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experience to such a ‘Lord’ was Pranix, the Three Roads tavern keeper. Such a man would never allow another to rule over him. And if all lords were like this, then only blood could set a crown on a king’s head.
    â€œNo,” Salick replied, “the king prevents it.”
    â€œThere are sixteen lords and only one king,” argued Garet. “What prevents the lords from killing the king if they wish it?”
    â€œWe support the king.”
    Ah, Garet thought, of course . The Ward Lords might squabble and brawl like his brothers at a harvest festival, but the Demonbanes were the foundation of the city, more powerful and more necessary than either the lords or the king himself. Without considering the diplomacy of his question, he blurted out, ”Why don’t the Banehalls rule the cities then?”
    Salick seemed shocked by the suggestion. “We are Banes, not kings!” Seeing Garet’s confusion, she relented and tried to explain, “Garet, you cannot be a Bane and any other thing. There is no time. There are no Bane-tailors or Bane-merchants. We train; we patrol; we fight. That is our life. If we stop to live any other life, people die.” She looked at her master, his horse reined in for a moment while he drank from a leather flask. “Not that there aren’t some Masters who would make better kings than many whose bottoms have warmed the Shirath throne!”
    Mandarack signalled a general halt, and the horses were led down to the river to drink. They had already passed several more houses this day, each abandoned but with no sign of a demon’s attack.
    Dorict pulled out the last of the Three Roads food and said, “I hope we get to the crossing today, or we’ll have a hungry night.” Broad shouldered and stout, Dorict did not sound as if he enjoyed the prospect of a missed meal. When the horses had finished drinking, he took the reins from Garet and led both mounts back up to the prairie to graze.
    â€œIf only Dorict could eat grass, he could always be happy here.” Marick had divided the food and now stood there holding out Garet’s portion.
    Although still wary of Marick’s knife-like jibes, Garet decided to risk asking why they couldn’t cross the river now. They had passed two or three places already that the horses could have managed.
    Marick surprised him with a straightforward answer. “This isn’t the right river!” He waved a hand at the nearest bend. “This little thing is called the Plainscutter. It joins the North Ar at a town called Bangt. That’s the only place to ferry across the North Ar for fifty miles. We don’t really want to cross the river, but a barge should be waiting there to take us to Torrick.” Then the sly smile returned to his face. “Unless, of course, you have become too attached to riding.”
    To his own surprise, Garet laughed and was rewarded with a friendly punch from the younger boy. Something had changed between him and his new companions. What had been, at best, a reluctant tolerance of his presence had become acceptance. Ever since he had seized the shaft of that trident, to join three other pairs of arms twisting in and around each other, his status had risen from that of a backcountry farm boy who claimed to have killed a demon, and a small one at that, to what Master Mandarack had called him as they stood beside the hulking body of the farm-destroyer, a Demonbane.
    Marick continued, “I doubt that you’ll have to give up your horse tonight though.” He looked at the low angle of the sun. “I’m sure Salick will convince the Master to halt for the night if we find shelter.”
    â€œWhy?” asked Garet. “Wouldn’t it be better to be in a safe place, rather than camp out here and meet another demon?”
    Marick stretched his short body into an uncanny imitation of the lean Salick. Speaking through his nose, he lectured Garet,