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"Well, that's consoling," Craer hissed through clenched teeth.

"We're being watched," Tshamarra whispered, joining them on the floor. More than once she glanced straight up, as if to repeatedly make sure nothing deadly was plunging down from the ceiling.

"Of course. Magic?" Blackgult muttered.

"No. Eyes. Moving, in the wall tapestry behind you."

"As long as 'tis just spying, and not darts that strike. We must shield Embra, until-"

"Of course," Tshamarra whispered back, with a mocking smile. "Magic?"

"No," Blackgult replied, in a ghostly parody of his 'old baron' growl. "Those charming armored curves of yours-augmented by my old bones."

The Talasorn sorceress flicked an appraising glance up and down his body. "Hmmph. Well-fleshed ancient bones, I'd say."

The Golden Griffon struck a preening, feminine pose that would have done credit to the most alluring of court ladies, and then relaxed back into his customary wary lounging. "I'll take this side," he murmured into Tshamarra's amused-and astonished-face. "See if you can cover the rest without letting our stubborn lion of an armaragor rear up to try to do his duty no matter how sorely wounded he is, for once."

"Lord Ezendor," Hawkril protested, from somewhere beneath Tshamarra, but Blackgult waved a quelling hand.

"I'm your Lord no longer. Ezendor, yes-and as your friend I tell you: belt up and lie still. You've more arrows in you than the rest of us put together. Embra?"

"Forgive my selfishness, but this will go best if I'm free of pain: Now, Sarasper showed me… oh, yes…"

They felt her convulse, and then twitch and shudder from fingertips to toes. When it passed, Embra opened her eyes, smiled-and let the healing flow into them, like a warm and tingling tide.

As her four companions groaned and gasped, feeling pain ebbing from them, Blackgult moved like an attentive servant in response to looks she gave, gently drawing forth specific arrows at her bidding. Craer jerked when surrendering his shaft, mewing in helpless pain, but Tshamarra held him in a suddenly iron grip when he might otherwise have jerked away… and in both near silence and a surprisingly short time the healing was done, and they were whole again.

"We must be very careful not to lose that," Hawkril rumbled, patting the Stone as he flexed his arms and shoulders experimentally. "I'd not want to return to the days of pilfering trinkets from the Si-"

"Hush," Embra said severely, slapping his cheek gently with the tips of her fingers. "The walls listen, remember?"

"They also watch," Tshamarra said dryly, "which leaves me in strong need of Lord Delnbone temporarily shorn of his usual pranks, leering, and clever comments, to hold up a privacy cloak whilst I bathe-hmm, mintwater; they're not entirely uncivilized here-and don suitable finery for the feast to come."

"Ah, yes. Platters heaped with sleep-potions and poisons," Craer smirked. "I hope the seasoning, at least, is to my liking."

"I'll be using magic and expecting to find taints with it," Embra told him, turning to the saddlebags with the Stone glowing. "Now, let's see what the enthusiastic bowmen of Stornbridge left us."

"Not much of this one," Tshamarra said disgustedly, holding a torn fragment of gown up against her. "Ruined."

Craer winked. "Fallen, perhaps, but I'd hardly say ruined. The gown's had it, though."

The Lady Talasorn gave him a cold and level look. "Lord Procurer, I believe you're still on probation. Conduct yourself accordingly."

Craer glanced at Hawkril for sympathy, but the hulking armaragor gave him a grin, a wink, and the words, "Want to really unsettle our host? Wear that gown yourself!"

"Thousands of men in Aglirta," Embra told a ceiling thankfully still bereft of plummeting dangers, "and I have to travel with two afflicted with the delusion that they're uproariously funny jesters, fit for the courts of the South!"

Blackgult turned. "Two?"

Embra held up a warning hand. "Don't try to join their ranks.