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In the taproom, a fair-haired man, who wore the Manderly sigil and one of a knife shaped like a smile, looked up suddenly at the voice, and then half-rose in his seat.

The taproom paused mid-revel at the intrusion, and the place was suddenly so quiet the mice could be heard running for cover under the floorboards. Ox stopped halfway through his tuneless rendition of 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair' and wiped the beer foam from his beard.

The landlady frowned, and then hurried out into the hall beyond.

"Ser Anders," she began, dropping a perfunctory curtsey. Then she looked a little startled at the sight of his companion. "Maester Rhys, welcome. What's happening here?"

"As I say, a dangerous felon," said Ser Anders, in the same loud tone, but he nodded to Rhys to explain to Madame Odette, more quietly.

The Manderly man stood, irresolute, glancing at the rear door of the taproom.

"The Laughing Knives, in the back of the taproom to the left," Rhys said in a low voice to Ser Anders. He drew Odette to the side to keep her out of immediate danger should things turn violent and explained why they were there. He asked her if she'd seen or heard anything unusual.

"There's been a few strangers in," said Odette. "Some men from Riverrun came in this afternoon. They seem all right - sellswords. Their leader keeps to himself."

"If they came with Ser Kenrith, why are they staying here and not at the Castle?" wondered Ser Anders.

"Perhaps," said Odette, with a glance to the Bolton follower who was nearest the door, "they mislike the company they find at the castle."

"Have a care, Mistress Odette," said Ser Anders. "You serve excellent beer and my men at arms hold you in high regard, but too free a tongue will be clipped."

She looked at him without speaking, and bobbed another curtsey in acknowledgment.

From his position, Rhys could see that the Laughing Knife was edging closer to the door. He could see the men from Riverrun too - and they were between him and the Laughing Knife.

Time to flush him out. Rhys turned to address the room. "A Bolton man is missing," he said loudly. "We believe he's been murdered, and that the murderer is in this room."

There were a couple of hushed whispers around the taproom, and more than a few sidelong glances. Ox's full voice bawled out in reply. "Gorn and arrest him then. And make it quick - yer wasting drinking time." There were several chuckles at that.

Ser Anders strode fully into the room and stood for a moment, looking around. The crowd quieted at once; they knew Ser Anders - and what he was capable of.

He heard Ser Anders speaking: "You will treat the Maester with the respect he is entitled to," he said to the Ox. "Here in Holdfast, we show the proper respect to the learned. Where do you come from, where learning is so lightly held?"

A gesture with his hand suggested that Rhys hould close in (but not too close) on the Laughing Knife, who was looking increasingly worried.

Rhys wasn't exactly thrilled to be the one confronting the Manderly man, but he moved forward as bid, closing the distance between himself and the Laughing Knife. He looked straight at him. "You! How did the bloody knife come to be in your saddlebag?"

"What?" said the man. He was young, with cold blue eyes and an aquiline nose. Handsome, in his way, and strong - strong enough to overpower a man. "A bloody knife? I know of no such thing! He must have put it there!" He pointed to Ser Anders. "He hates and fears my Master, Ser Corryn Manderly!"

Rhys glanced back at Anders for his reaction to the accusation.

Ser Anders was still keeping an eye on the Ox, but he smiled at the Laughing Knife's words.

"Hate? Perhaps. The Riverwolf has done me no favours. But fear? An arrant bullying braggart like that?"

"Ser Anders," put in Odette, "Volf here is a good lad. He wouldn't harm anyone ... "

Volf looked less than pleased - although it was hard to tell whether it was through being described as a 'lad' or as harmless.

"Godwyn," said Ser Anders. "Maester Rhys has found us a weapon ... do you have something for us too?"

Volf cast a desperate look around the tavern and bolted for the back door.

Rhys jumped after him, to keep up appearances for those inside who didn't know the building was surrounded, but made sure he wasn't fast enough to catch up. The men outside would finish the task.

It didn't occur to Godwyn to try to fool anyone about the men outside. He watched Volf's run for it impassively, while answering Anders' question. "We found the body where he'd buried it. The scent of dung led here. Whoever was pretending to be the nightsoil man is the killer."

Ser Anders nodded. "And that would be a hard smell to hide so quickly. Perhaps, Godwyn, you might like to move among the patrons of this establishment and see if your nose leads you to anyone here ... It is possible the nightsoil man did not act alone."

Godwyn nodded and began walking about the room slowly and deliberately.

He turned towards Rhys. "Maester Rhys ... that young man who left - could he had been the nightsoil man you saw?"

Rhys frowned. "It could have been, Ser. What I saw was an able-bodied man carrying the nightsoil buckets throwing food to the dogs. After that he started toward the gatehouse, paused, then headed toward the postern gate. But that description is rather broad and fits not only the Laughing Knife but also a number of men in this room."

As Godwyn reached the table nearest the fire he slowed, and looked over the men sitting at the table. He gave the big man a flat stare, remembering that when he had first entered the room Ser Anders had been chiding him for a lack of respect towards Rhys. Then he let his gaze travel over the three other men at the table as well, before looking towards Ser Anders and nodding.

Then Godwyn rested both hands on their table and leaned over them, saying, "You smell like sh!t." He looked at the pockmarked man. "You especially. Why is that?"

Donnell looked up at him insolently, scratching at one of his scabs. "Cause I stepped in some in the horse yard," he said dryly. "Holdfast has a lot of it."

Ox leaned back and rested his ale on his ample belly. "Old feller over there stinks of it too," he said, pointing one thick finger at the old man on the next table.

"Ah fed me pigs before coming here!" the accused man exclaimed, shaking his head. "Ah ain't no murderer! Bieron here smells of dung - mebbe it was him!"

Bieron, a thin-faced farmer across the table, turned red and looked indignant. "You try fertilising your fields all week and see if you don't stink of sh!t yerself!" Several small arguments broke out across the taproom as locals accused their less-hygienic neighbours, and their accusations were angrily denied.

"Quiet!" Rhys shouted, hoping that keeping company with Ser Anders and Godwyn would lend him enough authority with the smallfolk that they'd listen.

He walked over to Godwyn. "Stand up, then," he said to Donnell. "Let's see the state of your boots. While we're at it, all four of you stand, please."

Garyn started to get to his feet, but suddenly looked unsure of himself when he saw that none of the others were bothering to do so. Donnell and Ox simply looked up at Rhys instead, and Stavro continued to dip bread in his trencher and eat as if the discussion wasn't happening at all. He stopped halfway out of his chair and looked tremendously uncomfortable.

Donnell half turned on the bench and stuck out a boot. "Course there's none on it now," he said without batting an eye. "Landlady there'd chuck me out if I came in with my boots covered in it. I cleaned them off outside." His eyes narrowed as he stared directly into Rhys'. "Ya know, I don't think I like your tone. If you got an accusation to make, be a man and make it."

"You've washed recently," Rhys observed, while studying him. "Your hands and face are cleaner than your companions, and your clothes are still damp. I find it curious that stepping in horse dung would lead you to wash more than your boots. Yet even with washing, you still smell. And it's someone smelling of dung that the dogs trailed from where the dead man was hastily buried to here."

Donnell sneered. He was good at that. "So you think I'm a murderer cause I washed my face and hands before dinner? That what they teach you folk down in Oldtown?"

"The Ser already told you about watching your tone with the Maester," Godwyn said softly, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. "You fellows don't seem to have heard. And you don't seem to understand a polite request from the Maester. So let's drop the politeness. You're all four coming up to the castle. If you've done nothing, you've nothing to fear. So on your feet, or dragged by them, it's all the same to me."

The mood of the inn seemed to be definitely swinging against the outsiders. Smelly or not, the other occupants of the tavern were staring at the four sellswords with the covert hostility that is universal where locals encounter incomers.

Ser Anders smiled. "Not just these four," he said. "We'll be impartial here. Anyone who smells of dung ... will come to the Castle."

There were shouts of protest, but Ser Anders held up a warning hand. "Those who can furnish us with explanations will be freed almost immediately. Those who cannot ... will enjoy a more primitive form of our hospitality."

Garyn broke into a sweat, but none of the others seemed in the least bit concerned or inclined to move. Stavro continued to chew quietly on his bread.

"It seems justice and reason have flown south for the winter earlier than expected," Evan drawled from the top of the stairs. He was out from the common room now, and leaning casually on the railing. He cast a hard eye over the taproom below, his gaze lingering on Ser Anders, then Rhys and Godwyn over by his men.

"You made your accusation of murder, and a man fled," Evan continued. "Right now, he's being apprehended by your men around the back, if what I saw from the window tells me true. Now, I'm no Maester, but it seems to me that when a crime is announced and a man flees, that man has something to hide. It may even have been the bloody knife you say you found in his saddlebag. Yet despite this, you now want to haul a score of Holdfast's good citizens off to the dungeons because they smell of dung." He shook his head, as if trying to make sense of the foolishness of it all, before looking more directly at Rhys. "You say you're looking for someone smelling of dung. Did you for a moment think that it might not even be a person whose smell you were looking for? That the reason you had a strong smell of dung is because that dung came fresh from the horse, perhaps? Why not go and haul the horses in the stable in, too? Or did that not occur to you while you were snooping around among people's belongings in the stable like a sneak thief?"

Evan returned his gaze to Ser Anders, softening his tone. "Have done, Ser. You made your accusation, a man fled from it, and you caught him. Hauling a score of men and beasts back to the castle because you mislike their smell will just make you look foolish, and give decent folk ample reason to bring complaint to your Lord. Leave regular folk and travellers be to their dinner."

"Oh, aye," said Godwyn. "And when he confesses that he had accomplices and we return, what a surprise to find you have gone, eh?" He looked around the room. "Does any honest man here fear to go to Holdfast, to see Ser Godfrey and Ser Kenrith do justice? Shall we let strangers tell us how to handle our affairs, and who we may or may not question when foul murder has been done?"

Evan turned his head slowly and let his eyes rest on Godwyn a long moment, but when he spoke, he was neither harsh nor conciliatory, simply direct. "Honest men, Ser, deserve to be left alone to have their dinner and a few drinks to relax after a hard day. They do not deserve to be dragged off to the dungeon when your only accusation against them is that they mucked out their pigsty, or fertilised their field, or stepped in a cowpat and washed their hands."

He calmly shrugged, as if he felt the truth of his words should be self-evident. "Only guilty men run. I can't speak for every man here, of course, but as for myself and my men, we intend to have a pleasant dinner, a few drinks and some tall tales, and go to bed. No doubt some well-meaning citizen will immediately come running to you should we saddle up and steal away like thieves in the night." Evan paused, and raised an eyebrow, though the rest of his face kept its bland expression. "You came with a bloody knife and accused a man. Now you have caught him. Sniffing around the inn and threatening to drag honest men to the dungeons might make me wonder what you are really seeking." Again, he shrugged, and made a show of stretching his neck. "But perhaps I am just overtired. For myself, I'm seeking a comfortable bed. And I don't doubt that everyone else here is seeking to finish their dinner in peace."

But now came an interruption. The sallow-faced Bolton man that Godwyn had brought with him now stepped forward fully into the light. For a moment he stood silent, letting his presence register - and then he spoke deliberately.

"For Bolton, I can say that we don't need to speak with every farmworker who stinks of dung. We have the man who ran, that's true enough. But for every fool who flees, there might be a brazen rogue who'll bluff it out. The young Squire here had his suspicions of that man." He raised his hand and pointed to Donnell. "Dung smells like dung to us, and half the tavern will have come by the stink honestly enough. But the dogs will know if this man smells of the grave we've found."

He smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. "Bolton might demand a terrible bloodright for one of their own killed on Holdfast land, and none could deny it. But all I'm asking is that this man, if he's honest, steps outside and lets the dogs sniff at him. And if they take no heed of him ... why then, his dinner's scarce cooled on his plate.

"And if he's dishonest ... he's ours."

His eyes were steady on Evan Tamm.

Godwyn nodded. "That's fair," he said.

"Surprisingly moderate, for a Bolton," Ser Ander murmured to Rhys.

"Mmmm," Rhys agreed, rapt on the conversation.

Evan's hands clenched on the rail for the briefest of moments, and his jaw tightened imperceptibly. He kept his eyes on the Bolton man, meeting his gaze, but he was acutely aware of Donnell staring at him narrowly from the taproom below. Garyn was still darting his head back and forth between everyone, unsure where to look, like a lost baby bird, and the sound of Stavro eating was the only sound in the taproom. For all Stavro had reacted, Anders and the rest might never have come in. Ox had already turned away back to his beer - Evan knew he had already washed his hands of the matter. Mercenaries did not subscribe to the idea of leaving no man behind.

Evan considered for a moment that seemed to him like an eternity, but in reality was barely a second. Were their positions reversed, he knew Donnell would simply walk away and leave him to the dogs. They'd all done similar things before. Evan ground his teeth, and lifted his head - when he spoke, his voice was even as ever. "Very well then - as you say."

He stood from the railing and walked briskly down the stairs, striding over to Donnell. "On your feet," he ordered, ignoring Donnell's glare. "It won't do you any good to have the dogs sniff him, though - he's borrowed my clothes." He turned back to Donnell. "We're going outside. Let's see the truth of this matter." With that, he took Donnell by the arm and peremptorily marched them both out the front door, studiously ignoring the Bolton's gaze as he passed.

Godwyn followed them, a frown appearing on his face as he thought. "Here," he said, something suddenly occurring to him. "You're the sellswords who came north with my brother, aren't you?"

"We should have the dogs sniff the Manderly man, too," Rhys said in a low voice to Anders.

"Agreed," said Ser Anders as they moved towards the door behind the two sellswords.

Godwyn followed them, a frown appearing on his face as he thought. "Here," he said, something suddenly occurring to him. "You're the sellswords who came north with my brother, aren't you?"

Evan shrugged noncommittally. "If your brother is Kenrith Hardy, I suppose we are," he said.

Ser Anders sighed. "I should have guessed," he said drily. "Ser Corryn and Ser Kenrith both."

Godwyn looked at Anders, the frown still on his face, but said nothing.

Tamlyn was stading in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by dogs. The fair Manderley was close by, held by two Holdfast guards; two more appeared to be protecting him from two Bolton men who were arguing furiously.

The sallow-faced man suddenly moved, pushing ahead of the rest, and blocking their view of the Bolton men.

"Leave him," hje said curtly. "The men of Holdfast will do their duty. Go back to the Castle and wait for us there. We'll not be long."

One of the Bolton men seemed inclined to argue, but two of his companions drew him off, and they all started to move towards the castle, casting backwards looks.

Evan watched them go with a calm expression on his face, and strolled casually in front of the dogs. "Let's get this over with," he sighed.

"Could be one of these men, Tam," Godwyn said. "Or both of them. See what the dogs think."

"Right you are, Sir," said Tam easily. He led Whiteface and Godwyn's best b!tch forward to allow them to smile first at Evan. These seemed to find his scent interesting, but Yamlyn looked up at Godwyn and shook his head.

He whistled and clicked his tongue, and the dogs headed towards Donnell. Their attitude was clearly different here. Whiteface whimped and the b!tch smiffed excitedly around his shoes. and then up his legs. She seemed interested in pressing her nose under his jerkin.

"Perhaps you could just slip that jerkin off," suggested Tamlyn to Donnell.

Donnell shrugged, and undid the laces at the front. Beneath, the shirt was filthy, but a large red stain spread over its front.

Ser Anders was silent, but he glanced at Rhys and nodded.

"I suspect the knife was planted in the Manderly's saddlebag, as he claimed, but we should have the dogs smell him, too," Rhys said quietly.

He gestured to Tam to bring the dogs closer towards the Laughing Knife, still held between two Holdfast men. They sniffed him and then turned away, disinterested.

"It seems you may indeed be innocent," said Ser Anders. "Of this, at least. But it does not explain why one of Ser Corryn's men was lurking so close to the castle - one of his own personal band of laughing cut-throats. I think we should hear more of this."

He turned his attention again to the others.

"You suspect the knife was planted?" Evan tried to keep a scoffing note out of his voice. "What an interesting conclusion to jump to. From what I see, your dogs are overly excited by the hare's blood from breakfast. Perhaps you should feed them more often."

"In any case," Evan continued, "as I said, the shirt is mine. If you want someone to answer some questions before the Lord, I will go. He's my man, and the responsibility is mine."

The sallow-faced man made a gesture towards him as though to object ... but then he stopped.

"I would speak with this man," he said harshly.

"Bye and bye, sirrah," said Ser Anders. "Bye and bye. First - we'll see if that story of his holds true. If you would take a look at the shirt, Maester Rhys. Godwyn, how did the man you found die?"

"Stabbed," Godwyn answers immediately. "Only one wound so far as I saw, and that right through the heart."

Rhys motioned to a nearby Holdfast man to hold his lantern up so Rhys had more light, then he stepped over to the accused man and examined the shirt. "There's a small rip in the material over the heart. The stain is blurred and the shirt damp, as if some attempt had been made to wash it out. The shirt is filthy, probably in part from being worn damp under the jerkin."

The young maester looked over at Evan. "You said this stain came from a rabbit this morning? That's a long time for the shirt to still be damp. And why wear it under a jerkin rather than setting it out to dry?"

While talking, Rhys mentally compares the sizes of Evan and the shirt on Donnell. Is the shirt about Evan's size?

The look Donnell gave the young Maester suggested that were there not armed men around, Grunther wouldn't be the only corpse buried in the woods. However, he merely spat on the ground for emphasis, and muttered, "Cause I'm a sellsword, not a washerwoman. And it's damp cause I only washed it when we got to Holdfast. There's a rip here too, and here, if'n it matters to you so much."

Rhys looked back at Donnell. "But the stain is over the rip over the heart. It you were skinning a rabbit, the stain would be in the middle and lower down."

Donnell's lip curled in an ugly sneer. "How many rabbits you skinned, Maester? Who's to say how I was standing or sitting, or how the blood spurted? I barely remember meself. Just one of those things that happens sometimes. And if I'd thought for a moment that I might be called a murderer for it, mayhaps I'd have thought not to wear an incriminating shirt." He glared at Evan. "Especially considering it ain't even my shirt."

Rhys glanced in Evan's direction along with Donnell, then back to Ser Anders. "Ser, I suggest we take these three men into custody while we talk to Ser Kenrith next. He may be able to shed some light on the situation."

Godwyn nodded, continuing to watch Donnell with a look suggesting that he was longing for the man to make a break for it.

"I think more than Ser Kenrith will want to speak with them," said Ser Anders grimly. "But yes. Godwyn, ride ahead. Have cells prepared to hold all three of them. Where they can be safe - lest anyone's feelings get the better of them." He glanced at the sallow-faced Bolton, and then away again.

Godwyn nodded. With a last burning look at Donnell, and a frown and a shake of his head at Evan and the Laughing Knife, he turned and headed away.

Rhys caught Godwyn before he left and said in a low voice, "Cells far enough away from each other that they can't work on their story together."

"I'm afraid," he continued, with a certain dry politeness, "the three of you will have the pleasure of a night stroll. Surrender your weapons now, and you may walk unbound. Try my patience and you'll make your entrance into Holdfast slung across a horse's rump."

Donnell and Evan exchanged glances. "I see armed Northerners are always real brave when talking to unarmed men," Donnell observed dryly. He shrugged back into the jerkin, doing it up and shoving his hands into his pockets.

"So it seems," Evan murmured, and fell into step as they made their way to the castle.

Ser Anders paid no attention to the comments, but rode a little behind the procession with Rhys.

(Donnell and Evan continue in Back to Holdfast, as does Godwyn)

"What did you make of that?" he asked quietly.

"Several things puzzle me," Rhys replied. "I don't see a clear motive, for one. Why kill a Bolton man under guest-protection? The murder was bound to have a swift and merciless reaction from Holdfast. Why risk it? And for what?

Ser Anders nodded his agreement.

"Two, why go to the trouble of ditching the knife in someone else's saddlebag and then wear what appears to be the dead man's shirt around? Why put on the dead man's shirt at all? If it is indeed the dark-haired man's shirt instead, again, why put it on? Surely out of that entire party someone had a different shirt that didn't have fresh blood all over it. It obviously bothered the accused to some degree, otherwise he wouldn't have tried to wash it. Why wait until Holdfast to wash the shirt?"

Rhys shook his head.

"Three, the accused man's 'friends,' the ones he rode in with, all abandoned him to his fate. That's common loyalty with sellswords. None of them stood up for him, except the dark-haired fellow there in front of us who claimed responsibility. Claiming responsibility for a sellsword when said sellsword is accused of murder? Seems an unhealthy course of action. I believe Dark Hair is involved and knows what really happened. He was quick to suggest that only he be brought in for questioning.

"I've no clear idea of the level of involvement of the others at the table, except for perhaps the youngest one. He really appeared clueless and surprised as to what was happening, for what that's worth."

Rhys paused for a moment, thinking, then continued, "I'd like to see the body, if I may. I also want to try the shirt on it, to see if the wound matches the rip.

"I'd also suggest talking to Ser Kenrith about the events of this morning. He may remember whether Dark Hair or the other did indeed skin a rabbit for breakfast."

The body will be in the Godswood," said Ser Anders. "You may be able to make some sort of cursory examination under the guise of paying respects. Considering your general relationship with the Boltons, I wouldn't hold out too many hopes of your being allowed to carry it off and cut it up - as the Maesters of Oldtown are reputed to do.

Rhys snorted, neither confirming nor denying Ser Anders' accusation concerning the Citadel and its practices with corpses.

"The shirt - and the knife - I can arrange for you to have more easily. I'd also be obliged if you'd be the one to speak with Ser Kenrith. Godwyn will be more concerned with protecting his brother than of ferreting out the truth. These are, after all Ser Kenrith's sellswords. Would they have acted under his instructions?"

The young maester frowned, then lowered his voice for the Ser's ears only. "I would think if Kenrith was involved, there would not only be less slop to the execution of the murder, but the victim would be someone closer to Ser Herys. It doesn't make sense for Kenrith, so newly arrived and wanting to start out on the right foot, to violate guest-protection. He would risk losing most everything to murder an underling. A Bolton, true, but still an underling."

Ser Anders nodded. "It could be, of course, that Ser Kenrith has some acquaintance with the man from the time of the Summerfair. Do you remember seeing such a one here then?"

Rhys thought for a moment, then shook his head. ""We interacted with Ser Herys and his son, then Ser Deryll carried the son to the tower. We were all in the tower for the remainder of the festival. I don't remember any other Boltons."

He raised his voice to a more normal volume. "I would be happy to talk to Ser Kenrith. Should I report to you afterwards or return to the tower?"

Ser Anders sighed. "Will you give me your word not to be alone with Syndra? In fact, will you do your dam' best to avoid Syndra? And in return, I'll try to keep you out of the tower.

Rhys nodded. "I will. Thank you for not believing the accusation," he replied somberly.

Ser Anders shrugged. "I know you, Maester Rhys. And I know Ser Herys. It's not a hard call to make. If you want to show your gratitude, crack open one of your bottles of Dornish wine with me sometime soon."

"Of course," Rhys replied. The corner of his mouth twitched up in a slight smile.

"As for Ser Herys's attentions," [Ser Anders continued,] "... well, Lord Hardy is set on the match, so she'll have to learn to bear them, unless being handfasted with his son will give her a measure of protection."

His jaw clenched suddenly at the thought of Ser Herys's meaty paws on Syndra's face. Rhys glanced at Ser Anders out of the corner of his eye, then back straight ahead. Anders had done what he could for the situation. Further interference would have to be from higher up.

"Come," said Ser Anders. "Let's see what preparations Godwyn's made. He'll do well at the Wall, that one."

Something in his tone seemed to add, "and the sooner the better ... "

As they passed through the gate and into Holdfast proper, Rhys wondered, not for the first time, if going to the Wall was what Godwyn wanted. "I'll go talk to Kenrith. Can I get the shirt and knife now, or should I wait until later?" he asked Anders.

Ser Anders frowned, clearly weighing the odds.

"On the one hand, I'd like you to talk to Kenrith soon - before Godwyn does anything foolish in an attempt to protect his brother that does more harm than good. On the other hand, If you were working in the Tower on the knife and shirt, it might cause fewer questions than if the Boltons saw you wandering about."

He was silent for a moment, considering. "Go to the Tower. Start work on the shirt and knife - here. Take them. I'll send word to Kenrith that he's to join you, and I'll sort with Ser Herys." He smiled. "There's a certain camaraderie that comes from riding with a man in a melee."

Rhys took the knife from Ser Anders and the shirt from the prisoner.

"As you wish," Rhys replied mildly. "I would still like to see the dead man at some point. It will be damning evidence if the stain, rip, and the man's wound all match up. I believe it would be helpful if that was determined for Ser Herys and Ser Godfrey's benefit before they question the prisoners."

"A good point," acknowledged Ser Anders. "Do you want to come with me to the godswood? We might be able to resolve this for once and for all - and give you a proper sight of the dead man too."

"That would be good," Rhys replied.

"Wait here," said Ser Anders. "I'll see the prisoners bestowed.

In a few minutes he returned, and they were able to make their way together to the godswood.

[Rhys continues in Rhys Returns To The Grove ]

Page last modified on March 31, 2006, at 05:19 PM