voice

it was from the cold. The voice began again, brisker. "Caliam Halveric. What are you worth to your father—" the hand touched his manhood, "—whole? What would he give for you? Anything? Or—would you fetch a better price elsewhere? As a gelding, perhaps. Or perhaps his enemies would pay for you—" the hand touched here and there, "—piecemeal, so to speak. Eh?"
Cal smiled grimly under the hood. He knew his worth to his father well enough, and the price someone would pay for his death. "I have sired sons enough," he said, answering that oblique threat.
"Ah yes." The voice carried amusement. "You are married, are you not, to—now what is her name?" Cal did not answer. "Five sons and three—no, four—daughters, as I recall. But Cal—what makes you think I have no agents over the mountains. Are five sons enough, if you cannot get more?"
He had not thought of that. Surely they were safe, so far away—young Aliam, only fifteen but furious at being left behind, Berrol the stubborn twelve year old, Malek and Kieri and baby Seli, born just a month after his uncle's death. And the girls: tall Tamar, wild as Aliam, and Zuli, and Volya and Amis. Surely they were safe. But his breath came quicker. How did they know this? Were some of his own men traitors?
After a long pause, the voice went on. "Your father, Cal—he has made a very unfortunate alliance with that crazy dukeling, Phelan." Cal suppressed a snort. Phelan was as crazy as his nickname of fox. "But perhaps, if he values you, he might be persuaded to—to forget that alliance, at least for awhile."
"He will not be likely to forgive your murdering one of his sons because of your threats to another," said Cal calmly.
"Murder? You aren't even harmed—yet—barring a rib you might have bruised falling off your horse."
"You mean your spy system does ah