Hull made no answer, but Black Margot herself replied. “No,” she snapped, “but the warning bell was.”
“Then why do you spare him?”
Her eyes glittered icy green. “To kill in my own way, Weed,” she said in tones so cold that it was as if a winter wind had sent a shivering breath across the spring night. “I have my own account to collect from him.”
Her eyes blazed chill emerald fire into Hull’s. He met her glance squarely, and said in a low voice, “Do you grant any favors to a man about to die?”
“Not by custom,” she replied indifferently. “Is it the safety of the eldarch’s daughter? I plan no harm to her.”
“It isn’t that.”
“Then ask it—though I am not disposed to grant favors to you, Hull Tarvish, who have twice laid hands of violence on me.”
His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “It is the lives of my companions I ask.”
She raised here eyebrows in surprise, then shook her ebony flame of hair. “How can I? I remained here purposely to wipe them out. Shall I release the half I have, only to destroy them with the rest?”
“I ask their lives,” he repeated.
A curious, whimsical fire danced green in her eves. “I will try,” she promised, and turned to the officer, who was ranging his men so that the cross-fire of execution could not mow down his own ranks. “Lebeau!” she snapped. “Hold back a while.”
She strode into the gap between the prisoners and her own men. Hand on hip she surveyed the Harriers, while moonlight lent her beauty an aura that was incredible, unearthly. There in the dusk of night she seemed no demon at all, but a girl, almost a child, and even Hull, who had learned well enough what she was, could not but sweep fascinated eyes from her jet hair to her tiny white feet.
“Now,” she said, passing her glance over the group, “on my promise of amnesty, how many of you would join me?”
A stir ran through the mass. For a moment there was utter immobility, then, very slowly, two figures moved forward, and the stir became an angry murmur. Hull recognized the men; they were stragglers of the Confederation army, Ch’cago men, good fighters but merely mercenaries, changing sides as mood or advantage moved them. The murmur of the Harriers became an angry growl.
“You two,” said the Princess, “are you Ormiston men?”
“No,” said one. “Both of us come from the shores of Mitchin.”
“Very well,” she proceeded calmly. With a movement swift as arrow flight she snatched the weapon from her belt, the blue beam spat twice, and the men crumpled, one with face burned carbon-black, and both sending forth an odorous wisp of flesh-seared smoke.
She faced the aghast group. “Now,” she said, “who is your leader?”
File Ormson stepped forth, scowling and grim. “What do you want of me?”
“Will you treat with me? Will your men follow your agreements?”
File nodded. “They have small choice.”
“Good. Now that I have sifted the traitors from your ranks—for I will not deal with traitors—I shall make my offer.” She smiled at the squat ironsmith. “I think I’ve served both of us by so doing,” she said softly, and Hull gasped as he perceived the sweetness of the glance she bent on the scowling File. “Would you, with your great muscles and warrior’s heart, follow a woman?”
The scowl vanished in surprise. “Follow you? You?”
“Yes.” Hull watched her in fascination as she used her voice, her eyes, her unearthly beauty intensified by the moonlight, all on hulking File Ormson, behind whom the Harrier prisoners stood tense and silent. “Yes, I mean to follow me,” she repeated softly. “You are brave men, all of you, now that I have weeded out the two cowards.” She smiled wistfully, almost tenderly at the squat figure before her. “And you—you are a warrior.”
“But—” File gulped, “our others—”
“I promise you need not fight against your companions. I will release any of you who will not follow me. And your lands—it is your lands you fight for, is it not? I will not touch, not one acre save the eldarch’s.” She paused. “Well?”
Suddenly File’s booming laugh roared out. “By God!” he swore. “If you mean what you say, there’s nothing to fight about! For my part, I’m with you!” He turned on his men. “Who follows me?”
The group stirred. A few stepped forward, then a few more, and then, with a shout, the whole mass. “Good!” roared File. He raised his great hard hand to his heart in the Empire salute. “To Black—to the Princess Margaret!” he bellowed. “To a warrior!”
She smiled and dropped her eyes as if in modesty. When the cheer had passed, she addressed File Ormson again. “You will send men to your others?” she asked. “Let them come in on the same terms.”
“They’ll come!” growled File.
The Princess nodded. “Lebeau,” she called, “order off your men. These are our allies.”
The Harriers began to separate, drifting away with the crowd of villagers. The Princess stepped close to Hull, smiling maliciously up into his perplexed face. He scarcely knew whether to be glad or bitter, for indeed, though she had granted his request to spare his companions, she had granted it only at the cost of the destruction of the cause for which he had sacrificed everything. There were no Harriers any more, but he was still to die for them.
“Will you die happy now?” she cooed softly.
“No man dies happy,” he growled.
“I granted your wish, Hull.”
“If your promises can be trusted,” he retorted bitterly. “You lied coolly enough to the Ch’cago men, and you made certain they were not loved by the Harriers before you killed them.”
She shrugged. “I lie, I cheat, I swindle by whatever means comes to hand,” she said indifferently, “but I do not break my given word. The Harriers are safe.”
Beyond her, men came suddenly from the tunnel mouth, dragging something dark behind them.
“The Weed who pulled down the roof, Your Highness,” said Lebeau.
She glanced behind her, and pursed her dainty lips in surprise. “The eldarch! The dotard died bravely enough.” Then she shrugged. “He had but a few more years anyway.”
But Vail slipped by with a low moan of anguish, and Hull watched her kneel desolately by her father’s body. A spasm of pity shook him as he realized that now she was utterly, completely alone. Enoch had died in the ambush of the previous night, old Marcus lay dead here before her, and he was condemned to death. The three who loved her and the man she loved—all slain in two nights passing. He bent a slow, helpless, pitying smile on her, but there was nothing he could do or say.
And Black Margot, after the merest glance, turned back to Hull, “Now,” she said, the ice in her voice again, “I deal with you!”
He faced her dumbly. “Will you have the mercy to deal quickly, then?” he muttered at last.
“Mercy? I do not know the word where you’re concerned, Hull. Or rather I have been already too merciful. I spared your life three times—once at Joaquin’s request at Eaglefoot Flow, once before the guardhouse, and once up there in the hallway.” She moved closer. “I cannot bear the touch of violence, Hull, and you have laid violent hands on me twice. Twice!”
“Once was to save your life,” he said, “and the other to rectify my own unwitting treason. And I spared your life three times too, Black Margot—once when I aimed from the church roof, once from the ambush in the west chamber, and once