There was pandemonium. The crowd came to its feet. Geoffrey Wylie furiously jabbed his finger at Leander Hastings. “Point of order!” he shouted. “The Silver Dragon is interfering with the match!”

Hastings looked baffled. He scanned the crowd, focusing on the Jefferson Street neighbors, as if thinking that perhaps Iris or Snowbeard had intervened. Iris was turned around, gesturing, speaking to Snowbeard, who shrugged his shoulders innocently. Hastings's gaze drifted to Linda Downey, who did not look innocent at all. He pursed his lips and turned to D'Orsay.

“I had nothing to do with this,” he said. “I don't know whose charm it is.”

Meanwhile, Jack examined the gash in his arm as best he could. Fortunately, it seemed to be a flesh wound only. He opened and closed his hand. Everything seemed to be in working order. His muscles and tendons were intact. It was bleeding, not heavily, but it was definitely distracting. Ellen stared at him through the shimmer wall, head tilted, feet apart.

D'Orsay addressed the crowd at large. “To repeat: there is to be no wizardry or other interference from the sponsors or galleries under the Rules of Engagement. This is your last warning.”

Wylie was still protesting. “It was Hastings. It must have been. Who else?”

D'Orsay silenced him with a look and pointed at the barrier. It dissolved away, dwindling until it sparkled like a dew upon the grass. The match resumed.

This time, both players were a bit off balance. Jack's arm was still bleeding, leaving smears of blood along the right side of his tunic. It was also throbbing, which made it hard to concentrate. Ellen seemed skittish, no doubt waiting for the next charm to fall. She seemed relieved when the half hour was called. It already seemed like they had been fighting forever. Jack wondered how long the average match lasted. Something else he'd failed to find out. Ellen probably knew to the minute.

Hastings was not allowed to use wizardry to heal up Jack's arm, so he applied a salve and bandaged it tightly. Jack drank another bottle of water while Hastings lectured him about his lack of offense. “You're stronger than she is,” he pointed out. “But it will do you no good if you never land a blow.”

“I know what I'm doing,” Jack said shortly.

“If you lose fairly, that's one thing. But I won't see you sacrifice yourself, if that's what you have in mind.” He laid a hot hand on Jack's shoulder. “I can make you fight, you know.”

“Then make me,” Jack retorted. “Only, now that I'm on the field, you'd better do it without wizardry.” He nodded at the judges. Hastings's eyes glittered, but he was stuck, and knew it.

When the fight resumed, Ellen seemed to have adopted a new strategy. She launched a constant stream of taunts and challenges. She seemed to be trying to make him angry. “Come on, Jack, are you afraid to fight me?” she called to him. “Don't make me chase you around the field. Are you just a little man with a big sword? Do you always run from women?” and so on.

Jack tried to ignore it. He had less strength in his thrust now, which had been his primary advantage. Sometimes he needed both hands to counter one of Ellen's blows. He continued with his basic defensive posture, parrying Ellen's attacks as best he could. She became bolder as she realized he was mounting no offense. Finally, she feinted left and then lunged forward, leading with her sword, and got inside his blade again. Jack desperately threw up a hand, and suddenly Ellen was waving a large spray of gladiolas in place of her sword. She stared at the flowers in her hand and then at Jack, finally understanding. “It's you,” she whispered.

Ellen wasn't the only one who had caught on. Now Wylie had a new target. “It is the boy!” he cried, clearly amazed. “It is obvious he has been trained in wizardry!” He glared accusingly at Hastings.

“If the boy has been trained in wizardry, it was not by me,” Hastings replied, his eyes on Linda Downey. She looked boldly back at him. He turned to D'Orsay. “And if he were truly a warrior, it wouldn't matter. He'd never be able to put it to use.”

“This is unacceptable,” Wylie fumed. “The warrior of the Silver Dragon should forfeit the match, and his sponsor should be sanctioned.”

“Where is it written?” Hastings asked abruptly. He turned to Claude D'Orsay, hands on hips.

Wylie was sputtering. “Everyone knows it. It doesn't have to be written. The High Magic is not tricks and trifles to be practiced by the Anawizard Weir. Who knows what harm might come of this?”

Jack found it interesting that all communication took place through the sponsors, as if he and Ellen were incapable of answering a question.

“Where is it written?” Hastings persisted.

D'Orsay sighed. “It says in the Rules of Engagement that there is to be no wizardry or other interference from the gallery or sponsors.”

“That is just my point.” Hastings waved a hand at the assembly. “There is no wizardry from the gallery. This is wizardry on the field. The rules do not speak to that.”

D'Orsay was at a loss for a moment. “Warriors are not supposed to be trained as wizards,” he said finally.

“That is not written either,” Hastings replied. He pulled a small volume of the rules from his tunic. The page was already marked. He read from the book.“ 'The Game may also be played as personal combat between two warriors. Only hand weapons are to be used, including blades, slings, cudgels, mace and morningstar. The outcome of the match will depend on the weapons chosen, along with whatever personal talent, skill, and training the warrior brings to the match.' There is nothing here to exclude wizardry. You have already ruled him a warrior. If he is, then Jack's use of wizardry is perfectly legal.”

D'Orsay was still paging through the ancient volume on the table, as if he might have overlooked a passage that would save him. He finally stopped, stared at Jack, and then looked back at Hastings. His face was a study. It was clear that he believed himself the victim of a clever conspiracy. Jack was a wizard wolf in warrior's clothing. The Master of the Games had been had, and now he knew very well what the outcome of the match would be. The Silver Dragon would prevail, and Leander Hastings would be Master of the Council at the end of it all.

Claude D'Orsay did not like being made a fool.

He smoothed his elegant coat, straightened his stole of office, freed the lace from his sleeves, taking his time. “Well then,” he said deliberately. “It appears we shall have to change the rules.”

There was a moment of silence, and then a great clamor broke out in the crowd, for and against.

Now it was Hastings's turn to protest. “You cannot amend the rules in the middle of a match,” he said angrily.

“Where is it written?” Wylie asked mockingly.

“You must not,” Hastings repeated. “The warriors must fight under the rules as proclaimed.”

D'Orsay turned and consulted with the other judges. The crowd was on its feet, roaring opinions. Ellen stood holding her strange bouquet, saying nothing. Jack felt a little dizzy, and wished he could sit down for just a little while.

D'Orsay turned back to the sponsors. “By order of the Judges of the Field, in consideration of the current situation, we will amend the Rules of Engagement. There is to be no wizardry or use of High Magic by the players in the Game. Let it be so written.” Someone produced a pen. He opened the leather-bound book, found the last page, and scrawled something into it.

The light changed, as if a shadow passed across the landscape. A cold breeze sprang up, lifting the damp hair from Jack's forehead and drying the sweat from his exposed flesh. He scanned the sky. A bank of clouds had appeared, rolling over the fells, a dark line on the horizon. They were a strange, gray-green color, the leading edge boiling like vapors from a nasty brew. A change in the weather was on its way.

Some of the judges cast their eyes skyward, but D'Orsay was unaware, or pretended to be. He pointed at Ellen, restoring her sword.

“If my player is using wizardry, then he must be a wizard,” Hastings persisted. “And if so, you must reverse yesterday's ruling and disqualify him from the game.”

D'Orsay smiled. “There is nothing that I must do, Hastings. There will be a five-minute interlude. Control your warrior, or he will forfeit.”

Hastings shook his head, and the muscle was working in his jaw again. Jack dropped wearily into a chair on the sidelines. Hastings handed him another bottle of water, which he gulped greedily.

“So you've been studying out of school,” the wizard murmured.

Jack was too tired to respond, but stared straight ahead. After almost an hour and a half of play, he had little fight left in him.

“This is wrong,” Hastings said with conviction. “I know it is.”

“The whole thing is wrong,” Jack retorted. He threw his head back and watched the clouds foaming overhead.

“If you use the High Magic again, you will forfeit,” Hastings said quietly. “They will cut out your heart.”

“Maybe that's best,” Jack replied. He was beyond caring. He thought of Brooks, lying on his back, that gentle letting go of life. All of it, out of his hands.

“Warriors to the field,” D'Orsay was calling.

Somehow, Jack pushed himself up and out of his chair. The point of his sword drew a line in the grass as he stumbled back out on the field. Ellen looked weary as well, and when D'Orsay said, “Go to,” there was little response for a moment. Then Ellen raised her sword and grimly moved forward, and Jack retreated. Ellen wasn't talking anymore, but was businesslike and mechanical, doggedly pressing him farther downfield than before. Shadowslayer blazed as he parried Ellen's sturdy blows. The sword was a part of him, but all his parts were heavy now, his arms and legs like lead, his breathing labored. At least the pain in his arm seemed distant now, like it was someone else's.

It was more and more difficult to stay focused. The wind blew harder, and he smelled rain in the air. He found himself thinking about sailing, about the time he was caught in a gale, racing for shore with a storm behind him, spray breaking over the bow of the boat as he plunged through the swells. He had to force himself back to the business at hand. Ellen. Ellen was beautiful, graceful, determined. Ellen was doing her best to kill him. He blocked another killing blow and stepped back again.