Jammathe took turns with Nereif nursing him, bringing food and drink and assisting with bodily needs. She was coolly efficient, and Vigir caught her regarding him with an expression that mixed concern with some secret amusement. Others came to examine Vigir with arcane instruments, conferring with Nereif in an unknown tongue.

  Natural vitality and unnatural healing arts sped Vigir’s recovery, and he was indeed back on his feet in five days. It could have been sooner, for he was no weakling to heed trivial wounds. Rather he was consumed with desire for revenge, but neither Nereif nor Jammathe would provide information, nor would they give him access to his weapons. Vigir alternated between seething with frustration and brooding over the identity of his assailants. When at last he declared that nothing could keep him longer in the house, for he was determined on retribution, Jammathe simply nodded and asked him to accompany her to the next room. He ignored the available chairs to take up a position in the centre of the room, arms folded across his broad chest.

  “Speak of my assailants,” he demanded.

  Jammathe took a seat and leaned back. “I talked to two of those involved and several witnesses. In brief, you offered insult to a Guardian, one of an order dedicated to the protection of women. She retaliated, you offered further insults both verbal and physical, both to her and to a senior mage. The upshot was that you were the target of a spell that jolted your brain and were given a kicking meant to teach you better manners.”

  “You jest!” roared Vigir. “No mere woman bests Vigir!”

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  Jammathe raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” She rose to her feet and walked to stand before the door. “You can leave if you can get past me.” She flexed her fingers and stood waiting.

  Vigir laughed and rushed at her, shoulder leading, trusting that she would evade rather than be crushed. So she did. The door did not, and was solid. He crashed into it, rebounded, was yanked away before he could reach for the handle. Vigir turned, lethally quick, arms spread to grasp. When he had a firm hold on her Jammathe would get a spanking. An elbow met his eye, his foot was nudged sideways and he crashed to the floor. When he sprang to his feet Jammathe was leaning against a wall, smirking. Red rage clouded his vision, he rushed at her, fast as a leopard, strong as a tiger, the woman vanished, a hand guided his head into the wall and he collapsed half-stunned.

  The door opened and Nereif peered in. “Jammathe, what are you doing?” He came over to lay a hand on Vigir, sending a healing pulse through his body. Vigir brushed the hand away with a snarl.

  “Get your hands off me, you doting prick!”

  Nereif stood back. “You will not offer me insult. I am not quite Jammathe’s equal in fighting, but you are no match for me.”

  In any of a score of kingdoms Vigir would have met this challenge with a buffet to the head. Something in Nereif’s tone halted him. At the very back of his mind a small voice told him that here was a contest he could not win.

  “Only because you and her and all else in this damned world draw on dark powers!” he spat.

  Nereif gestured assent. “Power, although not dark. The world’s essence that any can draw on to strengthen hand or mind, whether for weaving or shaping clay or combat. Anyone but you, it seems.”

  “I will have none of this essence that lets women rule men!” declared Vigir.

  “And it will have none of you. So best you return whence you came.”

  Vigir stared at him, anger forgotten. “Can you do that?”

  “Not I, nor any magician of this world. But there are Powers we can ask, and it might well be that they see fit to grant your request.”