The Grave thief

CHAPTER 12

Mihn and Count Vesna looked a strange pair as they rode eastwards through the near-deserted streets of Tirah. The temperature had plummeted since nightfall and the cold glitter of starlight illuminated the frost on every stone and roof-tile. It didn't take them long to reach Hamble Lanes, where many of Tirah's smaller merchants lived and worked. It was a far cry from the mansions of the truly wealthy, bustling during the day and pleasantly peaceful in the evening, except during the depths of winter, when, like the rest of the city, it took on a ghostly mien. It might have lacked the grandeur of the Old District south of the palace, but the shops and small workshops occupying every yard did good trade, so the buildings were large and the stone gargoyles plentiful.

Through the chimney-smoke Vesna could see the coloured lights of the College of Magic shining from its five slender towers — the college eschewed the shutters and heavy curtains most used to keep the cold at bay. The chill night air had driven most people indoors already, and those few still out had hurried on by, not wanting to attract the attention of anyone on horseback.

'Do you mind if I ask you a question? A personal one, I mean?' Vesna's voice sounded unusually loud, but it elicited only a considered nod from Mihn. 'I mean this out of curiosity rather than condemnation, but why stick to your vow when you're trying to find a way to serve Isak's needs? You're exceptional with that staff, hut it's not the best weapon for your skills. You've served a long penance already, isn't that enough? You shouldn't suffer for the rest of your life.'

'1 feel it is the right thing to do.'

'You say you failed your people,' Vesna persisted, 'and I won't presume to argue the point because I don't know your customs, but I would say the punishment is done.' He reached for his tobacco pouch and began to stuff the bowl of his pipe. 'I'm right in thinking you'd be able to take me if you had a sword?'

Mihn pushed back the hood of his cloak and turned to face his companion. His face looked otherworldly in the pale moonlight, his dark eyes unreadable. 'It would be closer than you think; you underestimate your own skills.'

'But you'd expect to win, if we fought?'

'Barring luck, yes. You are a soldier first and foremost, while I trained as a classical duellist. If it were a formal duel my chances would be better.'

'And with Eolis?'

Mihn turned back and looked down the empty street ahead of them. 'Are you asking if I could kill Lord Styrax and deny Isak's dreams that way?'

'Could you?'

'Could anyone?' Mihn countered. 'There is no way of knowing that until it's too late. In a duel I suspect he is unbeatable, for that is how the Gods intended him to be. I would have a better chance using an assassin's weapon, and even then, would I ever get close enough?'

'I suppose not.' Vesna could hear the disappointment in his own voice and realised he had been hoping that Mihn's prodigious skills would provide the answer.

'Whatever the chances,' Mihn said in a firm voice, 'I will not use an edged weapon again. The more I think on it, the more I believe my duty lies with Isak himself. My failure was one of the mind or soul, not the body, and it is not my body that shall secure my atonement.'

Vesna struck a sulphurous alchemist's match and put it to the filled bowl of his pipe. The shadows seemed to deepen around them in the sputtering light. They continued in silence for a while. The houses of Hamble Lanes slowly thinned as they neared the city wall.

'Did I ever tell you how my father died?' Vesna said suddenly. ' 'You did not.'

The count drew on his pipe and exhaled. A small cloud of smoke obscured his face for a moment. 'He died in a duel when I was a young man, fighting a knight twenty years younger than he over the honour of a cousin.'

'That sounds a waste of life to me.'

'Honour's a funny thing. Sometimes it makes demands you'd prefer it didn't.'

'How sorely was the cousin's honour offended?'

'Oh, not badly, but nonetheless my father felt the boy didn't deserve a kicking for so trifling a reason.' He grimaced. 'A telling-off would have sufficed, so I was told.'

'There was no magistrate to intervene? I was led to believe this civilised nation of yours has a tradition of law.'

Vesna turned to look at Mihn. In the near-darkness he couldn't tell if Mihn's words had been gentle mocking rather than condemnation.

'Unfortunately,' he continued at last, 'magistrates have sons too, sons they are loyal to, whatever the faults. Less a flaw of civilisation I think, than one of humanity.'

'So it was an excess of pride all round that led to your father's death,' Mihn said solemnly. 'A great shame.'

'The odd thing is that my father knew the likely outcome of a duel; he was past fifty, and he'd never been anything more than a decent swordsman.'

'Yet he offered battle all the same? Because of honour.'

'The boy was family; that was all that mattered to him. He used to say "there are those you are related to who'll never be your family, and those of a different tribe you'll gladly call 'brother'. Never stand aside when those you consider family are assailed."'

'So the insult could not be ignored? Bruises heal in a few weeks, death rarely so.'

'Someone had to stand up for those who could not, that was how my father saw it,' Vesna said sadly.

'I think I can guess the rest of the story,' Mihn said, still looking straight ahead.

'Who says there's more to tell?'

'There's more.'

'How do you know?' Vesna heard the wariness in his own voice. M ihn had a way of encouraging those with guilty thoughts to hear an unspoken reproach when he spoke.

'I know because I know you, and I know stories. Tales are not told without a reason. But first, I have the conclusion of the tale. Your father died, you discovered this when you returned home from whatever trip you had been on. Had the old man waited, he would have been alive perhaps even today. A bully does not kill the father of one destined to be a hero without finding himself taken to account, and you are here to tell me the story.'

Vesna found himself nodding at Minn's words. 'He was the first man I killed.'

'You were away being schooled in arms? He probably only saw the child you'd once been. How many strokes did it take?'

'Three.'

Mihn was silent for a while. Eventually he spoke again. 'And your reason for telling me?'

Vesna sighed. 'Honour can get you killed. It will if you seek to protect it often enough.'

'Yet sometimes there is more to life than that — sometimes a stand must be taken in full acknowledgement of the price. Your father realised that. He wanted those he considered family to realise he valued them above his own life.'

'In defence of those you consider family,' Vesna continued, eyes fixed in the distance.

'I hear a question hanging in the air.'

'Yes. Who do you consider family?'

In a voice so quiet that Vesna wasn't sure he heard it exactly, Mihn said, 'Those I would make sacrifices for — those I would follow into the Dark Place, if need be.'

The two men fell silent. Only the clatter of hooves on the cobbled street and Vesna's long puffs disturbed the quiet. Minutes passed and Vesna's thoughts had not left the conversation, but all of a sudden he heard a noise, somewhere off to the right — the scrape of a roof tile, perhaps. Both men turned immediately. Vesna slid a hand behind him to grip the crossbow hanging from his saddle.

He'd wound and cocked the weapon before leaving; night had few witnesses and some of the things lurking in the streets wouldn't be looking merely to rob him. There were gargoyles and colprys both willing to attack a human, though such attacks were rare, and bands of enraged penitents roaming the streets.

'Can you see anything?' Vesna said softly, loading a quarrel into the bow.

'No, but I doubt it'll be anything that requires that,' Mihn said, cocking his head, trying to hear better. 'No man would be up on the roofs tonight, not in this cold, and I can't believe any creature would attack two men on horses.'

Vesna continued to stare at the silent houses, but there was no sound beyond the sound of hooves. 'If you say so.' He turned back to check their route, but kept the bow in his lap all the same.

The brothel they were heading for was a large fortified building set against the wall itself. It had been secured on a peacetime lease from the City Council, and most likely was unaffected by the recent unrest. It was easily defended, and it catered to noble tastes, so there was money to spend on guards, quite aside from the fact that most of the patrons would have come armed.

'Are we close to Death's Gardens?' Mihn asked suddenly, pointing off to their right.

'Yes, I think so.' Vesna frowned for a moment and turned in his saddle to inspect the streets running south. 'Yes, they're that way, past the Poacher's Moon shrine.' He pointed down one street.

Death's Gardens was the name given to a small public park owned by the cult of Death. It was less than two hundred yards long on any of its three sides. Much of it was given over to ancient cultivated yews, and in the centre was a miniature lake which, for no good reason Vesna had ever been able to fathom, contained a pair of pike that the priests of Death fed. Ehla, the witch of Llehden, and the Demi-God Fernal had scandalised the people of the city by building themselves a camp in the gardens, having both found themselves uncomfortable in the bustling confines of Tirah Palace, but the clerics of the city had thus made only a token protest at their presence. Witchcraft was no more frowned upon than magery, and the priests were more concerned about the mages, being traditional competitors, richer and not accompanied by a terrifying Demi-God.

'You want to visit the witch at this hour?'

'I am plagued by questions and I believe she understands the nature of the Land better than any other I trust with my thoughts.'

'It's a bit late for social calls, isn't it?' Vesna pulled his fox-lined cape tighter about his body and suppressed a shiver. The cold prickled sharply on his face and rubbing his cheeks with the palms of his gloves only increased his discomfort.

Mihn shrugged. 'She will not complain; it is her purpose in life to be there when others need her help.' He nudged his horse in the right direction.

As he passed Vesna, the count saw rare uncertainty on Mihn's face and reminded himself that the failed Harlequin had been alone since being cast out of his tribe. It would be hard for him to take any sort of advice from others.

'Thank you, for bringing me out this way. I–I've not really left the Palace since returning. I think- It appears I fell out of the habit of enjoying myself quite a while ago.' A flicker of embarrassment showed in Mihn's eyes.

Vesna smiled. 'It's considered something of a speciality of mine, so there'll be other opportunities. Go on — but be quick; it might be her lot in life to help those who need it, but Ehla still strikes me as a bad woman to annoy and it's late enough already.'

Mihn gave him a weak grin and trotted away, leaving the count sitting alone in the middle of the street.

'Here's a sorry state of affairs,' Vesna muttered. 'A man with my reputation, out in the cold and off to a brothel by himself. I'll probably find the rest of them stopped off somewhere else and my best chance of company tonight will be in Death's Gardens!'

Reaching the end of the road he took the right-hand of a fork and, out of habit, looked all around to check for threats. Aside from the lights of the College of Magic, there were scant traces of life from the city, which was already barricaded against the pitiless winter to come. Within the walls, family life would continue as normal, he knew, but as he caught sight of one of the towers on the city wall, Vesna felt particularly aware of Mihn's absence.

So, it's not just Lord Isak who finds the man a comfort to have around, Vensa joked to himself, forcing a grin onto his face.

He left Hamble Lanes behind. In this poorer district the buildings were, perversely, larger, housing many families rather than one. The grim stone blocks were built around a courtyard, which provided winter homes for all sorts of travellers, including the wagon-train Isak had once belonged to. The young white-eye wouldn't have merited a space inside during the winter; most likely he'd been sent to the stables, where he'd have to rely on livestock to provide warmth rather than a communal fire.

The clink of metal on stone woke him from his thoughts. His head snapped around and he began to scan the shadows for movement.

Damn, this is as good a place as any for an ambush. He still couldn't see anyone else abroad, but he tightened his grip on the crossbow and urged his horse into a brisk trot.

Am I imagining things? I'm sure we weren't followed from the palace. He was just about to give up and laugh at himself when a sudden scuffle of feet came from the same direction as the earlier sound. Vesna didn't wait to hear any more but slammed his spurs into the hunter's flanks and leaned low over its neck as the horse jerked forward into a gallop.

The road here was just packed dirt, but the sound of racing hooves was enough to shatter the silence. In response Vesna heard a shout from behind him. He'd been right. He urged the horse to go faster, while trying to spot anyone ahead of him — if this was an ambush, he might not be out of the trap yet, and while he was not much of a shot from horseback, it might prove a deterrent for anyone-

He never got the chance. A blur flashed in from his left and slammed into his horse's neck. Vesna barely had time to register it was an arrow as the horse screamed and staggered a few steps before crashing to the ground. Vesna jumped from the saddle, throwing himself clear of the falling beast. His left shoulder smashed into the ground and he sprawled heavily on his back, lights bursting in his head as it slammed backwards.

Blinking, Vesna stared up at the night sky for some few seconds, too stunned to move. From there he could see a great swathe of stars and the greater moon, Alterr, with a strip of cloud across her. As his senses returned he heard running feet and shouting: three figures closing on him fast, a large man in the centre carrying a bow.

Piss and daemons, Vesna thought, flapping at his chest for a moment before finding his sword. No, where's the bow?

He looked left and right, gasping as he realised he'd cut the back of his head. The crossbow lay only a yard away, still cocked. The quarrel had fallen out of the groove, but it was beside the bow and would take only a moment to replace.

The man in the centre realised what he was doing and slowed, reaching for another arrow, but by then the three were barely twenty yards away. Vesna, dazed as he was, managed get to one

knee and level the crossbow. He pulled the trigger and saw the big man fall with a cry, then threw the now-useless weapon at the other two, who'd faltered as their comrade went down. One looked back down the road; the other hopped out of the way as the crossbow clattered over the ground towards him, his eyes widening as he looked up to see Vesna charging towards them, pulling his sword from its scabbard as he ran.

He closed the ground so quickly he'd barely freed the blade by the time he reached them. Both men carried six-foot spears, but neither looked ready to use them. Vesna smashed one man's spear aside, moving inside its reach to cut down through the man's arm, then he swung back with the pommel and smashed it across the man's face. He fell sprawling into his comrade, buying Vesna enough time to lunge like a fencer, plunging his sword into the second's heart, then withdrawing and stabbing down into the first before the second had even fallen.

He looked over at the big man. The quarrel had taken him just above the hip; he was writhing in agony and screaming rather than retrieving his weapon. Satisfied he was in no danger from that quarter, Vesna looked for the rest of the gang-

There they were, a second, significantly larger, group of men.

'Piss and daemons, I'm dead,' Vesna growled.

He raised his left arm gingerly and worked his shoulder around a little. It was sore, but nothing worse.

'Weapons,' he ordered himself, letting the professional soldier take over his thoughts. Five yards away was the archer, with his bow right beside him, so he grabbed a spear and went to fetch that. To give the big man something to think about Vesna kicked his hip before retrieving the bow. He realised he only had time for one shot and rushed it, the arrow skewing high of its target and barely stalling them as they ducked.

Vesna hefted his plundered spear. The men on the floor were dressed as penitents, he now saw; most likely mercenaries. Better than zealots, he thought as he raised the spear, but not much.

He waited until they were no more than a dozen paces away before hurling the spear. The lead man had been expecting it and dodged, but the man behind him was caught in the thigh and went down yelling. Without any more time Vesna transferred his broadsword to his right hand and drew his duelling dagger, moving clear of the bodies on the ground. The weapon afforded him little in terms of range but the steel guard extended down over his fist and could be used to deflect a blade.

Time to play the only card I've got left. 'Do you know who I am?' he yelled at the top of his voice.

The group slowed to a trot with the lead man indicating for them to fan out around. This close he could see they wore the grey robes of the cult of Death rather than the black of penitents of Nartis.

Shit, both cults are involved, and these ones will be tougher.

They carried an assortment of swords and axes and looked like they knew how to use them. It was a strange thing to be cheered by, but warfare wasn't as sophisticated as duelling. Spearmen would have simply closed in and spitted him like a boar; these mercenaries would swing their weapons in ways he could predict and he was sure none had his skill.

'Aye, we know you, and we're goin' to kill you.' It was a Farlan accent, from the north, which made it less likely they were simple mercenaries out for the highest price.

Vesna turned in a slow circle, not bothering to keep his eyes on the leader. There were twelve in total, more odds than he'd ever faced before.

One at a time, said the memory of a past weapons teacher, a man who'd taught him the value of a kick to the crotch on the first day. Move when they don't expect, kill one and move.

'Then you know my lord,' he said, edging closer to one man in the ring. 'Whatever you're being paid, we will double, treble even.'

The man gave a heartless laugh. 'And get me a knighthood too, I'm sure.'

'It can be arranged. You'll have information we need.'

'Sorry, friend, it don't work like that.'

Vesna kept turning, sword extended, while the others watched him. He was moving in short sharp bursts, not fast enough to get dizzy, but at random, so his back wasn't turned to anyone for long.

'How does it work, then? You don't sound like a fanatic'

'Enough of the pleading, I'd hoped for better from-'

Vesna didn't wait for him to finish but lunged forward at the youngest of the group, the one whose eyes had been darting between the speakers. The boy yelped in surprise as Vesna dodged his axe and rammed his dagger into the boy's guts. He felt the youth's breath on his cheek as he held him in place, his eyes on the next man in the circle. He deflected a sword-lunge and spun his own up and around, faster than his opponent could, his enchanted blade lighter through the air, and biting deep into the man's arm.

The man howled and dropped his sword as Vesna dragged the spitted youth in an arc to block the rest, kicking the wounded man to drive him back into a comrade.

Kill and move, yelled the voice in his head, and Vesna obeyed.

Pushing off one foot he darted out of the way of two blows, then ran forward into two hasty cuts which he caught on dagger and sword. Swerving left he stepped around one and slashed down the man's ribs. He ignored the man's screams and continued moving, kill and move, barely getting his sword up in time to deflect a falling axe before taking the opportunity to hammer his pommel into the next man's face.

Blood squirted down his cheek but Vesna ignored it as he kept up the momentum and pushed past the broken-nosed novice to slash at the next man's legs. The man hopped back and collided with another mercenary as Vesna rashly followed it up. A sword-tip scraped over his cuirass as the man rode the impact and lunged forward himself.

Vesna felt the sword nick his arm but his training saved him as he pulled his dagger back to his chest and twisted left to pin the sword. Pushing off his left foot he cut up into the man's armpit and tore his chest open. Kill and move.

The pinned sword was released as the novice fell so Vesna used the guard of his dagger to flick it at the nearest novice. As that one batted the flying weapon into the ground Vesna turned, aware there were men behind. His fencer's instincts saved him again as a sword flashed forward and a line of fire cut through his ear and scraped his skull; he stepped forward past his enemy's hilt and drove his dagger into the man's side.

Moving like a dancer now, Vesna swung his sword underneath his extended left arm, pivoted and slashed up at the next novice to reach him. Steel rang on steel as the man parried, but Vesna didn't wait to trade blows, instead using his impaled enemy as a shield. In his haste to wound the hero, the mercenary followed and was caught by a comrade's mace. As he cried out, the comrade hesitated. Vesna didn't. Kill and move.

The novice fell in a heap with the injured man as a roar came from somewhere behind Vesna and he turned, caught a sword stroke on his cuirass and again stepped closer to slash at the man's hand with his dagger. Instead, he caught the sword blade, but he smashed down onto it with the dagger's guard and knocked it from his attacker's grip, then stabbed the unarmed man in the belly.

Now, as men closed in on both sides, he retreated a couple of steps to some clear ground behind where he could see all of his attackers. One man he'd driven back tried to catch him off-guard, delivering a high cut as he attempted to kick Vesna off-balance. Rotating sideways, Vesna caught the cut and stabbed his dagger into the man's knee in a single movement. A quick twist freed the narrow blade and he took another pace back, drawing in an enormous gasp of air as,he at last remembered to breathe. The crippled man toppled over, howling in pain.

Two more advanced towards him: the leader of the group and a tall man brandishing an axe. Behind them, the man with the broken nose was shaking blood from his face, but he still carried his sword. One more was struggling up from underneath the corpse of his comrade.

Time to show off, Vesna thought, sucking in as much air as he could manage. He tossed his dagger up in the air, transferring his broadsword from right hand to left while the dagger spun through the night. Instinctively the men watched it looping lazily up. This was a duellist's trick, one that relied on sleight of hand as much as skill to succeed. Vesna swept a low cut through the air between them and the pair instinctively hesitated and lowered their weapons to follow.

Vesna grinned as he felt the dagger slap down into his right palm and he hurled it at the taller man's unguarded chest. Without arms or axe to avoid, it was an easy throw; it caught him straight in the heart. To his credit the leader didn't turn as his man gasped and staggered, but it made little difference now that he was alone. Bringing his hands together, Vesna traded two blows before nicking the man's forearm. The injury only put the leader off balance, but the next cut neatly opened his throat.

Vesna dislodged his sword with a grunt of effort and assessed the remaining enemies. Kill and move. The choice was easy as the man whose nose he'd broken ran forward, yelling his fury. Vesna turned the blade aside and checked him with his shoulder, almost knocking the man off his feet. The novice staggered back a step, his eyes widening with horror as Vesna's sword ripped across his gut then hacked into his neck.

Five men left, all injured. The one he'd speared first lay where he'd fallen, unmoving, so Vesna discounted him. Another had fallen to his knees, hands over his belly, and was making some sort of a mewling sound. Vesna dismissed him too; no one carried on after a sword to the gut. Of the last three, one had a ruined knee, and two were standing, weapons ready, but both favouring one arm. The younger looked far from confident about using his left hand so Vesna made it easy for him. He ran forward and cut down the other two with ease before stepping clear once more.

'You,' he roared, pointing at the last novice left standing, 'drop that now and you'll live.'

The man looked at his kneeling comrade and saw he was effectively alone. He let the weapon fall to the floor and raised his hands in surrender. In the blink of an eye the shadows behind the man boiled with activity and a figure stepped forward from the darkness. A weapon flashed, once, twice, and the two remaining novices fell, headless.

Vesna gave a cry of surprise and stumbled backwards, his sword already raised, but the newcomer only laughed, while his black robes whipped all around him like living shadows.

'Apologies, but there could be no witnesses.'

'What is going on?' the count demanded. 'Who are you?'

The figure stopped and sheathed his black-bladed sword with a flourish. Vesna focused, and found himself face to face with a hairless young man a little taller than he was. He had a tattoo of bloody teardrops falling from his right eye.

Oh Gods, that's no tattoo…

Vesna dropped to one knee, his limbs shaking from the exertion of the fight, but still obeying him. 'Lord Karkarn.'

The God of War surveyed the slaughter surrounding Vesna with an expression of professional satisfaction. 'You fought well. I am impressed.'

'Thank you, my Lord.' Vesna coughed, watching the blood tears fall in horrified fascination. He knew there would be fifteen, one for each of the slain. Piss and daemons, please let there be only fifteen.

'Ah, how did you know, my Lord, that they were going to ambush me here?'

'I arranged it, of course,' Karkarn snapped, his face shimmering in a brief moment of anger, almost as though underneath this face was another that had briefly asserted itself, the Berserker Aspect of the War God. Vesna remembered the six temples in the heart of Scree whose Gods had been worst affected by the chaos there. Karkarn was one of them.

Merciful Gods, don't let the Berserker out, he prayed silently. I won't survive that.

'Have I offended you, my Lord?' Vesna bowed his head as he spoke, not daring to see the reaction to his words.

'Not at all — you've pleased me. But I had to test your abilities. I was right to think that one group wouldn't be enough, too,' Karkarn said dispassionately. 'A good thing I brought those two together, I think.'

'Ah, my Lord, you're testing me?'

'Stand up, Count Vesna,' Karkarn commanded, his voice suddenly booming, resonating with the weight of centuries.

Shakily, the count did as he was ordered.

'The heresy of Scree has nicked me — no great a wound, but one I cannot ignore, and one that festers in the blood of my priests. It fell to me to defend the Gods at the Last Battle, to lead the charge that broke the enemy, and that cost me dearly. I do not intend to allow such a thing to happen ever again.' There was a growl of barely restrained fury as he spoke.

Vesna nodded hurriedly to show he understood.

'Good. It is clear there are forces at work that go unnoticed by divine eyes. I need a mortal agent to protect the interests of the Gods/

Karkarn stepped forward and looked hard into Vesna's eyes. The God had iris-less eyes the colour of steel. As he breathed, Vesna recognised the foetid stench of the battlefield.

'I–I don't understand what you are asking of me. I'm no Chosen, Lord, I'm no white-eye.'

'My faith in the Chosen has paled,' Karkarn said, his lip curling with anger. 'I intend for my agent to be more than just a warrior, I need a leader of men a general to take the fight to our enemy.'

'You want me?' Vesna asked, too dazed to think straight.

Karkarn nodded. 'I want you to be my Mortal-Aspect. You will be the general and hero that all warriors need.'

'Mortal-Aspect? To become part of you?' Vesna's mind was a blank as he stared at the blood-streaked face of a God he'd only ever prayed to in desperation. 'But mortal?'

'To share in my power, but to remain living the life you are.' From somewhere under his robe the God produced a glittering gemstone that he held up to the weak moonlight. It looked like a ruby, a tear-drop faceted shape half the length of his thumb.

'The tear of a God. Take this and keep it with you. When you accept my offer, cut your cheek with its tip.'

'And then?'

Karkarn gave him a cold and terrible smile. 'And then you will become part of me, both God and mortal. Do not think there will be no price for my gifts — but the rewards will be eternal.'

Without waiting for a reply, Karkarn stepped backwards and was swallowed by the boiling shadows once more. Vesna blinked and stared straight ahead. The street was empty, shrouded in grim silence.

'The tear of a God?' he wondered aloud, bending to wipe his sword on the nearest corpse. He hissed with pain as he pulled the cut on the side of his head. He wiped the sword clean and sheathed it before retrieving his nicked dagger. The actions were mechanical, ingrained by so many years of habit. Once the dagger was clean Vesna gave the battered weapon an affectionate pat before stowing it away in his belt.

'The tear of a God,' he repeated, wincing again. He looked at the carnage all around him. 'Right now, I'd prefer a horse.'

Mihn tied his horse to the wrought-iron archway that served as the entrance to the small park and walked inside. Death's Gardens backed onto an ancient shrine to Death that pre-dated the city's principal temple. It was surrounded by a waist-high stone wall and a tall bank of laurel hedges. Once inside it was easy to feel as though one had left the city completely. In the darkness not even the city's towers were visible. Mihn struggled to make out the gravel path now the yellowy light of Alterr had been covered by cloud.

The quiet crackle of a fire cut through the night and he let his ears guide him in the right direction. The witch had pitched a double-layered tent towards the far end, strung underneath three yews that had grown together to create three-quarters of an uneven dome. He set off down the path, but had gone barely a dozen paces before a deep voice spoke out from the shadows.

'It is late for callers.'

Mihn recognised Fernal's growling voice. 'Would I be intruding?'

'No, she will see you.' Fernal stepped out from under the yew's branches and joined Mihn on the path. The massive Demi-God sniffed the air as though checking for other visitors. 'She is used to being awakened.' He beckoned with one hooked talon and Mihn followed without further comment. Fernal, bastard son of the God Nartis, had an air of implacability about him, one that Mihn could only aspire to. With his savage lupine face and monstrous size, he looked out of place in a city of humans, but however keen he might have been to return to his wilder home in Llehden, he appeared unperturbed by it all.

The witch was standing beside the fire when they reached her small camp. 'Am I needed at the palace?' she asked as Mihn came close enough to be identifiable.

'No, I'm not here on anyone else's behalf.'

She cocked her head to one side. Though visible, her face was as unreadable as Fernal's. 'Then what can I do to help you, Mihn ab Netren ab Felith?'

'I came to ask what you knew about death.'

'Our God, or his deeds?'

'The process as much as anything else.'

She scrutinised him for a few moments before gesturing to the fireside. 'Please, join me. Even under that fleece you must be cold.'

Mihn did so gratefully, squatting down to warm his hands in front of the flames. Fernal picked up a small bowl and gestured at the pot hanging over the fire. 'Something warm?'

'What is it?' Mihn asked as he took the bowl gratefully.

'Nettle tea,' the witch of Llehden answered as she sat on a log next to Mihn. She straightened her dress so it covered her ankles properly. He knew they were of a similar age, but Mihn felt like a child in her company, the memory of their first meeting surrounded by the gentry, Llehden's forest spirits, reinforcing that feeling.

'But in this weather, who cares so long as it's hot? Now — what can I tell a man with a Harlequin's knowledge about death?'

'I–I do not rightly know,' Mihn admitted after a brief pause. 'I have been thinking about fate and prophecy, about the threads that bind our existence. I am not yet certain what it is I'm looking for, but I believe I need to know more about death if I am to understand my lord's fears correctly.'

'Then I doubt I can help you,' the witch said gently. 'Your knowledge of myth and legend surpasses my own — you know the descriptions of Death's grey hall better than I, of the final judgment he delivers and of the Dark Place. I am familiar with the moments of death and birth, but not the halls of the immortals. You would need a priest of Death or a necromancer to tell you things you do not know.'

'I suspect a priest would be even less likely to help me than a necromancer nowadays,' Mihn said with a grim expression, 'but perhaps…' His face became thoughtful. 'Perhaps the answers are already written for those who can reach them.'

The witch studied his face. 'Are you talking about scripture or heretical texts? Just how much are you willing to risk?'

'You bring me to my second question. Lord Isak feels the strain of responsibility on him; he fears the hurt his position may cause those around him. Xeliath, Carel, his father — they have all been permanently damaged by their association to Isak, and that guilt runs deep. He sees me without weapons or armour, and so he fears to let me serve him.'

'He is right to do so.'

Mihn tried to read her expression but it was devoid of emotion. 'What's that got to do with anything?' he said sharply.

'It is a consideration,' Ehla replied in a calm voice. 'For all his power and gifts, it does Lord Isak good to think like a normal person from time to time. Concern for his friends may prove a useful reminder that he is a man and not a God. You do remember there is no actual obligation holding you here? You could leave tonight and walk away from the death that lies in that young man's shadow.'

'Says the woman far from home and camped in the freezing cold of winter.' Mihn gestured to the park where the glassy sheen of frost covered everything.

She dipped her head, acknowledging his point. 'I merely wish to remind you that the choice to stay is yours; that you should actually make that choice, rather than be swept along by the tide of history following him. He is a white-eye and the Chosen of Nartis; Lord Isak's presence commands those around him, so it would be easy enough to forget you still have a choice.'

He shook his head. 'I have not forgotten, and I choose to do what I can. I've seen the look in the eyes of those who returned from Scree. I cannot walk away.'

'Very well. So what help do you need of me then?'

Mihn took a deep breath. 'Last week Isak mentioned something that Aryn Bwr said to him in Scree and it stuck in my mind: "not all steel is destined to become a sword". I will never have the power to rival his; the Gods did not bless me in that manner, but they did bless me. Acrobatics have always come easily to me; my skills of tracking and stealth surpass the Farlan rangers I have met — these are abilities of subtlety that I had hoped your witchcraft could augment.'

'Would you be a thief or assassin for your lord?' Ehla asked sternly.

'I would do what my lord asks of me,' he replied, 'but my vow remains. Count Vesna has already asked that of me and I will not change my mind.'

'Good. I will not let my magic be infected by a murderer's deeds.' Ehla spent a while inspecting Mihn. He matched her gaze for a while, until he noticed that Fernal was watching him equally as intently. The weight of the Demi-God's scrutiny was harder to bear, for it crawled over his skin.

'I have watched you in your master's company; you keep close to him, as close as a shadow-'

Fernal raised a hand to cut her off. 'Be careful how you name him,' he said with a warning growl, 'for a name shapes, just as it is defined by shape.'

'Call a man cousin to Azaer and you open him to its influence? A sensible precaution,' she conceded. 'We have no idea of the shadow's power, but if I were to augment your natural abilities somehow we should not be thinking of you as a shadow.'

'But you have an idea of what you could do?' Mihn fought the flicker of excitement in his heart.

Ehla nodded. 'It will take careful thought and preparation, but I have an idea. A witch's magic is not based on power but insight, on working with what already exists. You are a quiet man in manner and action, easily overlooked and skilled enough to slip through the night unnoticed. I might be able to help a stealthy man become ghostly, to push you beyond the limits already reached by the training of your childhood.'

'How would you do it? A charm? A spell?'

'A charm you would wear, stitched into your clothing, perhaps; the magic would have to be woven in while you were wearing it to make it become a part of you.' At last the witch showed some trace of emotion. 'An invocation to a God perhaps? Cerdin, God of Thieves? Nartis? The Nighthunter might be a powerful ally in such a working.'

'No Gods,' Mihn said forcefully. 'If the magic is to become part of me, I do not wish to be linked to anything greater than me.'

'Not an invocation then,' she said with a nod, her attention lost in the dancing flames of the fire, 'nothing so simple. A spell that would have to be tied to your very soul if it is to be strong enough for what Lord Isak may ask of you.'

'Also dangerous,' Fernal added. 'Consequences will be tied to you also; it will be a binding you would not easily escape from.'

'But it is possible,' Mihn insisted.

Ehla took a long sip of tea and continued to stare into the fire, thinking. 'It is; a spell of concealment. I have used something similar many times before, but for a ghost it will have to be painted onto your skin- no, tattooed, to bind the energy within, otherwise the efficacy is only temporary. A tattoo is part of you; it will make the spell part of you, only to be removed if the skin itself is cut away.'

'How long will you need to prepare?'

Ehla wrinkled her nose. 'A day to find the ingredients and tools and to make the necessary preparations. I assume the Chief Steward will be able to provide everything I need. Should I tell him why?'

'Tell him nothing, not yet.'

'Very well. Tomorrow night might be rushing matters, so make it the following night.'

Mihn stood, drained the tea and handed the bowl back to Fernal with an appreciative grin. It didn't stop the chill in his bones, but it had made him feel blissful. He sighed as he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. For the first time since returning to Tirah he had a purpose. 'Thank you. I will return at dusk the day after tomorrow.'