strength?” he quoted softly, hand

 stroking the braided mane that ran smooth andserpentlike down the great ridge

 of the stallion’s neck. “Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder? Hepaweth in

 the valley, andrejoiceth in his strength: hegoeth on to meet the armed men. He

 mockethat fear, and is not affrighted; neitherturneth he back from the sword.”

 He leaned close and pressed his forehead against the horse’s shoulder. Huge

 muscles bulged beneath the skin, warm and eager, and the clean musky scent of

 the horse’s excitement filled him. He straightened then, and slapped the taut,

 twitching hide.

 “Hesaith among the trumpets, Ha, ha; and hesmelleth the battle afar off, the

 thunder of the captains, and the shouting.”

 Grey heard the drums again, and his palms began to sweat.

 Historical note: In October of 1757, the forces of Frederick the Great and his

 allies moved swiftly, crossing the country to defeat the gathering French and

 Austrian army atRossbach , in Saxony. The town of Gundwitz was left undisturbed;

 the bridge atAschenwald never crossed by an enemy.