The Grave thief

CHAPTER 32

'Enjoying the morning air?'

Amber turned quickly at the sound of Lord Styrax's voice.

Gods, I didn't hear a thing, he thought, before replying, 'Just so, my Lord. A night in Nai's company is enough to make a man appreciate a bracing breeze.'

'The air was not fresh in your room?' Today Lord Styrax had selected the clothes of an officer at leisure: thick black linen tunic with no braids or badges of rank, black breeches, and tall riding boots polished to a high shine. The white-eye may not have been particularly handsome — indeed, people barely noticed his features, and few would be able to describe them. All folk remembered was the power he wore like a mantle.

'A little ripe, if you'll forgive the observation, my Lord.'

'It was the pork — even my stomach thought it a trifle overspiced.'

Even here in the library grounds where no magic could exist, Lord Styrax's presence was nearly overwhelming. He may have been one of the largest men in the Land, but he carried his size with ease, moving as deftly and neatly as a dancer. Amber believed the inscrutable giant to be something more than human: as if the Gods had finally perfected the model. Even Aryn Bwr could not have inspired more worship than Kastan Styrax.

Lord Styrax walked the few yards to stand beside the major. The Library of Seasons had only one exit, through an enormous gate. The gatehouse was set into the rock and jutted into the road, looking down the entire length of Hit's Stair. The arch exploited a natural fissure in the cliff face and square blocks the height of a man shored up the rock. Without gates the library looked remarkably vulnerable, but Hit's Stair was two hundred yards of stepped slope

more than twenty yards wide, offering no cover whatsoever to those ascending.

The guardians of the library had ensured it was no secret that there were enormous storerooms where, in addition to the weapons belonging to their current guests, there were whole rooms full of arrows — one for every man Deverk Grast had led into Ismess. Whether that was true or not, there were certainly a dozen or more ballistae kept for a similar purpose.

'Longing for freedom?' Lord Styrax said, gesturing towards the archway, through which they could see the sparsely wooded hills on the other side of the city and a clear, pale blue sky. It was still early; the sun had risen no more than half an hour ago and the valley remained in shadow. The air was cold and crisp.

It reminded Amber of winter mornings when he had gone hunting with his father and brothers.

'Just appreciating the view,' he said eventually. 'I get a little restless in these gentle surrounds, especially with my men out there without me.'

'I will keep you busy then. I'll be in the Fearen House all day, and I shall need someone to attend me.'

'Of course, my Lord.' Amber hesitated for a moment, then asked, 'My Lord, surely Nai would be a better aide? I'll only be able to contribute by carrying books.'

Lord Styrax nodded. 'Doubtless true — but never trust a necromancer. Folk might hate my kind for good reason, but we have nothing on the walkers in the dark.' Styrax's words immediately reminded Amber of the conversation he'd overheard in Thotel, between the necromancer Isherin Purn, Nai's master, and Lord Styrax. Without understanding it, Amber had nevertheless recognised there was a subtext to each man's words, hinting at tensions and allegiances he knew nothing of.

They watched the heads of the guards at the gate turn their way: nervous Litse faces looking like deer that had sensed wolves. The white-eyes were slowest to react. Three of them were facing out towards Ismess, feeling the wind that rose up Hit's Stair. One had his wings fully outstretched, though he would have to walk another ten yards or more to be able to fly. As large as they were, those wings would not be capable of lifting a man without magic.

'Caged birds,' Styrax said, nodding towards the white-eyes as they finally turned towards them. He appeared to be enjoying their discomfort. 'They're bound to this place; conditioned to stare past the bars but never slip through them.'

Amber admitted, 'I don't understand these people. Even their white-eyes seem alien to me, and I thought your kind at least would be the same the Land over.'

'They are a broken tribe, unaware even of their past glories. Without a man or woman of vision, they will wallow another thousand years in this festering place, until inbreeding or war destroys them.'

But which solution will we provide? Amber wondered as Styrax turned abruptly away, motioning for Amber to accompany him.

It had rained during the night and the ground was muddy, so they headed for the nearest gravel path. Gesh followed behind. The white-eye was dressed as he had been the day before, in formal white robes underneath ceremonial armour. It was strange to see so little colour in a man; with his pale skin, creamy yellow hair and white eyes, Amber thought Gesh hardly looked alive. His slim build and ethereal appearance put Amber in mind of tales of Elves, and the contrasting bright red and green javelins held in an oversized quiver at his hip only added to that unreal image.

'He's got some spirit, that one,' Lord Styrax commented, having followed Amber's line of sight. They continued down the gravel path as it meandered to follow a stream, then swung back towards the looming Fearen House.

'Give me some time and I'll find a way to get to him.' At Amber's puzzled expression Styrax gave a laugh. 'No, not like that! Lord Celao is an embarrassment and a fool; better he chokes on a fishbone and Gesh takes command of Ismess. I will not allow any vassal state to remain so weak.'

'They'll never love you,' Amber said, thinking aloud.

'True, but neither will they hate me, and their children will grow up knowing who restored their future to them. No, Ismess is a problem I need only time to solve — it is Byora that will require proper thought.'

'The duchess, Natai Escral, or that bodyguard of hers?'

'Both of them. Your information reaffirms my belief that Byora is the Circle City's tipping point, and we're clearly not the only ones to think that.'

'This is all beyond my comprehension,' Amber sighed. 'How do you second-guess immortals?'

'In some ways they are simpler to understand; their desires and fears are magnified to a far greater scale. I suspect Zhia is merely keeping herself in the game for the time being. She senses great things are afoot and she knows she must remain on the board if it is ever to be of use to her.' Styrax clapped a massive hand onto Amber's shoulder. 'You did much good in Scree, Major; you played the hand you were given well. Until then Azaer was nothing more than an obscure reference for me; now I see where its schemes have directly involved me. Zhia's legend also obscured the person behind it, but before the great traitor, before the monster, she remains a person, someone to be known, just like any other.'

Amber nodded. The debriefing when he rejoined the army had been exhaustive and exhausting, at times verging on interrogation as Lord Styrax and General Gaur hungrily deliberated and debated over every conversation and action he could remember.

'All I heard of Azaer was its legend.'

'One carefully fostered, but yes, it is Azaer I need to know better before I can understand it. The shadow warned me before I killed Lord Bahl that I would be facing rebellion when I returned. Why? Did it require my conquest to continue apace? Did it want me here as a witness, or had Salen betrayed it? What is it doing in Byora that may require a diversion? That will be your job in the months to come, to run a low-level observation of Byora and tell me what is happening there.'

'I'm honoured, my Lord.'

'I doubt you'll find much honour in it,' Styrax said with a smile, 'but you survived Scree and you know what you're looking for. Don't worry about your men; you'll be leading them next time they go into battle.'

'Thank you, my Lord,' Amber said, touched that his master understood his need to be with his men when they faced the enemy.

At the entrance to the Fearen House, Lord Styrax stood looking at the oblong monument again. 'Mysteries upon mysteries,' he said aloud. 'However, the first business of the day is the puzzle of the heart. I take it your skills do not extend to cryptography, Amber?'

Amber shook his head and Lord Styrax clapped him on the back.

'Never mind; let's see how fast you learn!' he said brightly, leading the way up the steps to the main entrance. Sighing, Amber followed along behind.

Suzerain Torl left his tent when the dawn was still grey, the sun nothing more than a glimmer beyond the horizon. The camp was unnaturally quiet, even though it was early. As he looked around he saw a few fires being revived, but there were few men about. He had been pushing them hard for the last few weeks, but fatigue was not the only reason for the heavy silence. It was a good thing that Lord Isak had kept his distance, for there was quite enough death after nightfall already.

To his left Torl could see the fires of Lord Isak's army. One of his aides had jokingly described it as the Farlan's Temporal Army. Crusade was not a word the clerics had liked; for all their venom and spite, they had insisted on more palatable terms: Soldiers of the Gods, Defenders of the Faith, even Spiritual Envoys; every cult and faction had a different name, and each had a different idea of their goal. It left as bitter a taste in Torl's mouth as their insistence on consultation in everything, even logistics.

'My Lord Suzerain,' called Lieutenant Zaler as he hurried over, 'good morning, sir.'

'Is it?' Torl growled. 'It's hard to tell.'

Zaler hesitated. 'Ah, which, my Lord?' He was a young man, the nephew of Torl's wife's cousin, and still oddly earnest despite having spent more than a year as Torl's aide. He was short and slim — he would never be much of a fighter — so Zaler tried to make up for it by being unfailingly helpful and efficient. Unfortunately, he lacked a soldier's common sense, and had not yet developed a soldier's cynicism.

'Good or morning?' Zaler repeated anxiously.

'Don't be bloody stupid, Lieutenant,' Torl said, exasperated.

'Sorry, sir. Shall I sound the reveille?'

Torl nodded, then realised from Zaler's expression he was once again screwing up his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He guessed he was looking as washed-out and old as he felt. A camp bed was no substitute for the huge feather mattress in the master bedroom of Koan Manor, his principal home. Though he was well used to campaigning, the years had suddenly caught up with him.

Zaler signalled the suzerain's bugler, who saluted sharply and raised his horn, producing a sharp flurry of notes that brought groans from all around even before the regimental buglers picked up the call and sounded it in all directions. Within seconds the notes echoed back from the other camp as General Lahk roused his own troops.

Torl looked down the rows of tents: his troops remained neat and disciplined, while the penitent legions were becoming increasingly ragged and disorganised. That meant the priests' men were not reaching camp before the light failed — but the only response the clerics had was to flog the slowest companies, which served only to make matters worse.

'Sir, should I fetch a healer? You look exhausted,' Zaler asked, sounding worried.

Torl shook his head. 'It's just fatigue. I can't have the men see the healer attend me two mornings in a row, it would send out the wrong message.'

'My Lord, are you sure? Your face is awfully pale.'

Torl saw the anxiety in Zaler's face and reconsidered for a moment; the young man was not one to push things unnecessarily, and in truth his hauberk felt as heavy as full armour this morning. 'Men won't fight for a cosseted fool, Zaler,' he said after a moment.

'Sir, no man in the army would ever think that way. The fact of the matter is that you're twenty summers older than most of us, and you've told me before that a general is more important than any of his troops. Your own words, sir; a general must look after himself. Illness or exhaustion means poor decisions and those cost lives.'

Torl scowled at his aide. Perhaps the boy's not entirely useless after all. 'This is the time you choose to demonstrate that you do listen? When you're contradicting a general in the field?'

Zaler winced, but he didn't back down. 'You were most specific on the duties of a general's aide.'

'If it means you leave me alone, fetch the damn healer-' Torl paused. 'No, first tell me if there was trouble last night.'

'I'm afraid so, but we appear to have come out on top again.'

'Gods, we march to war while fighting with ourselves,' Torl sighed, sinking down into his campaign chair and accepting a bowl of tea from his page. He cupped it in his hands and as he sipped the hot liquid, the furrows on his brow softened slightly. 'Takes longer each year to get the morning chill out of my bones,' he said to himself before looking up. 'Is Tiniq here?'

Zaler nodded and waved over General Lahk's twin brother. He was an Ascetite — a soldier whose latent magical abilities had never developed properly, but who was nevertheless gifted beyond normal standards. Lesarl had seconded him from Isak's personal guard to help Suzerain Torl deal with the more unfriendly clerics.

Thus far there had been two direct attempts on Torl's life, and most nights had seen violence of some sort, but the Chief Steward's agents were more than a match for the mercenaries trying to eliminate opposition to the cults' control. Tiniq himself now slept in the baggage carts during the day so he could be awake all night.

'Suzerain Torl,' Tiniq acknowledged, walking over briskly. His left arm was bandaged, but it didn't seem to be bothering him much.

For the twin of a white-eye — an impossible feat, so every doctor would claim- Tiniq was far from remarkable to behold. The former ranger was of average height and build, and his eyes were normal. The only apparent skill he had was that of fading into the background wherever he went. Other differences became clear when one found out he was only five years younger than Torl, and saw his speed when a priest of Nartis had tried to murder the suzerain.

'What happened to your arm?' Torl asked, grumpily noting that one of them wasn't feeling his age that morning. There was an unnerving gleam in Tiniq's eye. For a man uncomfortable with being the centre of attention, he was unusually energised by the night's excitement.

'Assassins tried to take us out,' he announced. 'Nothing like a bit of recognition, eh? We picked up a team heading for the Saroc section; assumed they were looking to kill Colonel Medah.'

'And they ambushed you?'

'Tried to, but they didn't notice Leshi and Shinir ghosting along behind us.'

'Prisoners?'

Tiniq shifted his feet. 'Ardela got a little over-excited.'

'Ardela? The shaven-headed hellcat?'

'That's the one,' Tiniq agreed, grinning wholeheartedly. 'It turns out she's got a real problem with anyone attached to Nartis. Once she saw they were penitents of Nartis she just went berserk.' He saw the expression on Suzerain Torl's face. 'My Lord, I'm sorry; I'd never met the woman until the day we left Tirah. I had no idea she was as mad as that.'

Raised voices not far off interrupted their conversation and they all turned to watch a party of men approach. Suzerain Torl's hurscals reached for their weapons.

Torl looked past his men and spotted the massive figure swathed in white at the centre of the group of priests. 'Gods, that's all I need,' he muttered before raising his voice. 'Sir Dahten, stand your men down.'

A grey-haired hurscal turned to the suzerain and gave him a pained expression. Torl ignored it, so Sir Dahten growled an order to the rest of the bodyguard. None of them dropped their weapons, but they stood less belligerently as the breaking of camp went on around them.

'Chalat, good morning,' Torl called out. The Chetse white-eye didn't immediately respond. His attention appeared to be focused on the other army's camp in the distance. Torl knelt and offered his sword hilt, the Farlan custom. He had not met the former ruler of the Chetse before this campaign, but there were stories aplenty. His appetites were legendary, as was his remarkable physical prowess, but it appeared some of the stories would have to be revised.

'Torl, your men are not performing the morning devotionals.' Chalat said at last, his gaze moving over the assembled hurscals before settling on the suzerain. 'Their lack of piety is a concern for us all. All success depends on the blessing of the Gods.'

Chalat was tall as General Lahk, but far more heavily built than any Farlan. His forearms were as thick as a man's thigh — his recent fasting had done little to reduce them — but where Chalat had once been famously barrel-shaped, now his belly had reduced and he tapered dramatically below his enormous rib-cage, the new shape highlighted by the robe he wore tied at the waist by a length of rope. His face was gaunt, and he had dark rings under his eyes. His hair was silvery grey, rare for a white-eye. Though Chalat had lived far longer than a normal human, until the summer it had been the normal Chetse light brown.

'I do not question their piety, Chalat,' Torl said in a strained voice, 'which cannot be said for some of those who follow you like carrion crows.'

The crows behind fluttered their feathers angrily, but Chalat stilled them with a raised finger. His face showed no emotion — he was at peace with the Land and secure in his purpose. For Suzerain Torl, father to a white-eye and Lord Bahl's confidant for many years, it was a worrying sight. No white-eye at the centre of an army should look that way; it went against everything that drove them.

'They are moths, not crows, and they are flocking to my light,' Chalat intoned solemnly. On his back he still wore the great broadsword he had been given when he became the Fire God's Chosen all those years ago. The Bloodrose amulet that had accompanied it, however, he had given away before leaving Lomin. Torl had laughed when he first heard that, refusing to believe any white-eye would give away an artefact of such power, but Chalat really had: he had been irrevocably changed.

'A white-eye no more,' Torl remembered Chalat saying the day he joined them, 'a lord no more, but envoy of the Qods.'

That's too close to 'prophet' for my liking, and everyone knows they're all mad. Do you think faith will turn spears? he wondered to himself.

'Moths are brainless creatures, soon consumed by the flame,' Torl responded.

Chalat nodded slowly, clearly interested only in the glory itself and not the effect it might have. 'The army must perform the devotionals each morning, the officers alongside their men. The priests shall oversee them and instruct them in the ways of the Gods. There is talk of the godless among us, of creatures that sleep during the day and stalk the camp at night.'

Instruct them in the ways of the Qods? 1 can just imagine what that will mean. Do they really think men will stand by and watch their friends be dragged off?

Torl looked at the priests lingering in the Chetse's shadow, seeing if he recognised any — they changed regularly, which pointed to a savage struggle for supremacy within the clerics of the crusade. Two were priests of Tsatach, still of fighting age, who Chalat had taken as his disciples. The rest were predominantly a mixture from the temples of Nartis and Death, although today there were representatives of Belarannar, Vrest and Vasle in attendance.

'To make the men perform the devotionals en masse would delay us by an hour each day,' Torl protested, 'and that gives the enemy greater time to detect us and prepare.'

'You claim your mages and scryers hide us from his sight. Is this not true?'

'I make no promises; the Chosen of Larat may prove too strong for our mages.' Now you have a use for them? Yesterday you wanted me to hang the lot as heretics, even as they told us where the Menin were!

'In that case they are of no use to us,' Chalat replied simply. 'They shall stand before a Morality Tribunal and account for themselves.'

Torl bowed in what he hoped would look a conciliatory manner. 'I'm afraid they cannot. Lord Isak has already ordered all mages to his army. After the deaths two nights past, he recalled all those with college contracts.'

'They are under my command,' Chalat said, for the first time actually focusing properly on Torl. A spark of the white-eye he had once been flickered in his eyes. 'They are tools of the Gods, to do with as I see fit. Tell the boy to send them back.'

'As you wish,' Torl said, amazed at Chalat's behaviour. The white-eye could not conceive that his order would be refused. Presumably he expected Lord Isak would meekly comply.

The Morality Tribunals were becoming increasingly violent; men were being flogged, sometimes to death, before the sitting priests to obtain confessions, but it was those who survived that Torl felt sorry for. Forced to admit their guilt, denounce their friends and punish their comrades, then ordered to receive 'correction' — Torl wasn't sure those sentenced to death weren't luckier. He had found himself ordering Tiniq to kill to save men from this madness, which was being repeated day after day.

'We are close to the enemy; I can smell their heresy on the wind,' Chalat said, interrupting Torl's grim thoughts.

'We will ride in battle-order this morning,' Torl agreed. 'In four days' hard ride we should have sight of Blackfang. My latest reports have Lord Styrax's forces to be encamped outside Akell'

'I must lead the army.' Chalat looked over towards the other army, seeing the movement there as General Lahk was no doubt urging them to break camp first. 'We will leave before Lord Isak; you may join me, Suzerain Torl.' With that, he turned and left.

Torl watched the priests part to allow him through before neatly peeling around to follow him. Only one remained, a tall man of about thirty summers with a flattened nose, wearing the robes of Nartis. He appeared oblivious to the fact his comrades had already crossed the hurscal line, so intently was he observing Suzerain Torl. The older man didn't recognise him at all, but he guessed he was one of those with magical ability. From what Torl could fathom of the shifting alliances and allegiances within the cults, the prospect of battle had propelled the mages to the fore.

'The envoy of the Gods commands you. You will not need your hurscals. Leave them here.' The priest gave Torl a crooked smile and pointed the way, intending Torl to follow Chalat. 'It is felt you are in need of additional religious instruction.'

'Fuck you and the rest of your zealot cronies!'

Torl blinked. For a moment he thought the words had come from his own mouth until he realised Tiniq had stepped forward, a look of undisguised loathing on his face.

The priest did not appear in the least intimidated. 'Godless scum,' he snarled. 'For that insult to the cults you will face a tribunal, of that I assure you.'

'Go ahead,' Tiniq replied. 'My name is Tiniq; I am brother to General Lahk and a sworn sword of Isak Stormcaller. If you think you can drag me before a tribunal, you are welcome to try.'

The priest's head flicked around back to Torl. 'You keep the company of heretics,' he hissed. 'Your education is in greater need than we had realised. Leave your weapons and follow me.'

First he checked that the Lord Chalat had kept moving and was not there to witness, then he responded with a small hand gesture. At his signal every soldier watching — a full regiment of hurscals and sworn soldiers — drew his weapon.

'As a member of the Brethren of the Sacred Teachings for my entire adult life,' he said softly, 'I would love to come and be lectured by a man half my age on piety, but unfortunately I am bound by Special Order Seven and to contravene that would be treason.'

'The Special Order does not overrule the word of the Gods!'

'Certainly not,' Torl said, adding contemptuously, 'but you are no God, you are a stupid little man drunk on power. Tell every other idiot sitting on your so-called "Morality Tribunals" that I have been instructed to carry out the details of Special Order Seven to the letter, and that means no military officer may be tried by any

court but a military one, and no court-ranked man or commanding officer may travel unarmed or without the company of his hurscals. If you wish to educate me, you must first present your petition to the relevant Farlan military authority.' He pointed in the direction of the other army, then at the head of his hurscals. 'That would be Lord Isak, or, at a pinch, myself. Sir Dahten here is in charge of preliminary requests.'

He turned away, signalling the end to the conversation. Behind him the priest spluttered with fury before Sir Dahten clapped a hand on the man's shoulder. The knight had a special knack; nine times out of ten he could get a finger in the soft hollow on top of a shoulder, hitting the sweet spot without trying. As he heard the soft thud of a man sinking to his knees, Torl knew Dahten had got it right again.

'Preliminary requests,' Dahten began, a menacing tone to his voice. 'They're not really of a discourse form, not at this stage of the proceedings. Now, hold your arms out wide — I'm sure your God will give you strength in this hour of need.'

How long can we continue like this? Torl wondered, closing his eyes and listening to the squawk as a sword was placed in each of the priest's outstretched hands. Five days until we reach the Circle City. Will we have torn each other apart by then?

The following morning saw a storm break over the Circle City. The warning horn had sounded at the break of dawn, and its call had still been rolling over the city when the deluge came. In Burn, the scar surrounding the fissure they called Cambrey's Tongue was hidden by a thick cloud of stinking grey smoke.

Ruhen stood in his high room in the Ruby Tower and looked out over a city washed clean by floodwater. He was staring into the murky distance, a faint trace of worry in his ever-serious expression. In his hands was the slim book that had been his mother's only possession, one she no longer remembered; the journal of Vorizh Vukotic she had pulled from the ashes of Scree. It amused him to have something so valuable, the contents of which would determine the course of the next year of war, as a child's plaything.

'Come away from the window, my dear,' called the duchess, reaching a hand out towards him. 'Come, Ruhen, sit with me.' She massaged her temple, as she did almost constantly now, trying to rub away the dull ache from her head. The bags under her eyes indicated how badly she had been sleeping of late — Ruhen disliked sleeping in her room, preferring access to the tower's dark corridors whenever he wished, and without him the duchess found no rest. Each morning she looked a little more ragged, a little more nervous; and wary of shadows.

'They are coming, lord,' came a voice on the wind that no one but Ruhen heard, though Haipar flinched. The skeletal woman hunched a little lower and chewed harder at her lip, sensing Aracnan's presence in the room even if she couldn't hear him. Ilumene, nursing a hangover, was oblivious. He stared disconsolately down at the floor, occasionally swigging at a lukewarm jug of coffee.

'How long?'

'Perhaps four days if they leave the slowest behind; the whole army is made up of cavalry aside from a ragged swarm of peasants trailing after them. Five days if they wish to be in any shape to fight.' Aracnan's voice was little more than a distant echo in Ruhen's head. The mercenary was somewhere in Wheel, hunting for the Farlan woman who had eluded him. His frustration at being unable to sniff her out was palpable. The mercenary's position in events had now changed. His allegiance was no longer secret, and so his usefulness was diminished.

'Ruhen, please, come and hold my hand, whisper my headache away,' the duchess pleaded.

The little boy turned and offered her a smile, which was enough to smooth the cares from her face, at least until he returned to the window.

'The boy seeks to kill me. A strange choice to make — he knows the risk.'

'One half is led by a Chetse white-eye.'

'Lord Chalat? Excellent. Send dreams of daemons to him, fuel his fanaticism. He will bring this crusade racing on and give Lord Isak no time to treat with the Menin, nor to attack Byora. He cannot abandon the crusade.'

'You will bargain with Lord Styrax?'

'He must not know me, not yet. Ilumene will offer him the duchess's army.'

'You intend to wipe out the Farlan?'

'No, only to have both sides bloodied. Tell the jesters to ensure Lord Isak can escape — this war must see no decisive action, but after the battle you must find a way to kill Kohrad Styrax.'

'It will be done.'

The contact broken, Ruhen stepped back from the window and turned to his adopted mother. She reached out again and he toddled over to her, allowing her to wrap her arms around him. A few kisses, a brush of her fingers through his soft brown hair, and Natai Escral, the Duchess of Byora, was soothed again.

'Ah, you're playing with your book again,' she cooed at him. 'Almost as much of a puzzle as my beautiful little boy! And what did you see out the window, little Ruhen?'

'Soldiers, Mother,' Ruhen replied in a voice full of innocence.

His words caused a beaming smile to spread over her face, then she glanced over at Haipar — but the tribeswoman from the Waste appeared not to have noticed that her position had been usurped.

Haipar would not have cared, even if she had realised; she was barely aware of anyone, for she was lost in her own sickness and misery, forever twitching and peering into corners. When she did notice Ruhen's presence, she always looked like a mouse startled by a cat.

'Yes, my sweet, the city is full of soldiers, but they are all under control. We would never let any of them hurt you.'

'Not here, out there.' He pointed towards the horizon and at last he felt the duchess tense. 'Horsemen,' he added, just to make sure.

She carried him to the window, but could see nothing beyond the city. Ruhen pointed northwest, but all she could see was mist and smoke. 'They frighten me,' he added for sport.

She put a protective arm around his shoulders. 'No one could possibly hurt you,' she said before turning to Ilumene. 'Sergeant, have a servant run to the Vier Tower — Tell Mage Peness I wish him to scry to the northwest.'

Ilumene grimaced and managed to heave himself to his feet.

The duchess smiled down at Ruhen. 'Perhaps our prince is even more special than we had already thought?'

Ruhen returned to the window, his back to the duchess so she could not see the shadows dance in his eyes. Down below, a crowd was gathering — beggars and other vagrants mainly. They had been encamped outside the gates for a few hours now, fleeing briefly when Kiyer of the Deluge swept the streets clean, creeping back when the water cleared. As he watched, more joined the throng, loitering in the shadow of the Ruby Tower.

Word was spreading, helped by Luerce and his little troupe of disciples. Empty temples and fighting on the streets meant many were searching for something — anything — to believe in. Only the most desperate were waiting outside the compound gate, hoping for a glimpse of Ruhen, but it was a start. Ruhen's patience was vast, and once word spread beyond the Circle City, it would meet those lost folk who had heard some new stories from the Harlequins.

'Can we go back to the valley?' Ruhen asked.

'Do you want to see the men with wings again?'

His solemn nod provoked another smile. 'Very well, we will. Lord Styrax will be glad to see us; he wants us all to be friends — would you like that?'

Ruhen paused to think. 'Friends are good.'

'That they are, my dear.' The duchess hugged him close again and he could hear the quick beat of her heart, quite unlike his own.

He took her hand and looked her directly in the eye. For a moment she froze, lost in the shadows, before the moment passed. 'Allying ourselves with the Menin may prove the best course, but let us wait for what Mage Peness has to say. Becoming friends can always wait a day or so, and it is always preferable to bring a gift.'

That evening Doranei and Sebe were eating in a small tavern on the outskirts of Breakale, just a short walk from the Beristole. Lell Derager, who continued to be their host, had suggested this as a good place to hear the gossip.

Wheel and Burn were increasingly unsafe these days, as the bartender had been quick to mention. She hadn't specified where the danger came from and the two men from Narkang were too experienced to show too much interest. They took their time over bowls of greasy mutton stew, alert to the chatter around them.

'-'eard she was going to sell the whole of Hale to the Menin-'

'-Devoted got what was comin' to 'em, just a bunch of priests with swords-'

'-mad enough ta think they can use daemons in battle!' broke his curse just with a touch, I tell you — we all felt it!'

Doranei paused and cocked an ear. The room was full of quiet conversations overlaying each other, but that last had sounded different. It took him a moment to place it, but when he did, it was all he could do not to turn around and stare at the speaker. Something in the tone of voice reminded him of Parim, the demagogue King Emin had pressganged into the Brotherhood: it had that urgent honesty that Parim used so successfully to convince his listeners to shower him in gifts.

'Going for a piss,' he muttered to Sebe, putting his drink down and tapping the bar twice with a spice-yellowed finger. He caught Sebe's arm as he was easing himself off his seat, so Sebe could turn a little and not draw attention to himself as he checked the room to see who noticed Doranei's departure. By the time he returned to his food he was sure there was no unwelcome notice being paid, just the usual raising of eyes as a big man with weapons approached, then passed. No one followed, no one stopped talking, so Sebe cheerfully finished his drink and waved for another.

When Doranei returned, he slapped Sebe on the shoulder, thanking him for getting the drinks in, and whispered as he sat down, 'Back corner, wearing white.'

Sebe wiped up the last of his mutton with some gritty bread. 'Looks out of place, doesn't he? Not a priest's robes, but no tradesman wears white like that.'

Across the room came another snippet of conversation: '-no God ever did that for me, but you look into his eyes and it changes you. As noble as a prince and just a child-'

Doranei leaned over to Sebe. His friend smelled of damp wool and sweat, but Doranei didn't imagine he was any better. 'Doesn't sound like he's talking about any friend of ours,' he muttered. 'What do you reckon?'

Sebe shrugged. 'Dressed like that I'd say he's no innocent bystander. Don't think we'll get much out of him.'

'Not the first one like that I've seen round these parts,' Doranei agreed. 'Looks like this is the next step, they're recruiting to spread the word. There's talk of beggars gathering at the gates of the Ruby Tower, of writing prayers to the Gods and fixing them to the wall. The desperate folk have given up on the cults, they're looking for something else to believe in — and the shadow's message is ready and waiting.'

Sebe's expression mirrored Doranei's own. 'It's your turn then.' Doranei sighed. 'True, and it won't be the last either,' he said

grimly. 'Let's hope he gives us something useful.'

The pair finished their drinks and exited, quickly finding a dark

corner of the street where they could wait unmolested for the hour

until the man in white left the tavern and headed off alone through

the night.

By the time General Lahk had asked him for permission to call a halt on the following day, Isak was already searching his memory for a secluded spot to carry out his unsavoury business. The route was one he knew well; past the Twins the road wound through rolling hills and across great stretches of grassland where once he would have stalked splay-toed geese and set traps for hares. Most of the game would have been frightened away by the approaching army, but the region itself was unchanged from the days when he'd crossed it in the wagon-train.

As the order was given, Isak stayed in the saddle, watching the soldiers around him jump to Lahk's command. He pulled the blue silk hood from his face and let the blustering breeze run its chilly fingers over his cropped scalp as he stared into the advancing evening. The supply wagons had men swarming all over them, seeking tents, food and firewood. The sight reminded him of army ants killing a praying mantis.

Isak had widened his eyes in disbelief when he'd seen how much baggage was to accompany the armies. Combined, they numbered more than fifteen thousand men, and the Quartermaster-General, a comical little man with stumpy arms and legs called Pelay Kervar, had another thousand under his command — as many in his charge as the colonels he screamed invective at on a daily basis. When the Farlan were at war, Kervar outranked both colonels and suzerains, and his bodyguard was nearly on a par with Lord Isak's own. Isak dismounted and spent a few minutes seeing to Toramin, his warhorse, before allowing a hovering groom to take over. It was still habit for him to attend to his own horses before making camp, hut he knew there was another reason he had busied himself there. Each evening he had a promise to keep, one that left him feeling sullied and, even worse, had not yet proved as necessary as he had hoped. Commander Jachen loitered nearby, carrying a canvas sack and a few lengths of black wood in a manner that made it clear he preferred not to touch any of them.

'Still no sign of more troops from Lomin?' he asked Count Vesna, knowing he would have been told as soon as they were sighted.

'No more, no. Looks like Suzerain Suil's optimism was ill-founded; the Eastmen nobles will have been glad for any excuse to stay at home and watch the fanatics leave.'

In their armour, they were a striking pair: Isak in Siulents, all in silver and Vesna in black with his roaring lion's head crest in bright gold — they drew looks even from troops used to their presence. The magic imbued in Siulents demanded attention and that effect was magnified in the fading light, while Vesna's reputation made the hero almost as noticeable to the weary soldiers.

Isak had to agree with his friend. Duke Lomin had refused Isak's summons to provide troops, not believing in Isak's promise that the east would still be defended. That gave the suzerains of the east all the excuse they needed not to join a crusade they had no interest in.

'They would have given us the superiority we need. It cannot go unanswered.' Isak said, though the words felt hollow as he spoke them.

'From what the scryers tell me, I believe we still have enough,' Vesna assured him. 'Lord Styrax brought only a small force: four legions of infantry, three of cavalry. It seems he is adept at taking cities without any large-scale engagement. He will not have had the time he needs to prepare for us. I doubt he is even looking this way.'

Isak gave him a sceptical look.

'No, perhaps it won't be that simple,' Vesna said, backtracking swiftly, 'but just remember, Raland and Embere are his problem. How could he possibly expect a pre-emptive strike from the north?'

'So we stick to the plan?'

'Certainly. The scryers have his troops outside Akell at the moment, but I'm sure he'll retreat to the south of the Circle City so he's not watching his back.'

Vesna retrieved a rolled map from his saddle-bag and opened it up for Isak to look at as they walked. They headed for an outcrop, little more than a rise of rocky ground held together by the roots of an ancient oak, but it afforded a little shelter from the prying eyes of soldiers.

'The majority of the ground around the Circle City is pas-tureland, which favours us. A southern position offers good escape routes and to a degree constrains your attackers — they must come down the channel between the city and the fens, which means you can predict the route your enemy will take and most likely prepare a few surprises there. You can station archers and light cavalry to fight a running retreat and encourage pursuit, taking down the bridges over the rivers as you fall back. And you put mages on all sides to wear your attackers down further.'

'Isn't it a bit obvious?'

'Yes — but we're the ones looking for battle. Chalat wants the ground to manoeuvre in and bring our force of numbers to bear, and once past the two rivers he will have plenty of that. He has excessive confidence in the discipline of his troops. The enemy knows exactly what he's facing; scryers are not easily fooled by an army on the march.'

Isak grimaced. 'The more I hear, the more disastrous this all sounds. Talk to General Lahk, find me options.' They reached the outcrop only a few paces behind Commander Jachen.

'The religious equivalent of pissing behind a tree,' Isak sighed as Jachen pulled a square wooden panel from the sack and began fitting the wooden supports into it. On the panel was a painted icon of the Wither Queen, loaned with all possible grace from the Temple of Death, and hanging from it was a small iron incense burner. That Isak was praying to the Queen each evening was not a secret, but if he did so openly, he knew others would feel honour-bound to follow suit.

'Better than nothing, my Lord,' Vesna said as Jachen set down the makeshift shrine and retreated. 'At least it's clear you don't expect every man in the army to pray to her; the note I found in my bedroll from Lesarl's man, Soldier, made that clear enough.'

Isak wrinkled his nose at the thought. 'She'd be the only one of the Gods growing in strength. I don't want to imagine how she might use her power.' He waved a hand at the shrine and almost immediately a dirty-coloured smoke began to leak from it.

'Ah, my Lord?' Vesna prompted as Isak knelt down before the shrine. He picked up a broken piece of branch from the floor and held it out. 'If you want something hot ready when you're finished…'

'I'm not a performing monkey you know,' Isak growled. All the same, he reached out a hand and strands of greenish light swirled briefly above his palm before erupting into foot-long flames.

'I would never make money from you in that manner,' Vesna said with a smile.

Isak gave a noncommittal grunt; he got the joke, but it wasn't enough to lighten his mood.

The branch quickly caught and Vesna turned back towards the camp. As he walked away he caught the bitter scent of incense and heard Isak's voice, murmuring. He picked up his pace as a woman's purring laugh echoed distantly on the wind and a dead finger ran down his spine.

Not for the first time, Vesna pressed his fingers against his left forearm and traced the shape of the flat silver case that held Karkarn's tear. The action reminded him of when his father had died and he had inherited the two gold earrings of rank; he had been forever checking the heirlooms were securely fastened, and that reminder brought a renewed ache to his heart. He had been count for six months before he grew used to their presence, and only then did the guilt of inheritance start to ebb.

When do mortals deal with Gods and come away from it well? he asked himself for the hundredth time, looking back at Isak. And still 1 keep Karkarn's tear close at hand. Still I have not refused him.