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Page 479
armored. Her knife stroke was so hard, so swift, that the point pierced the mail and left a long scratch on his throat. An unarmed man would have died in seconds.
"Alinor!" he gasped.
The knife flew from her hand.
"Alinor, do not cry out," Simon whispered and released her mouth.
Her eyes were screaming, although no sound came from her. Her hands flew first to his throat, where a drop or two of red welled between the links of the chain mail, then to his bloody clothing, then to his face from which they recoiled.
"Wax," Simon whispered. "It is wax. The blood is not mine. Alinor, by the heart of God, I swear I am not hurt. Never mind why I took like this. Only come away now and be silent. We must get out before some mischance wakes the castlefolk."
She rose at once although her eyes were still not sane. "Beorn? My men?" she whispered.
"Below, awaiting us."
She threw on clothing, not bothering to lace or tie, grabbed a cloak. "My maids, Simon. I cannot leave them to be the sport of that creature's troops."
Simon ground his teeth, but Alinor was already gone. To the credit of her training and their terror of their mistress, the maids were ready in minutes, unquestioning, frightened but mute and obedient. She did not give them time to become more frightened by Simon's appearance but drove them before her, hissing threats of what would befall them if one single sound escaped their lips. They would be still. They knew their mistress. She did not utter vain threats and she looked now as if she would kill for amusement.
The door to the stair was still open as Simon had left it. He closed it gently behind him, felt in his belt pouch, thrust a coin between the latch and the lifter. What the

 
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