Damien raced back through the barons’ rooms. Everyone was huddled in their beds just as he left them, all except Marris. The fat tub of goo was gone. He must have been the one that alerted the guards. The question was why. Damien couldn’t imagine, but he hoped some of his prisoners could tell him.

He rejoined Lane in Trasker’s room. The baron sat on the edge of his bed holding his head in his hands, a heavy dressing gown around his shoulders. “Marris is gone,” Damien said.

Trasker looked up. “Of course he is. Marris belonged to the bandits long before this most recent assault. We could never prove anything, but we all suspected he allowed the bandits to slip across the border in exchange for a cut of their loot and a promise not to raid in his territory.”

“It didn’t occur to you to mention this to someone in the capital?” Lane sounded as outraged as Damien felt.

“We had no proof!” Trasker ground his teeth. “Without something solid it would have been an empty accusation. Marris would have brushed it off as nothing but envy on our part.”

The man had a point, Damien had to concede that. Still, if the barons had at least mentioned their suspicions, agents of the crown could have kept an eye on Marris and tried to find proof.

The other barons gathered in the opening Damien had cut in the wall to listen in.

“Did you hire the assassin that tried to murder the king?” Damien asked.

“Yes.” Trasker’s head slumped into his hands again. “If I hadn’t done it someone else would have. That pale monster threatened to send me my daughter’s left foot if I refused.”

“I don’t suppose you know where your family is?” Damien asked.

Trasker gave a mute shake of his head.

“Marris might know,” one of the barons in the other room said. “Or Sloan, the head guard.”

Damien gestured and one of the bound guards floated upright. A quick search revealed the hellfire ward in the same place as the men that broke into their room. He neutralized the ward and caused the cocoon around the bandit’s head to vanish, revealing a terrified face.

“Where did Marris and the rest run off to?” Damien asked.

The bandit opened his mouth, but no sound emerged when he tried to lie. Damien conjured a pair of blades and set them spinning a few feet from the man’s head. “You’d better tell me or I’m going to slice your face off.”

The bandit trembled. “South, half a day or so’s ride there’s a farm where we stashed horses and supplies, just in case. That’s where they’ll go before they head for the badlands.”

“Thank you.” Damien flung the man up against the wall. His head bounced off the stone with a dull thud and he slumped to the ground.

Damien turned to Lane. “I need to go after them. If you don’t feel safe with the barons I can barricade you in your room until I return.”

Lane looked at the huddled, frightened men. “I’ll be okay here. Go.”

Damien ran out the door, pausing long enough to seal the barrier and pour enough power into it to make it last until he got back or a day passed. He’d swing by the suite he shared with Lane and renew the binding on the three would-be assassins and the servant girl. Lane would be safe enough as long as she could handle the barons. Judging from the looks on their faces they wouldn’t give her any trouble.

For their sakes they’d better not.