Dark Moon

Chapter Nine

Brune's fever was high, his body sweat-drenched. The elderly doctor leaned over him, closely examining the yellow-gold of his skin. 'It is not the plague,' he told Tarantio. 'But I do not like his colour; it suggests the blood is bad. However, I have bled him and leeched him, and there is little more that I can do.'

'Will he live?'

The doctor shrugged his thin shoulders. 'To be honest, young man, since I do not know what ails him I cannot say. I have seen yellow skin like this in patients before. Sometimes it indicates the kidneys are failing, at other times jaundice or yellow fever. In this case I do not know. You say the colour of his eyes was caused by the magicker, Ardlin. Were I you, I would seek out the magicker, and find out what he has done.'

'He left Corduin,' said Tarantio.

'As well he might. I have no time for magickers: a tricksy bunch, if you take my meaning. Now a man knows where he is with leeches. They suck out the vileness. Nothing magical there.'

Tarantio showed the man to the door, paid him, then returned to the bedside. 'You should have made him eat his leeches,' said Dace. 'The man was an idiot.'

'There was something in what he said. I think this illness is down to the magicker. You saw Brune's eyes.

Both are golden now. There was no magic orb; it is just a spell of some kind. And it is spreading over him.'

'Yes,' said Dace cheerfully, 'it is - and we should have killed Ardlin too.'

'Is that your answer to everything, brother? Kill it?'

'Each to his own,' said Dace. Brune groaned, then spoke out in a language Tarantio had never heard. It was soft, lilting and musical. Tarantio sat beside the bed, laying his hand on Brune's fevered brow. He was burning up. Fetching a bowl of warm water, he drew back the covers and bathed Brune's naked body, allowing the evaporation to cool the skin. 'He is losing a lot of weight,' said Dace. 'Maybe you should cook a broth, or something.'

Brune's golden eyes opened. 'Oh, it hurts,' he said.

'Lie still, my friend. Rest if you can.'

'I am cold.'

Tarantio felt his brow again, then he covered him with blankets and walked out to the kitchen area. The young woman he had hired to cook for them had fled when Brune's fever began. There was no food in the house. Returning to the bedroom, Tarantio built up the fire then threw his cloak around his shoulders and walked out into the snow. It was a long walk to the Wise Owl tavern and he was frozen long before he reached it. Snow had begun to fall again, and his shoulders and hair were crowned with white.

He rapped on the door and Shira opened it. Stepping inside he brushed the snow from his shoulders. 'I am sorry to trouble you,' he said, 'but I have a friend who is sick, and there is no food. Could you prepare something for me to take back?'

'Of course,' she said brightly. As she turned away, he saw that she was pregnant.

'My congratulations to you,' he said.

She reddened. 'We are very pleased, Duvo and I.'

'Duvo?'

'The Singer. You remember?'

'Ah yes. I wish you both happiness.'

'Sit down by the fire and I will fetch you some mulled wine while you wait.' She limped away towards the kitchens. Tarantio removed his cloak and squatted by the fire. He shivered as the heat touched him.

Staring into the dancing flames he began to relax, and did not hear the soft footfalls behind him. But Dace did, and surged into control - rising and twisting, his sword flashing into his hand.

A lean, blond-haired man with green eyes stood there. 'I am Duvodas,' he said.

'You're lucky not to be a dead Duvodas,' said Dace. 'What are you doing sneaking up on people?'

'I was not sneaking, Tarantio. You were lost in thought. Shira tells me you have a sick friend and I was wondering if I could help.'

Dace was about to spit out a reply when Tarantio dragged him back. 'Are you skilled in medicine?' he asked. Duvodas said nothing for a moment, but his eyes narrowed. Tarantio wondered if, somehow, he had seen the transformation.

'I know a little of herbs and potions,' Duvodas said.

'Then you would be most welcome at my home. I have become rather fond of Brune. He is not the brightest of men, but he is honest and he doesn't talk much. And forgive me for my earlier rudeness. I have lived too long amid wars and battles. People appearing silently behind me usually wish me harm.'

'Think nothing of it, my friend.'

Shira returned with a canvas shoulder-bag, bulging with food. 'This should keep the wolf from the door for a day at least. Come by tomorrow, and I will have a hamper for you.' Tarantio offered to pay, but Shira refused. 'We still owe you a meal for the day you left, sir. Pay me for tomorrow's food.'

Tarantio bowed, then accepted the bag which he slung over his shoulder. Donning his cloak, he made for the door. Duvodas walked out into the snow with him. Tarantio looked hard at the man, who was wearing only a shirt of green cotton, thin leggings and boots. 'You will freeze to death,' said Tarantio.

'I like the cold,' said Duvodas, and the two men strolled out into the snow-covered street. An icy wind was blowing against them as they walked, the snow swirling round them. Tarantio glanced at Duvodas, wondering that the man seemed oblivious to the cold. Twenty minutes later Tarantio pushed open his front door and stepped inside. The living-room fire had burned low and he added fuel.

'You are a strange man,' he said. 'Were you raised in a cold climate?'

'No. Where is your friend?'

'In the first of the back bedrooms.'

The two men walked through the house and found Brune mumbling in his sleep. 'Do you recognize the language he is speaking?' asked Tarantio as Duvodas sat by the bed. Brune suddenly began to sing, and the room was filled with the scent of roses. Then he groaned and was silent.

'Where did that scent come from?' asked Tarantio. 'No rose blooms in the snow.'

'What magic was worked on this man?' asked Duvodas. Tarantio told him of the damaged eye and the visit to Ardlin.

'I did not see what he did. But Brune's eyesight is now phenomenal.'

'He is not dying,' said Duvodas. 'He is changing.'

'Into what?'

'I cannot say for sure. But the magic is powerful within him, and it is growing.' Brune's golden eyes opened and he stared at Duvodas. The Singer took his hand and spoke in the Eldarin tongue. Brune smiled and nodded; then he fell asleep once more.

'What did you say to him?'

'I thanked him for his song and the scent of roses.'

'Can you do anything to help him?'

'No. He needs no help from me. Let us leave him resting.' Duvodas returned to the living room and sat down by the fire. Tarantio offered him wine but Duvodas refused, requesting water instead. Tarantio brought him a goblet, then sat down opposite him.

'You are the man who killed the Daroth,' said the Singer. 'I have heard of you. The whole city has heard of you. You make the enemy seem mortal.'

'They are mortal.'

'They once destroyed an entire race,' said Duvodas. 'Wiped them out. Now they are lost to history. I was once in a temple that housed their bones. They were called the Oltor; they were Singers, Musicians and Poets. They believed the Universe was the Great Song, and all life within it merely echoes of the melody. Their music was magical, their magic was music. Their cities were said to be gardens of great beauty, at one with the land, harmonious and joyful. The Daroth destroyed the cities utterly, dashed the statues to dust, burnt the paintings, tore up the songs. They are devourers, these Daroth. They live to destroy.'

'I am not a student of history,' said Tarantio, 'but I know how to fight. The Duke has commissioned new weapons, powerful crossbows that can put a bolt through six inches of teak. We will kill a lot of Daroth.'

'Sadly, that is probably true. There will be a lot more killing,' said Duvodas, 'but I shall not wait to see it.

Shira and I will be leaving as soon as the snow melts. I will take her to the islands, far away from the war.'

'One day the Daroth might reach them,' said Tarantio. 'What will you do then?'

'I shall die,' replied Duvo. 'I am not a killer. I am a Singer.'

'Like the Oltor? A race that will not fight does not deserve to live. It is against nature.'

Duvodas rose. 'I was taught that evil always carries the seeds of its own downfall. One can only hope that it is true. When your friend awakes, feed him no meat and give him no wine. Give him bread, hot oats or dried fruit. And plenty of water.'

'Meat makes a man strong,' observed Tarantio.

'It will make him vomit,' said Duvodas.

'What is it that you are not telling me?' Tarantio asked.

'If I knew for certain, I would tell you. I will call again when he is awake.'

'Again!' shouted Karis, and began to count slowly. The fifty crossbow-men placed the heads of their black bows on the icy ground and began to turn the iron handles on both sides of the stock. By the time Karis had reached the count of twelve, they had notched the thick rope. Sliding bolts into place, they hefted the heavy weapons, rested them on the long support tripod, and took up their positions. The last man was ready as Karis reached fifteen. 'Shoot!' she called.

Fifty black bolts flashed through the air to hammer home into targets of solid oak set thirty paces from the bowmen. Karis loped across the target field. The bolts had all struck home, but not deeply.

Vint strolled across to where she stood. 'The accuracy is fine,' he said.

'The penetration is not,' she told him. 'At twenty paces the bolts smash through the wood. At thirty they barely scratch it.'

'Then we wait until the Daroth are within twenty paces.'

'Gods, man! Is your imagination dead? Yes, we will cut them down. Then, as the reloading takes fifteen seconds, they will be upon us before a second volley can be loosed. The Duke believes we can have five hundred crossbow-men ready by spring. We will need to kill more than five hundred Daroth.'

Vint shook his head. 'That presupposes we will be facing them on open ground. Surely the majority of our crossbow-men will be shooting from the walls?'

'The bows are too heavy for accurate use upon the battlements,' said Karis wearily. 'And shooting downwards lessens the target area. Two-thirds of the bolts would miss. We need something more.

There must be another weakness we can exploit.'

Strolling back to the waiting bowmen, she signalled them to load again and to shoot without the tripod support. Half the bolts missed the target. She kept them hard at work for another hour, then dismissed them.

Back in the barracks building she studied the reports of the massacres at Morgallis and Prentuis.

Sirano had destroyed his own palace, killing scores of Daroth in the process. The Duke of The Marches had been less successful. Reliable reports claimed that no more than fifty Daroth were killed in the battle. Several thousand trained men had been slain, and scores of thousands of civilians.

A servant brought her a meal of black bread and soft cheese. She ate swiftly then donned a sheepskin jerkin and made her way to the stables. Saddling Warain, she rode the grey out through the northern gates and across the open ground before the walls. Pausing a hundred paces from the walls, she looked back, picturing the line of crossbow-men. Heeling Warain into a run, she began to count once more. Three times she made the run at the wall, watched by perplexed soldiers on the ramparts. Then she turned away from the city and rode into the hills.

It was past dusk when she returned. Leading Warain to his stall, she rubbed him down with fresh straw, filled his feedbox with grain, and covered his grey back with a thick woollen blanket.

Returning to her rooms, she found Vint waiting for her. 'Did you clear your head, Karis?' he asked, offering her a goblet of mulled wine. She drained it in a single swallow.

There was a log fire blazing in the hearth. Karis moved to it and removed her wet, cold clothing. Vint crossed the room and began to massage her shoulders and neck. 'You are very cold,' he said, his voice husky.

'Then warm me,' she told him.

Later, as they lay naked beneath satin sheets and heavy blankets, Karis waited until Vint's breathing deepened, then slid silently from the bed and returned to the fire. It had died down and she placed two fresh logs upon it.

In order to use the crossbows to maximum effect, the Daroth charge would have to be slowed. Three volleys would cause carnage in their ranks, but that would involve holding up the Daroth for almost a minute within a twenty-pace range. Karis drank two goblets of wine, and still felt no drowsiness. She thought of waking Vint for another session of love-making, but decided against it. He was a caring and thoughtful lover, taking his time and making the moments last. At this moment Karis did not need such drawn-out intensity. Instead, she donned fresh leggings and a white woollen shirt, buckskin boots and her hooded jerkin, and walked from the palace into the night.

The streets were deserted and a bitter wind was blowing down from the north. Karis pulled her hood over her long dark hair, and turned down a side alley towards the Barracks tavern. Golden lantern light glowed from the windows and a rush of welcome heat enveloped her as she pushed open the door. There were two log fires burning, one at each end of the long room within, and the tavern was packed with soldiers. Karis scanned the room, spotting the red-bearded giant Forin sitting in a corner with a young whore perched upon his knee.

Karis eased her way through the crowd and removed her jerkin, draping it over the back of the chair opposite the giant. 'We need to talk,' she said.

'Will it take long?' he asked. 'I have plans for the evening.' He grinned up at the young whore, who forced a laugh and stared at Karis with open hostility.

'I want you to tell me everything you can remember of your father's stories concerning the Daroth.

Everything!'

'Can this not wait until the morning?'

'No, it cannot,' said Karis. The young whore, sensing her payment receding, leaned forward, her face showing her anger. But before the girl could speak Karis drew her dagger and slammed it point first into the table. 'One wrong word from you and I shall cut your tongue out,' she said, her voice icy. The whore's painted mouth dropped open, fear replacing her anger. 'Now go away and find another client,' said Karis.

'There are plenty to choose from.'

The girl slid from Form's lap and moved away into the crowd. Forin drained his tankard. 'You have lost me a night's pleasure,' he said.

'And saved you a dose of the pox, in all probability.'

Forin was about to reply when she saw him glance over her shoulder, his green eyes narrowing.

Instantly alert to danger, Karis pushed back her chair and spun round. The young whore was approaching with two men. 'That's her! Pulled a knife on me, she did!'

'That was a mistake, bitch,' said the first of the two, a broad-shouldered young man with pockmarked features.

'Not as bad as the mistake you are about to make,' Karis told him, noting that the second man held a short iron club.

'Is that right?' he countered, lunging forward, his fist flashing towards Karis's face. She side-stepped suddenly and, thrown off-balance, the man stumbled forward - to be met with a head butt that smashed his nose to pulp. He dropped like a stone. The second man grabbed Karis by the arm, hauling her towards him, but she spun and rammed her elbow into his chin. He staggered to his right, dropping the club. Karis took a step back, then leapt high, her booted foot cannoning against his face to catapult him back into the crowd. He fell heavily and did not rise.

Forin moved alongside Karis. 'Perhaps we should continue our conversation somewhere private?' he offered.

'Why not?' she told him. Forin took a candle from the table and led her through to the rear of the tavern and up a flight of rickety steps. There was a narrow corridor leading to three doors. Forin opened the first and stepped aside for Karis to enter. The room was small, gloomy and cold. There were no chairs, only a roughly crafted double bed with a thin mattress. Using the flickering candle, Forin lit a lantern which hung on a hook above the bed, then

moved to the small hearth where a fire had been laid; this he also lit. 'It will be warm soon enough,' he said.

She squatted down beside him, watching the firelight reflected in his green eyes. He was not a handsome man, she thought, but he had a quality that transcended good looks. Is it his strength, his size? she wondered. In the firelight he looked somehow larger, more impressive. Primal, perhaps?

'What are you thinking?' he asked her.

'I was wondering what you looked like naked.' she said.

'Wonder for a little longer,' he told her, with a broad smile. 'The room's not warm enough yet.'

'Then tell me of the Daroth, for I need to find a weakness.'

Forin sat back. 'There are none that I recall. You already know they do not like the cold, nor high places where the air is thin. They will not cross water if they can avoid it. But these things will not help us in Corduin. We are in low-lying land, the weather is clement in the spring, and there is no moat.'

'Even so, I believe there is something else.'

'Wishful thinking, perhaps?'

'I do not believe so. It is something I have seen, and yet not recognized. Something that is perhaps too obvious.'

'I am afraid you have lost me there.'

'Tell me a simple story of how they live.'

'You saw the city. They cluster together in domed dwellings. They cannot sit as we do, for their spines are thicker and less supple. They procreate without touching, the female laying an egg which the male fertilizes. There is no obvious difference between male and female. Both are equally strong, and - as we have observed - equally ugly. There are no children as such; the young emerge from their pods and grow within days to full-size adults, sharing the memories of whichever parent has died - if that is the term - beside the pod. They eat flesh, and require great amounts of salt.' He paused. 'Is this helping you?'

'I don't know,' she admitted. The heat in the small room was growing, and Forin peeled off his shirt; his upper body bore many scars. As he rose and stripped off his leggings, Karis pushed the thoughts of the Daroth from her mind.

His love-making was exactly what she needed - crude and powerful, animalistic and passionate - and Karis felt her body echoing his need. His arms slid under her shoulders, pulling her hard against him; his body smelt of wood-smoke and sweat. It was not unpleasant, as she had feared. As her body tensed and moved in rhythm with the man upon her, her mind relaxed, as if she was floating free of the carnal. In this curiously detached state her body drew strength from the massive figure above her, while the problems that haunted her faded from her consciousness. She was free. Nothing else existed. The world had shrunk to a grimy, firelit room above a noisy tavern. There were no problems to solve, no logistics to calculate, no plans to study. And she did not even need to consider the pleasure of the man, for he, she knew, was oblivious to her as an individual. It was the only true freedom Karis ever knew.

Her legs locked about his hips, her nails raking his back, Karis found herself rising towards orgasm, which, when it came, sent her body into an almost painful series of spasms. Her head sank back onto the pillow and she closed her eyes, enjoying the small aftershocks that rippled through her system. Forin rolled from her and lay back with a sigh. For a long moment neither of them spoke, then Forin rose from the bed and moved to the fire. Karis watched him dress. 'I'll get us both a drink,' he said, and left the room.

After he had gone Karis also dressed. The room was warm now, the fire blazing. She moved to the small window and tried to open it, but the hinges were rusted and it would not budge.

Not waiting for him to return, Karis made her way down the stairs and out into the night.

Vint was still asleep when she returned, but she had no wish to climb in beside him.

Stretching out on a couch, she dreamt of a green-eyed giant with a forked red beard.

Tarantio rose with the dawn and moved through the silent house, as always enjoying the solitude, these brief moments without Dace. The kitchen was bitterly cold, the remains of yesterday's milk frozen in the jug. With a saw-edged knife he cut two thick slices of bread from a loaf, and carried them through to the living room. He had banked up the fire the night before, and the coals were still glowing. Tarantio toasted the bread and covered it with thick, creamy butter.

I ought to be making plans, he thought. Corduin will not resist the Daroth. But where to go? The islands?

What would I do there? He ate the toast and, still hungry, went back to the kitchen to cut more bread. The loaf was gone.

Puzzled, Tarantio walked to the rear of the house, opening the door to Brune's bedroom. The bed was empty, and there was no sign of the young man. Retracing his steps he returned to the kitchen. The back door was still locked from the inside, the windows shuttered. Pulling back the bolts Tarantio opened the door. A blast of icy air struck him as he stepped out into the garden.

Brune was sitting, naked, on the wooden bench. All around him birds were fluttering, landing on his arms, and head and hands, pecking at the bread he offered them. A wide circle of grass was all around the bench, without a flake of snow upon it, though the rest of the garden still lay beneath a thick white blanket.

Tarantio pulled on his boots and walked out across the garden. The birds ignored him, continuing to fly around Brune. As Tarantio sat down he felt suddenly warm, as if Brune was radiating heat in defiance of the elements.

The golden-skinned young man continued to feed the birds until all the bread was gone. Most of them flew away but several remained, sitting on his shoulders or on the back of the bench. They were, as was Tarantio, enjoying the warmth.

Reaching out, Tarantio laid his hand on Brune's shoulder. 'You should come in,' he said softly.

'I heard them call to me,' said Brune, his voice melodic and low.

'Who called you?'

'The birds. Up to two-thirds of their body weight can be lost on a cold night. They die in their thousands in the winter.'

Suddenly Brune shivered and the cold swept in, bitter and deadly. He cried out, and the birds around him panicked and flew away. Tarantio helped him back into the house, taking him to the fire. 'What is happening to me?' came the true voice of Brune. 'Why was I in the garden?'

'You were feeding the birds,' Tarantio told him.

'I am really frightened. I can't think. It's like there's someone else in me.' He was shivering, and Tarantio fetched a blanket which he wrapped around Brune's shoulders. 'I feel like I'm dying,' said Brune.

'You are not dying. It's the magic that cured your eye. It's spreading somehow.'

'I don't want this any more, Tarantio. I want to be what I was. Can't we get the magic taken out?'

'I don't know. Tell me what you remember about feeding the birds.'

'I don't remember nothing. I was asleep, and I had this dream. Can't remember much now. But I was in a forest, and there were lots of people - no, not people. They were all golden-skinned; they were . . . dying.

Oh yes . . . there was Daroth there. Killing them. It was horrible. And then .. . there was nothing until I was sitting in the garden.'

'How are you feeling now? Is there any pain?' asked Tarantio.

'No. No pain. But. ..' Brune's voice tailed away.

'What? Tell me!'

'I'm not alone in here. I'm not alone.'

'Of course you are not alone. I am here,' said Tarantio soothingly.

'No, you don't understand. I'm not alone in my head.' Brune began to weep and Tarantio's anger flared, remembering the surprised look on the face of the magicker as he had entered the room.

The sudden anger woke Dace. 'What is happening?' he asked.

Tarantio told him. 'Someone else in his head? Sounds familiar,' said Dace. 'I knew Brune would be an entertaining companion. Perhaps what you and I have, brother, is contagious.'

'It is not funny,' said Tarantio sternly. 'Brune is frightened. He thinks he is dying.'

'Everybody dies sometime,' said Dace.

'I think the Singer knows more than he is saying,' said Tarantio. 'He is coming back today. I'll ask him.'

'Let me ask him,' Dace urged.

'Perhaps that will be necessary,' Tarantio agreed.

Taking Brune by the arm, he led him back to the bedroom. 'Get some rest, my friend. You will feel better for it, I promise you.' Brune climbed back into the bed, drawing the blanket over him and resting his head on the pillow.

'Look at his ear,' said Dace. Tarantio had seen it at the same time: the lobe was no longer smooth, but ridged like a seashell.

'If I ever find that magicker I'll cut his heart out,' hissed Dace.

The councillor Pooris stood shivering by the southern gate, counting the wagons as the oxen slowly hauled them into the city. The War of the Pearl had been a ruinous venture, disrupting trade, destroying farms, and taking young men from the fields and turning them into mercenaries.

Even without the threat of the Daroth, Corduin was slowly starving to death. Corn was five times last year's price, and the city treasury was emptying fast. A census ordered by the Duke showed that almost 70,000 people were now resident in Corduin. Many were now starving, and crimes against individuals and property was soaring.

As the last of the twenty-two wagons rumbled through the gate, Pooris ran alongside it and clambered up to sit alongside the driver. 'I expected forty wagons,' said Pooris. 'That is what was promised.'

The driver hawked and spat. 'This is all there is,' he said, brushing the ice from his beard. 'Be thankful for that.'

'We paid for forty.'

'That is not my problem, councillor. Take it up with the merchant, Lunder.'

Pooris hunkered down inside his hooded sheepskin coat and thought of the city's bakers, who later tonight would be queuing at the warehouses. Forty wagons would have been barely enough to supply the bakers with half what was needed. Twenty-two would mean riots in the streets tomorrow.

At Warehouse Street Pooris jumped down from the wagon and entered the small offices beside the guard gate. For several minutes he stood in front of a wood stove, warming his hands and thinking the problem through. The bakers were already rationed to 40 per cent of their needs. Now they would suffer a further 50 per cent cut.

A young cleric approached him, offering a mug of hot tisane, heavily sweetened with sugar. Pooris thanked him. The man returned to his desk and continued to fill in the ledger, noting down the wagons and the time of their arrival. Pooris glanced around the room. The ill-fitting windows had been sealed with paper, which was now sodden and dripping water to the walls below. 'Not the most comfortable of working-places,' remarked Pooris.

The young man looked up and smiled. 'I like it here,' he said. The cleric rose and donned a fur-lined cape. 'I must leave you, councillor. I need to check the unloading of the wagons.'

'Of course. My thanks to you.' Pooris held out his hand. The young man shook it, then opened the door and stepped out into the snow.

Pooris removed his coat and moved to the desk, scanning the ledger. The cleric's script was neat and easy to read. During the last two weeks some 320 wagons had been checked through, bringing corn, grain, salted meat, spices, dried fruit and wine from the islands. Almost all of the food had been shipped in through the port city of Loretheli, much of it arranged through the merchant Lunder. Flicking back through the pages, Pooris saw that the amount of food shipped had steadily decreased during the past three months, the prices rising in direct proportion. It was a simple economic law, Pooris knew, that when demand outstripped supply prices would take off like startled pigeons.

The young cleric returned, and looked surprised to see Pooris sitting at his desk. 'Is there anything I can help you with, councillor?' he asked. Pooris glanced up, and saw the nervousness in the man.

'I was just studying the shipments,' he said. 'We are fast approaching famine status.'

'I'm sure the Duke will think of something, sir,' said the young man, relaxing. 'May I offer you another mug of tisane?'

'No, I must be going.' Once more they shook hands. 'What is your name?'

'Cellis, sir.'

'Thank you for your hospitality, Cellis.'

Pooris wandered along Warehouse Street, cutting through the narrow alleyways to the central avenue and thence to the palace. Ensconced in his own small office, he called in Niro, a spider-thin cleric with close-cropped, spiky black hair. 'What do you know of the man, Cellis, who works at the warehouse guard gate?' he asked.

'Nothing, sir. But I shall find out,' Niro answered.

'Do it now, as a matter of urgency,' said Pooris, removing his coat and hanging it on a hook set in the wall.

For just over an hour Pooris worked through the tasks he had set himself for the day, compiling a list of armourers, and the various orders for swords, spears, crossbow bolts and armour placed with them, along with the delivery dates promised. He was almost finished when Niro returned.

'I have some of the information you require, sir,' he said. 'Cellis has been working for us for two years. His father was a cobbler in the Southern Quarter, his mother a seamstress. He was educated by the Aver monks and passed his examinations with honours. He is not married, and lives in a hill house in Quarter Street.

Was there more you wished to know, sir?'

'A cobbler, you say?'

'His father . . . yes.'

'Does he own the house?'

'I ... I don't know, sir.'

'Find out.'

Once again Pooris returned to his work. He called in a cleric and dictated several letters, including one to Lunder asking why the number of flour wagons had been fewer than expected.

When Niro returned just before noon, he looked cold and his lips were blue. 'Sit you down, man,' said Pooris. Niro rubbed his thin hands together. Moving to the small stove, Pooris flicked open the door, allowing a rush of heat into the room.

'Thank you, sir,' said Niro. 'Yes, he does own the house. He bought it four months ago for two hundred gold. It is a fine house, with stables in the rear and an apple orchard.'

'How did a cobbler's son raise the capital necessary?'

'I thought you'd ask that, sir; that's why it took me so long. He borrowed the money from . . .'

'.. . the merchant Lunder,' finished Pooris.

'Yes, sir,' said Niro, surprised. 'How did you know?'

'Cellis wears a gold ring, set with an emerald the size of my thumbnail. No cleric could afford such a bauble. Go to the Hall of Records and find out how many warehouses Lunder owns or rents. Do it slyly, Niro. I want no-one to know.'

'Yes, sir.'

Pooris shut the stove door, put on coat and gloves and left the building, trudging through the snow towards the southern gate. A quarter-mile from the gate, he stopped at a row of terraced houses. They housed retired soldiers and their wives, and were a gift from the Duke - a reward for loyal service. Moving to the first he rapped on the door. There was no answer, and he walked to the second. When he knocked, an elderly woman called out from within, 'Who is it? What do you want?'

'I am the councillor, Pooris,' he told her. 'I would appreciate a moment of your time, lady.'

He heard the bolts being drawn back, then the door groaned inward. Stepping inside he bowed to the frail, white-haired old woman. 'They said I could stay here till I was dead,' said the woman. 'Said it was my right.

I won't live in no poorhouse. I'll kill myself first.'

'Be at ease,' he said softly. 'I have not come as a bailiff. Do you sleep well, my lady?'

'Ay,' she said cautiously. 'Though not as deep as I used to.'

'I was just wondering if the noise of the wagons disturbs you late at night.'

'No,' she said. 'I sit at my window sometimes and watch them go by. I don't get out much now. Too cold for me. It's nice to watch life below my window.'

'How often do they come through?' he asked.

'Maybe three times a week. Great convoys of them.'

'Did they come last night?'

'Ay, they did. Three hours before dawn.'

'How many?'

'Maybe fifty. Maybe a little less.'

'I thank you for your time.' He turned to leave. 'It is very cold in here. Do you have no fuel?'

'The Duke's pension don't extend to luxuries,' she said.

'My man fought for him for thirty years. He's dead now, and his pension is halved. I get food, though. As for the cold - well, I'm used to it.'

'I shall see that coal is delivered to you before the day is out, my lady.'

Pooris bowed once more, then stepped out into the cold, fresh air.