Among Wolves. Nancy Wallace K.

going to and from the docks. But there was no sign of either LeBeau or St. Clair in either direction.

      Marcus had followed him. “What’s the matter?” he asked in alarm, grabbing his shoulder as he came back through the doorway.

      “Read it yourself,” Devin snapped, throwing the paper down in front of him on the table.

      Marcus unfolded the letter and read out loud: “I know who broke into your cabin. Be careful. Your life is in danger. Please come to see me in Treves.”

      “Shit,” Gaspard said, straightening up. “Is there more?’

      “Just directions to his house,” Devin replied, slumping down into his chair.

      “Why couldn’t he have told you this last night?” Gaspard asked.

      Devin shook his head. “I don’t know. He did ask to speak to me alone.”

      Marcus was watching him closely. “Was there some reason you didn’t open this until now?”

      Devin sighed. “I intended to throw it away without reading it at all. But I forgot it was in my jacket pocket until I pulled it out just now. I wish I’d found it ten minutes ago.”

      Had LeBeau been lingering outside to speak to him just now? And what had St. Clair said to him that had made him so angry?

      Marcus folded the letter carefully and returned it to the envelope, then shoved it across the table to Devin.

      “You won’t be in Treves for another two months. That gives you a long time to decide what you want to do. You can either ignore it or take LeBeau up on his invitation. Besides, there’s some possibility that you may run in to him along the way and you can ask him what he meant. I wouldn’t worry about it now.”

      While the others finished their breakfast, Devin sat hunched over his coffee cup, toying with his food. He methodically dismantled his cinnamon bun but didn’t eat any of it.

      Gaspard gestured with his coffee cup. “I would have eaten that if I’d known you were going to destroy it.”

      “Be my guest,” Devon replied, pushing his plate in front of his friend.

      Outside the sky had darkened and snow was falling heavily.

       CHAPTER 8

       The Stones of Ombria

      Devin’s itinerary called for them to leave the harbor and walk the twenty miles to Briseé to spend the night but Marcus immediately vetoed that because of the weather.

      “This isn’t Viénne,” he told Devin, as they left the cafe. “These spring snowstorms can be deadly. I’m not running the chance of being caught far from shelter and having to spend the night out in the open. We’ll stay tonight in Pireé. If the weather has improved by morning, we can go on.”

      “But if we stay here tonight,” Devin protested, “we’ll be behind schedule already and we’re only three days into our trip!”

      “Then I would say the man who planned our itinerary was a fool not to take bad weather into account.” Marcus responded harshly. “Use your head, Devin!”

      Devin had, in fact, taken bad weather into account. He just hadn’t anticipated it being a problem so early in their journey. It was later, as they made their way through the most Northern Provinces, that he had built extra time into their schedule. Apparently, Ombria was having a late spring; he’d had no way of knowing until they’d arrived here this morning. He threw his knapsack over his shoulder and followed Marcus, tight-lipped and furious. Snow blew into his face and melted down the neck of his jacket. A few steps ahead of him, Gaspard’s dark hair was already powdered with white, and snowflakes plastered Marcus’s hat and shoulders.

      “This is nasty,” Gaspard said, stopping to let Devin catch up. “You don’t want to walk all day in a snowstorm. We’ll rent a room at one of the hotels and get a hot bath and a good meal. Besides, it’s a shame not to see the capital of Ombria while we’re here.”

      Devin stalked straight ahead without commenting while Gaspard kept pace beside him.

      “We could walk around the city this afternoon and then go to the theater tonight. The plays are all unscripted, did you know? Most of the dialogue is improvisation. The director gives the actors a specific plot and they act it out. They claim it’s never the same twice.”

      Receiving no response, Gaspard stopped in front of Devin, placing a hand on each of his shoulders. “You can’t control the weather, Dev. You’ve waited two years for this trip. Lighten up and enjoy it!”

      Devin shook off his hold. “It’s just that one thing after another has gone wrong. I feel as though the entire project is unraveling and there isn’t a blessed thing I can do to stop it!”

      “But surely losing one day won’t make that much difference,” Gaspard insisted.

      “It’s not the delay,” Devin answered. “I’m beginning to have second thoughts about the whole thing.”

      Marcus turned to face them, sheltering his eyes from the snow with one hand. “Are you two coming or not? I don’t intend to stand out here and freeze, while you whine about a change in plans!”

      Gaspard grimaced. “God! What’s gotten into him?”

      “I don’t know,” Devin answered. “Come on. We can talk later.”

      They found a large hotel that fronted onto the square. The staff was solicitous and efficient, and except for the strange pictorial signs, they could have been in Coreé. After they took their bags to their room, Devin considered canvassing the other hotels in the area to see if he could find Henri LeBeau. But the heavy snowfall kept them inside the rest of the day. When they went down to dinner, Devin glanced around the large dining room, but he saw no familiar faces.

      The theater faced the hotel on the other side of the square. They walked quickly on slush-filled sidewalks, their collars turned up against the huge snowflakes which had begun to mix with rain. Ice coated the street lamps and glittered on the cobblestones and the ironwork that ornamented the front of the theater.

      The play was well done and expertly costumed. Devin was fascinated by how the same oral tradition that had produced the Chronicles had also spawned this alternative form of drama. The director proved to be a local storyteller who had turned to theater production. And best of all, the evening’s play was based on one of the lesser known tales from Ombria’s Chronicle.

      “There,” Marcus pointed out later as they sipped brandy in the hotel dining room before going up to bed. “You see, the day wasn’t a total waste, after all. And I can guarantee that you will sleep better here under an eiderdown quilt than in some snowy hollow along the road to Briseé.”

      Devin allowed his brandy to slip slowly down his throat, enjoying the fiery sensation that drove away the chill of clammy boots and damp clothes.

      “I actually wouldn’t mind seeing another production sometime,” he admitted. “I didn’t realize that the theater would be so closely tied to the Chronicle here.”

      “I heard the man behind us say that some directors are actually bards,” Gaspard said. “Apparently, it’s important that the plot always remain accurate even though the actors have the flexibility to modify the individual scenes.”

      The stringed quartet that had played for the evening in the hotel dining room began to pack up their instruments. Across the room, a waiter extinguished candles on the empty tables. Only one other table remained occupied, where a young couple sat talking quietly. Devin stood up.

      “We’d better go and let them close for the night.”

      Marcus