Warlock

own lif e with the Shaker had been styled much more loosely, much less regimentally.
        
        “Spies you say?” Belmondo seemed dubious.
        
        “You might as well wake me,” Commander Richter said. “That way I won't have to pretend to be asleep while I listen to you.”
        
        Mace chuckled deep in his throat, though Belmondo did not seem to see the humor in his commander's words. He was more embarrassed than anything.
        
        “A light,” Richter said to the captain.
        
        “No!” Mace insisted. “We can talk as well in darkness. We cannot take the chance of the h'ght being seen out your window-or of someone in the hallway catching glimpse of it under your door.”
        
        “You make it all sound quite dire,” Richter said.
        
        “And so it is.” In the darkness, where they were barely able to see one another, Mace detailed the events of the evening at the Shaker's house. When he was finished with the events and the suppositions the Shaker had made about the dynamite, he said, “The Shaker suggests that the assassin may return here and work his evil on your own men now that his first tact has failed.”
        
        “Perhaps he doesn't know it has failed,” Richter said. “Perhaps he thinks the Shaker dead.”
        
        “He will have listened for three explosions,” Mace said. “He will have heard only one, and he will not take chances. If you wish to leave the safety of your men in the balance, then ignore me.”
        
        “Of course not,” Richter said. He had been dressing all this while, and it was evident that he had not intended to ignore the giant from the beginning. Belmondo, however, was caught in his sleeping gown, still gaping at the talk of traitors and spies. He scurried about, trying to catch up to his commander's state of readiness, but he kept dropping things and getting tangled in his trouser legs in his haste.
        
        “The Shaker might suggest herding your men into three or four separate groups, with three guards to each group-three, at least, in order that the assassin does not accidentally get chosen as a guard where he can murder men in their sleep.”
        
        “Sergeant Growler is on the second floor,” Richter said. “He has an empathy with the men we can use now. He'll make it all seem less desperate than it is.”
        
        “Fine.”
        
        They left the room, Mace and Richter in the lead, with Belmondo hurrying after, still buttoning his shirt, one boot on and one boot still back in the room. On the second floor, they walked to the far end of the candle-lit corridor and rapped quietly on the door of the last room until it was finally opened by a heavyset, drooping-jowled man no more than five feet four. He rubbed his eyes, stared at them a second longer, then said, “Commander Richter! What has happened?”
        
        “Let us in and close the door,” the commander said.
        
        A moment later, they were in another darkened room, four of them now, and Mace was rapidly repeating the story of the assassin and the dynamite.
        
        “Damn! But would I like to find the scoundrel masquerading among these fine boys! I'd tear the bastard limb from limb and drop him off the edge of Cage Pass, I would!” The sergeant was obviously quite furious, and he balled his fists on his thighs as he considered the story he had been told. Mace had originally thought of Crowler as a fat man, but now he saw that he was the sort of heavyset man who carried hard muscles beneath the layer of lard. As he fisted his hands now, his large, bare arms corded like thick cables drawn taut. His jaw, clenched, made his thick, short neck bulge with other muscles. Yes, Mace decided, Crowler was the sort who might quite literally be capable of ripping a man limb from limb as he said he would.
        
        “He's bound to be too clever for easy discovery,” Commander Richter said. “The most we can hope for is to keep everyone alive. It's going to be a tedious and nerve-wracking journey across the Cloud Range when one of our number is against us. But if we can't find the man, we'll needs progress as best we can.”
        
        Sergeant Crowler slipped into his jacket, the last piece of apparel he had not yet donned. “Let's get our men up and moving. The sooner everyone is together, the safer I'll feel.”
        
        There were ten