Kellanved's Reach

Chapter 17

It was night, and damned cold. How the blasting furnace heat of the day could be whipped away so quickly was a mystery to Dancer. The dark bowl of the sky was clear and glowing with stars. That at least was some consolation; he’d been given rudimentary training in how to tell direction by the stars and so he knew that at least they weren’t walking in circles.

He paused to catch his breath – something he found himself having to do more and more often – and adjusted the woven rope across his chest. The rope drew a tossed-together sledge of two branches as runners supporting broken lashed boughs as crosspieces. Upon this lay Kellanved.

It had been four days, or rather nights, of travel since their banishment by whoever – or whatever – that entity had been. He’d recovered first, while Kellanved was still having trouble. It seemed the entity had attacked him with particular vehemence – Dancer couldn’t imagine why.

He’d awoken to find himself in a blasted wasteland of a desert. So alien did it appear he’d at first thought them cast into some other Realm, or some nether reach of the Paths of Hood himself. But that night the stars came out and he knew they were still in the world – and if he was reading the sky correctly, far to the south of Quon Tali.

A flat featureless plain of wind-blown dust, crusted salt pans, and outcroppings of barren crumbling rock lay in every direction. Here and there bits of broken and rusted metal poked out like wreckage. To his eye the fragments had the look of the mechanisms they’d encountered in the flying structures they had seen before.

By day the sun seared the ground like a forge – waves of heat shimmered like will-o’-the-wisps – while by night the winds snatched all heat away and left one shuddering.

Dancer had opted to travel by night. By day he levered up the ramshackle sledge as cover against the sun and they lay in its shade. By night he dragged it as far as he could before falling exhausted.

Faced with the choice of four directions he’d chosen east, and crossed his fingers that this land lay mostly north–south. Since then there had been four nights of endless trudging, with only the stars as evidence that he was making any headway at all.

A groan from behind brought him up short. He let the rope fall and turned to peer down at Kellanved. He’d have knelt to inspect him, but he suspected that if he knelt just then he’d not be able to straighten again.

He swallowed – or attempted to – to wet his throat, and croaked, ‘Back with us?’

The mage nodded, wincing, then raised his hands to his head with the tentativeness of someone expecting to find a wet mess. He felt at it gingerly, groaning anew. ‘The touch of whoever that was is particularly virulent.’

‘Where are we?’ Dancer asked.

Kellanved opened his eyes and peered about owlishly. ‘Haven’t the faintest.’ His head fell back down.

Dancer looked to the sky. ‘Not helpful.’

A quavering hand rose to wave. ‘I’ll work on it.’

‘Fine!’ He picked up the rope and returned to hauling.

When the first glimmerings of golden light brightened ahead, Dancer dropped the rope and started digging with his knives to create a trench for them to hide in from the sun’s blasting heat. This finished, he returned to stand over Kellanved. ‘Can you get up?’

‘’Fraid not.’

Dancer grunted, took hold of the fellow’s clothes at the shoulders, dragged him into the trench, and started working on levering up the sledge as a shading lean-to. That done, he lay down himself and, despite his ferocious gnawing hunger, immediately fell asleep.

The sun’s glaring light in his eyes stabbed him awake. Kellanved lay with an arm over his face. Dancer roused himself to shift the sledge to the opposite side of the trench then lay down once more, his face turned to the salty, ashen earth.

A nudge woke him; it was dusk. A purple light was gathering in the east. He staggered off and undid the front of his trousers but found he couldn’t urinate. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d relieved himself. Seemed the need had passed.

He returned to the trench, blinked down at Kellanved. ‘Can you stand?’

The mage twiddled his fingers at his chest. ‘Sorry. Can’t seem to feel my legs …’ And he laughed, a touch nervously.

Dancer merely grunted once more, readied the sledge, and dragged Kellanved back up on to it. Stooping, and fighting a wave of dizziness, he picked up the rope, tucked it under his armpits, and leaned forward until the damned contraption started moving. He kept it moving by leaning as far forward as he could.

While Dancer walked the endless leagues of the white salt pans, Kellanved started talking. Or babbling – depending upon how generous Dancer felt at any particular moment.

‘I do believe I have narrowed it down to one viable candidate for our location,’ he was saying. ‘Have you heard of Korel?’

Dancer managed a hoarse ‘No’.

‘No? Really? Well … how about the land of Fist?’

It took Dancer a while to say, ‘Yeah. Heard of that in stories. The Stormwall.’

‘Indeed. Korel is another name for the region. It lies south of Quon Tali.’

Dancer grunted to show he was still listening.

‘And south of this subcontinent lies yet another land – one I have only seen depicted on maps – named Stratem. Have you heard of that?’

‘No.’

‘Really? Your geographical education has been shockingly neglected, I must say.’

Dancer rolled his eyes.

‘In any case, even farther south than Stratem lies a long peninsula with no name. I myself have only come across one account of it. A traveller who passed its shores. No one has ever actually dared walk it.’

‘And?’ Dancer asked, as he knew the mage was aching to impart his knowledge.

‘Ah. It is described as a great flat monotonous wasteland of salt pans and blasted rocks where nothing can live as the soil is too poisoned.’

‘Sounds familiar.’

‘The legend I came across is of one of the most savage battles waged between the Elders. A clash of the K’Chain Che’Malle and the ones known as the Forkrul. So ferocious was the exchange that the very land was laid to waste, poisoned and seared to glass. Even the Warrens here are wrenched and tattered – like slashed cloth. I can attest to that. So, it is very possible that we were cast into the middle of that very wasteland to die.’

Dancer grunted again. ‘And?’

‘And? What do you mean, and? I proffer an amazing piece of deduction and that is the best you can do?’

‘In other words, this doesn’t help us at all.’

‘Well … if you must put it that way …’

Dancer just shook his head.

They endured another day of glaring heat. That night, with twilight coming on, Kellanved staggered to his feet. ‘I will try to walk,’ he told Dancer, who was so doubtful he pulled the sledge along in any case. And it was fortunate that he did so, for later that night he glanced back to see no sign of the mage. He had to backtrack a good distance to find the fellow lying face down in the dry crusted dirt.

He levered him back on to the sledge and turned round.

A short while later he too found himself face down in the dirt. Blinking, he pushed himself up, leaned forward, and plodded onwards. After the third time he came to in the dirt he lost track of where he was or what was going on. It all became rather dreamlike – or nightmarish. In this strange swirling nightscape he had to keep walking. He wasn’t really certain why, he just had to. And so he did, onwards again and again. Even, it seemed to him, crawling on all fours in the end.

Then he lay down – or thought he did – just for a short rest, as he was so very drained.

*

Moisture tickling his lips teased Dancer. He cracked one eye open a slit. He was inside some sort of crude dwelling. Water touched his lips with a sweet ecstasy that made him flinch and he blacked out again.

Some time later he woke once more. This time he blinked, rousing himself, trying to sit up. Then he flinched again, for facing him was a monster.

All in black it was – some sort of black-hued plated armour, complete with gauntlets and helmet. But it was holding out a seashell containing a few sips of water and this Dancer gingerly took, nodding. He drank it.

The monster sat back, echoed the nod.

Peering round, he could see no sign of Kellanved. Alarmed, he rose – or tried to – and would have fallen but for the creature taking his weight. He motioned that he wished to go outside, and the thing nodded again and walked him out of the enclosure.

They were at the coast. White sands sloped down to turquoise waters.

‘My friend,’ he asked hoarsely. ‘Where is he?’

But the creature just shook its armoured head.

Just up from the strand more of the black-armoured things were busy working on what could only be described as a large raft. Dancer spotted another rickety dwelling and pointed. His nursemaid nodded again and walked him over to it.

Within, he found Kellanved and another of the creatures, apparently talking.

The mage looked up, beaming. ‘Ah! With us at last. Excellent!’

‘What’s going on? Who – what – are these?’

‘These are our benefactors. Saviours. One of them spotted us and brought us here. All due to you, my friend. Apparently you nearly crawled right into the sea. Anyway, they are stranded here, just as we are.’

‘And … what … are they?’

The mage’s grey brows rose in incredulity. ‘You have not heard of the legendary Moranth?’

Dancer felt his shoulders falling. ‘No. I have not heard of the legendary Moranth.’

Kellanved lifted a single brow in disapproval. ‘Well, they are a people of the continent of Genabackis. You have heard of that, I should hope.’

At the word Genabackis the two Moranth nodded.

Dancer gave his companion a thin smile. ‘Yes, thank you, I have heard of Genabackis.’

‘Very good. Now, as far as I can make out, our friends were exiled, or fled, from their homeland and ended up here. Struck the coast and have been stranded ever since. Sailing not one of their skills, apparently.’

Dancer eyed the armoured monsters. ‘Just what is it they do, then?’

An eager smile came to Kellanved. ‘Oh, they are soldiers, my friend. Bred from birth.’

Dancer grunted, impressed despite himself. ‘Well, thank them and let’s get going.’

The mage tapped his fingertips together, and Dancer knew there was a problem. ‘Well …’ Kellanved began, ‘that’s the thing. Remember I said that the Warrens were all torn apart and pretty much inaccessible across these lands?’

Dancer frowned. Actually, he didn’t. ‘What of it?’

‘Well … they are. And so we’re stuck here. Unless, of course, our friends here,’ and he gestured to their hosts, ‘find it within their generosity to grant us a place on the fine craft they are currently constructing.’

Now Dancer scowled his disgust. ‘I saw it. That raft is a sad piece of trash.’

Kellanved raised a hand for silence. He turned to the Moranth he’d been speaking to. ‘As I said, Tull, I can send you home if you would just take us far enough from land.’

‘No room,’ the monster answered, startling Dancer.

Kellanved opened his hands. ‘Yes. I understand. But if you make room I will send you back to Genabackis.’

‘You lie for room,’ Tull replied.

Kellanved pressed a hand to his head in exasperation. ‘Have you no mages among you? None of that – caste – who deal with the unseen? Who do things you cannot?’

Tull nodded his armoured head. ‘Ah. You speak of Silvers. Priests and sages. You are priest?’

Kellanved continued to rub his brow. ‘Something like that. Now – once I am far enough from the coast I assure you I will be able to send all of you to Genabackis. Really. I promise.’

Tull lumbered to his feet. ‘I will speak to our commander.’

‘Thank you,’ Kellanved answered.

Both the Moranth left the enclosure, which was nothing more than a hut of driftwood, and Dancer looked at his companion. ‘We could build our own raft.’

‘I believe we’ll get farther with all of them paddling.’

Now Dancer shook his head. ‘I mean it. We’re better off on our own.’

‘Maybe not necessarily. I sense opportunity here. I really can send them along to Genabackis. Well,’ and he rubbed his chin, ‘as close as I can manage, anyway.’

Their two Moranth companions returned with a third. Dancer could tell who was who by differences in the armour plates enclosing them. This new one’s armour was very scarred and bent, as if he’d seen a lot of battle. He knelt on his haunches before Kellanved, and, alarming Dancer, reached out to take a handhold of the mage’s short kinky hair in an armoured, gauntleted hand.

‘We make room,’ this one said – the commander. ‘But if you lie we cut off arm and cook then eat before you. Then next arm. Then leg. You understand?’

Kellanved swallowed, and nodded in an exaggerated manner. ‘Yes. I understand. Very good. Thank you. Yes.’

The commander released his handhold and rose. ‘Agreed, then.’

Kellanved raised a hand. ‘Ah – how soon do we go?’

‘Soon,’ this one said.

‘And your name? You are …?’

The Moranth commander paused, peering down at the mage. ‘My name? If changed to your language? Would be Twist.’

Over the following days, as Dancer regained his strength, he got to know the Moranth assigned to nursemaiding him. Food, thankfully, was plentiful. As far as he understood it, no pots or such had survived the Moranth shipwreck, but they found natural pits in the rocks along the shoreline that they filled with fresh sweetwater from small creeks, dropped hot stones in, and boiled caught seafood, which they cracked open with rocks.

He and his companion walked the shore working on a shared vocabulary. Each spoke of his own homeland, as best he could. His nurse’s name, as far as Dancer could make out, was Balak.

‘We are soldiers,’ Balak explained. ‘We only. We Black, and the Red. Silvers are our priests and sages and … ah, how you say … orderers?’

‘Managers? Bureaucrats? Governors?’

‘Ah, yes. Governors. And wise males and females. Golds are our rulers. Always. For ages uncounted. Always the Gold caste. And we always following orders. Fighting. But with no say in why. So, some of our higher commanders, Twist among them, began to question such things. Began to … how you say … push back?’

‘Resist? Agitate?’

‘Ah yes, resist. And for this they are caught, tried, and exiled.’

‘I am sorry.’

Balak shrugged his armoured shoulders. ‘It was the risk we took.’ He motioned to the camp. ‘Your friend … he is, how you say, a mage? Can he really take us home?’

Dancer nodded. ‘Yes. Or as close as he can.’

Balak shook his helmeted head, obviously rather doubtful. ‘Such things are of the lowlanders who are our enemies. In the cities of Pale and Darujhistan. It is difficult for us to trust such things.’

‘He will try.’

Balak resumed pacing the shore. ‘Let us hope so.’

Within the week the raft was ready – or as ready as it ever would be. Remaining supplies were loaded aboard and it was pushed out into the surf. The Moranth piled on. Space was made for Dancer and Kellanved right at the very edge, where their feet dangled in the water. The last of the Moranth were tied to the raft by twisted ropes wound round their chests.

Paddles no more than carved branches and planks churned the water. The overburdened craft broached the surf like a waddling, drunken sailor. Dancer got off and helped by kicking with his feet. After more than a few attempts they pushed past the breakers at last and out to open sea.

A touch worried about sharks, Dancer levered himself out of the water and brought his legs up to his chest. Water splashed as those at opposite edges heaved away with their makeshift paddles. They worked on through the night.

The sun blasting down woke Dancer, and reminded him uncomfortably of his trial in the wasteland. A new shift of the Moranth roused themselves and set to paddling once more. They were heading east, trying to get as far from shore as possible – perhaps as Kellanved advised. Dancer shot a significant glance to the mage, who shook his head in answer.

At the end of the first full day Twist came pushing through the jammed bodies. ‘Now?’ he demanded.

Kellanved shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

‘Tomorrow then,’ the Moranth said, sounding final.

‘Possibly …’

‘Tomorrow.’

Dancer gave Kellanved a glance. He leaned closer, murmuring, ‘Perhaps just us if need be …’

‘Well,’ the mage answered, ‘I’m not going to simply sit there while he cuts my arm off.’

Thirst began to assault Dancer on the second day. He thought he’d seen the last of that agony. It could turn into his march across the desert all over again, and he was not looking forward to it. He couldn’t help casting worried glances to his partner, who sat with his eyes firmly shut, concentrating – or so Dancer hoped.

At dusk Twist returned to them. ‘Now?’ he demanded.

Kellanved shook his head. ‘Not quite yet … Best to wait one more—’

The Moranth to either side of Dancer grasped his arms and held firm, pulling. Woven ropes were wound about him and yanked taut. Twist pointed to him. ‘We know who is danger now. Not you,’ he said, ‘this one,’ meaning Kellanved. He drew a honed curved blade that he held to Kellanved’s shoulder. ‘Dawn.’

The mage raised a brow. ‘You can’t force these things,’ he observed, remarkably composed.

‘No,’ answered Twist. ‘But you can do your magic with only one arm.’

Kellanved now raised both brows. ‘Well … I suppose you do have a point.’

Twist rapped his blade to Kellanved’s forehead and edged away. Dancer sat tied up next to him. He couldn’t help but murmur, ‘You’re quite certain …’

The mage sighed. ‘Do you want to appear in solid rock?’

‘You’re just going to have to.’

‘If he would just give me four days. Four days would be perfect.’

‘Was that the left or the right?’

‘Oh, shut up.’

It was not quite dawn when Twist returned. Dancer had barely slept throughout the night. The Moranth commander took hold of Kellanved’s left arm and yanked it taut. ‘I believe you lie,’ he said. ‘You lied for room on raft. Now you serve us. One must die so that many may live. We honour your sacrifice.’

‘You know,’ said Kellanved, ‘this is my favourite time of day. The half-light of dawn. When shadows are so very thick. Are you certain you wish to go through with this?’

‘No tricks,’ Twist snarled. ‘You take us. Now.’

‘Where do you think we are now?’ And Kellanved shot a significant glance to the waters.

Dancer glanced out. There was no horizon. All was dark surrounding them; it was as if the raft rocked in a bowl of night.

Twist straightened away from the mage. ‘What is this? What trickery?’

The raft had begun to spin, slowly gaining in speed. The waters too, gyred, churning as if in a tornado. ‘One should be careful what one asks for,’ Kellanved called to Twist over the roar of the surging waves. ‘One might receive it.’

Dancer’s arms were tied to his torso, but his hands were free and he grasped the slats and logs beneath him with all his might as the spinning increased to a dizzying speed. In fact, it was quite alarming now, even to him. ‘That’s quite enough!’ he yelled to Kellanved.

The mage too was grasping the timbers. ‘Things are beyond my control now! We are falling and I don’t know how far!’

Several Moranth went flying off the raft, and the spinning reminded Dancer of a child’s top. The gyre of water now rose all about them in walls of whirling darkness. ‘What’s—’ he began, and then something punched up from below, knocking the breath from him, and the logs burst apart.

He came to lying amid tall grass, and, given what he’d endured recently, that was actually a comfort. He let his head fall back for a moment just to luxuriate in green growing things. Then, steeling himself, he rose. All about, Black Moranth were likewise rising from a broad meadow that bordered a rocky shoreline. They stood peering about, utterly dumbfounded.

Dancer went searching for his partner.

He found him sitting inland, a long blade of grass in his mouth. The mage gave him a nod. ‘Well, that went far better than I feared. It was too rushed, and there was interference from the mainland, but still … ach, you saw how it went.’

Dancer gave an offhand shrug. ‘Not too shabby.’

Kellanved glanced past him and he turned; Twist was approaching. The Black Moranth commander walked straight up then knelt to one knee before the mage, helmeted head bowed. ‘We are yours.’

Kellanved waved that aside. ‘Continue your struggle for your people, commander. And keep an eye out. I may call upon you in the future.’

Twist bowed once more. ‘So it shall be.’ Rising, he walked off, gesturing his officers to him.

Dancer looked to Kellanved. ‘And us?’

The mage pressed his fingers to his brow and massaged it. ‘Tomorrow. Please.’

At that admission Dancer allowed his shoulders to ease. It surprised him to feel the level of tension he’d been carrying there all this time. He let out a long breath, and raised his eyes to an unfamiliar southern horizon where mountains rose to the clouds. He nodded to himself. Good. Tomorrow. It had been far too long already.

* * *

Cartheron was with the quartermaster of the main warehouse complex in Dariyal going over the books. Dull, and not the stuff of any bard’s tales of war, but essential just the same. There was an old saying he knew: amateurs talk battle, generals talk logistics.

He hadn’t thought much about it before, but now his life was all timber, nails, cloth and damned disgusting salted pork. The largest problem consuming him – and Napan command – these days was the old and tired one of corruption.

Unavoidable, of course; human nature being as it is. He was under no illusions. But still, there were limits. Outright fraud, for example – that could not be tolerated.

He gestured his disgust to the open books. ‘All this timber. Where is it? I’ve looked. I don’t see it.’

The quartermaster laughed uneasily and peered round at the staff of bookkeepers Cartheron had working in the office. ‘Well, sir, it hasn’t been delivered yet, I imagine.’

Cartheron eyed the fat fellow. ‘You imagine? You don’t know?’

He opened his hands. ‘Well, sir, I do not oversee every transaction. I’m sure you understand.’

Cartheron glanced to the guards he’d brought with him and nodded. ‘Oh, I understand.’ He opened another fat book to a prechosen page and gestured to it. ‘What about this series of transactions? Pay, uniforms, food and weapons for twenty-seven troops in the Seventh Company of the Eighteenth Regiment?’

The quartermaster-general blinked his heavy-lidded eyes and laughed anew. ‘Yes? The Eighteenth …?’

‘The Eighteenth marines. Seventh Company.’

The quartermaster peered about now as if aggrieved, his face darkening. ‘And what of it?’

‘Their weapons, their uniforms, their supplies, food, pay … all backdated four months. All vouchered by a certain …’ Cartheron squinted at the page, ‘a certain “Quartermaster Sergeant Nellat”.’ He eyed the sweating man. ‘Tell me, general … who is this Sergeant Nellat? He’s not on any other book that I can find.’

The man laughed again. ‘I’m sure this is just some clerical error. A mere oversight. That is all. Nothing for someone of your rank, High Fist, to concern yourself with …’

Cartheron nodded. ‘Yes – you’re right, of course. It is nothing.’ He closed the heavy books, one by one. ‘Because unfortunately, what concerns me is that someone will order the Seventh to hold a position, or support another troop, only to find, belatedly, after the battle is lost … that there is no Seventh.’

The man was nodding now, vigorously. ‘Yes, that would be unfortunate. And I promise you that I shall certainly get to the bottom of this!’

Cartheron nodded to the guards. ‘Let’s try.’ They opened the door and two more guards escorted in a soldier, his face an ashen grey. ‘I could not find a Quartermaster Sergeant Nellat, but I did find a Sergeant Tallen. Your son-in-law, I understand.’

The man glowered now, his mouth hardening. ‘You have no proof.’

Cartheron waved for the guards to take them away. ‘That’s for the military court to decide. You’ve wasted enough of my time.’

The bookkeeping staff now started to examine the next set of books and Cartheron peered round, wishing for a drink, as his throat was dry from all this dust. Unfortunately, there was not a drop in sight. He sighed. An easy and egregious case, that one. There were far more sly swindlers out there, but their trials, and the confiscation of their entire estates, would serve as a very public warning to others, and perhaps give them pause for reflection.

The door slammed open then and he turned, startled. One of Surly’s Claws stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, his eyes wide. ‘Come!’ was all the man blurted before he was gone again.

Cartheron nearly dropped the sheets of personnel he was examining. He’d never before seen one of her people agitated like that – in fact, he’d never seen them agitated at all. His first thought was, Gods! Someone’s finally gotten through to Surly. But if so, they’d hide the fact, wouldn’t they?

He nodded to the staff of bookkeepers. ‘Carry on,’ he said, and hurried out of the door.

The palace, just across the harbour, proved to be an overturned anthill of activity. No one he spoke to quite knew why – just that there was a confusion of contrary orders and shifting duties flying about. As he climbed the stairs Napan guards waved him onwards and upwards until he was within the private living quarters set up for the rulers – quarters Surly never used. Now, however, the place was swarming with servants and staff, all bustling about, dusting and cleaning, some with armloads of bedding, others bringing up platters of food and carafes of wine and liqueurs.

Cartheron stood scratching his brow, quite bemused. At least, he reflected, it doesn’t look as though anyone’s been murdered.

Then, as the door to the inner private bedroom swung open, he caught a glimpse of the rake-thin form of Dancer, looking very much the worse for wear, leaning up against a wall, arms crossed. He went to him and they clasped wrists. ‘Dancer! It’s good to see you again. Is …’

The assassin nodded and glanced across the room. Behind a crowd of servants sat a huge copper tub full of sudsy water, and above the mass of foam protruded the shrivelled and wrinkled chest and head of their wizened leader, Kellanved. The man was raising his arms and directing servants with long-handled brushes to his back.

Also present, pacing back and forth, was Surly, her arms likewise crossed, looking rather vexed.

‘Where—’ Cartheron began, but Dancer shook his head.

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

Wherever they had been, or whatever they had done, it must have been terrifying, as the man before him appeared to have aged years. His face was blistered and peeling from exposure, his shirt and trousers hung torn and soiled beyond recognition, and his boots were split and cracked. And slim to begin with, he had lost so much weight he was now no more than rope wrapped round a pole.

‘And Jadeen?’ Cartheron had to ask.

‘She proved unworthy,’ Kellanved supplied from the bath.

Cartheron crooked a questioning brow to Dancer, who waved the comment aside. ‘Never mind.’

‘Please do continue,’ Kellanved invited Surly.

She clenched her lips tight, but continued, ‘Forces out of Malaz are committed to the east, while a Napan task force is preparing to leave as soon as possible for the west.’

Kellanved nodded. ‘I see. And does this constitute all our forces?’

‘Virtually yes, excepting those held back for defence, of course.’

Kellanved nodded again, held out an arm for brushing. ‘Well, I happen to have a target in mind on the mainland and we must attack immediately!’

Cartheron and Surly exchanged alarmed glances; even Dancer frowned his confusion. ‘What target?’ he asked.

The mage, falsely aged and Dal Hon dark, his chest hair grey, stood from the bath and Surly looked away. Servants wrapped a towel round his waist. ‘I intend to attack Cawn!’ he announced.

Cartheron felt his brows crimp almost painfully. ‘Cawn has no military,’ he muttered, bewildered.

‘Cawn is not a strategic target,’ Surly confirmed, dismissively.

‘None the less,’ Kellanved huffed.

Dancer, arms still crossed, tilted his head and enquired, ‘You’d have us pull forces away just to beat up a pack of merchants?’

The mock-ancient’s eyes slit almost closed and his wrinkled features took on a sly look. ‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Then what?’

The servants were dressing him now, pulling on a new brushed-cotton shirt. He thrust a finger into the air. ‘I shall loose the Hounds upon Cawn.’

Cartheron gaped openly, and only barely stopped himself from blurting aloud, What?

Dancer started from the wall, obviously quite alarmed. ‘You can’t do that,’ he said.

The mage’s tiny eyes darted right and left. ‘Actually, I’m pretty certain I can.’

‘I believe he means you don’t want to do that,’ Surly supplied. ‘It would be a slaughter. They’re all civilians. Families. Women and children.’

Kellanved flapped his hands. ‘Well, then, warn them. Yes, send a warning! They have incurred my displeasure and now must suffer the consequences, blah, blah, such and such.’

Dancer raised a sceptical brow. ‘And just how have they incurred your displeasure?’

The mage threw his hands into the air. ‘I don’t know! Make something up.’ He raised a finger. ‘Wait! I know. Shadow. Two nights hence Shadow will visit them. There, that’s it.’ He brushed his hands together. ‘After that, our main force will land there. Cawn shall be our foothold. After the Hounds there will be no fight left in them. Oh, and also, I want an official historian. Find one.’

Cartheron and Surly shared a puzzled glance. ‘An official historian?’ Cartheron repeated, just to be certain that was what he had heard. ‘Okay. We can get on to that.’

‘Very good.’ Kellanved pulled on new shoes, took a moment to admire them, then headed for the door. ‘Let’s have a look about the place, Dancer. We didn’t have the chance last time.’

The lean knifesman was good enough to offer Surly an apologetic shrug, then a servant handed him a set of new clothes, trousers and shirts, as he headed for the door. Cartheron went to Surly where she stood shaking her head, perhaps in disbelief.

‘You forget,’ he said. ‘You start thinking he’s just a harmless oldster – then he goes and does something like this.’ He, too, shook his head. ‘What are we going to do?’

Surly raised a hand for silence. ‘We can allow him his little pet project, so long as it doesn’t interfere with prior commitments. We can send a small contingent to Cawn. No one gives a damn about Cawn.’

Cartheron would have objected, but he saw that she was struggling to salvage the situation as best she could so he said nothing. He watched, instead, while her lips drew down so very far.