He looked toward the door. "Strange," he murmured, "I wonder what's keeping Maro so long." He clapped his hands sharply once more, and waited. The page dashed to a door and disappeared within. At last, he came back, holding the door for the leader of the castle guard detachment, who came forward to salute his superior. "Have you found anything yet?" "Nothing, sir. We have stripped them, but they have no unusual things about them. And we have questioned them. None will admit to seeing or doing anything other than normal duties." The steward sighed. "Very well. Secure them, then. I'll call for them later." He stood. [Illustration] "Come, Nal Gerda," he ordered, "unless you have something further to tell me of this, we must have an audience with the Baron." * * * * * Florel, Baron Bel Menstal, sat at his ease. Before him was a dish of good cakes, beside him, a cup and flagon of good wine. He looked contentedly around the apartment. For fourteen years now, he had been lord of this castle. And for fourteen years, he had busied himself building his forces and increasing his power and influence in the duchy. He had made himself feared and respected. During the past several years, his word had been of great weight in the Duke's councils. He was now one of the great barons of the realm. He smiled to himself. As he had risen in importance, Orieano, the soft holder of the rich fields to the west, had fallen. The man was getting old--even older than the Duke himself, and he was tired. And his daughter was the sole heir to that barony. Again, Menstal smiled to himself as he thought of the daughter of Orieano. Next month, at the fair, he would press suit for the hand of the heiress, and a few months after that he would have control of the rich farm lands and the trading city. The girl would probably protest, but that would do her little good. He knew what fear could do. And he could rouse such fear as to render even strong men but helpless masses of flesh. The beauteous damsel of Orieano would be a simple task. None other would dare dispute his claim, and the Duke would come to support him. And the Duke himself? Ah, well, perhaps it would be as well to allow him to finish his life in peaceful possession of his broad fields. But certainly, the son of Dwerostel would have no word in the control of the duchy. An accident could be easily arranged, and Flor, one-time woods beater and scullery boy of Budorn, would become the great Duke he had long planned to be. No, it wouldn't take too many more years. He filled himself a cup, and looked complacently into its clear depths. The tap on the door broke his reverie, and he looked up, annoyed. He stared impatiently at his castle steward as the man entered and made obeisance. "What now, Weron?" He set the cup down. "Must I be bothered with all your petty problems?"