The Grave thief

CHAPTER 3

Unhindered by the weak candlelight, Lord Isak looked around at the assembled faces and tried to ignore the ache at the back of his head. One scowled back, making little effort to conceal his displeasure, but Isak had grown to expect that from his Chief Steward. The young white-eye had inherited an entire nation from his predecessor, Lord Bahl, and whatever else one might say about Chief Steward Fordan Lesarl — megalomaniacal sadist being one of the more colourful terms bandied about — the man knew how to run a country.

The rest of those present were quite a handsome bunch, something that had surprised Isak the first time he'd met them, although he had never been able to pinpoint why exactly. They were divided into those staring back like cornered rabbits and those with eyes miserably downcast. He took a deep breath. The day hadn't been going well and his already bad mood had only been darkened by the persistent drizzle that worsened to a downpour every time he ventured outside.

Don't lose your temper. Isak had to keep repeating this simple message to himself: don't lose your temper; don't turn on those you trust. He'd seen the warning in the eyes of his friends, his advisors, especially Carel. Though he was thin now, and aged ten years or more since losing his arm in battle, Carel had always recognised better than anyone else the temper boiling within Isak. Carel had been more of a father to him than Isak's real father during the years they had lived on the wagon-train, and he had been made a marshal as much for the calming effect he had on Isak as anything. He was still the person Isak trusted most.

Arranged around three tables were the nine members of Lesarl's coterie, as disparate a collection as anyone was likely to find anywhere, and not all of the Chief Steward's agents looked as if they belonged in the dusty attic of a tavern just off the bustling Crooked Tail Street. The main river docks in Tirah were only a stone's throw from the Cock's Tail, and the tavern's regular patrons were as rough and raucous as they came. The grizzled first mate sitting at one of the tables, his arms and bald head covered in tattoos and scars, looked as if he'd fit right in downstairs in the taproom; the silk-clad dandy next to him did not — but no one here was fooled by the appearance of either.

'I see you're all as delighted as Lesarl to be here,' Isak said eventually.

The Lord of the Farlan was dressed almost as splendidly as Dancer, the foppish nobleman. His tunic and breeches of deep blue had swirls of silver thread and moonstones down the left side. Isak had abandoned his silver ducal circlet after a day of official functions, but everything else bar the lack of crest on his dark grey hooded robe was as custom dictated: a pristine exterior, even down to his smooth cheeks and trimmed hair, but all the finery could not disguise the muscles underneath.

'They are concerned, as am I, about the security issue,' Lesarl said.

Isak acknowledged the point, and the informality. The Chief Steward had made it clear that his coterie were encouraged to speak freely and frankly, and without reference to rank.

'There are so many clandestine meetings going on every night in this city, no one is going to notice one more.'

' You are hardly unremarkable,' said the youngest member of the coterie, Whisper, who headed Lesarl's personal spy network. 'And neither is Dancer, especially in this district.'

Dancer gave her a broad smile and indicated those even more out of place than him. Prayer was a tonsured priest of Nartis, a sour-faced man in his early fifties who had sat as far as possible from the bejewelled woman called Conjurer. She in turn was making a futile effort to be inconspicuous. Isak suspected the woman was unused to this, but he knew most mages found it difficult to be comfortable in his presence. A combination of the raw skills of youth, the brute force of a white-eye and the vast power of two Crystal Skulls would make any sane person nervous.

'Which is why there are pre-planned routes for you all to get here,' Isak said. 'It may not befit my position to sneak through attics and alleys all the way from Cold Halls, but anything Lesarl considers safe for himself is good enough for me.'

'Not everyone has that luxury,' Whisper persisted, her voice gaining a slight edge. 'Prayer has to be loaded into a barrel upriver of Holy Docks; Conjurer's route takes two hours to travel and more to prepare. The shorter the notice you give, the more likely it is that the routes are compromised — even without the increased patrols of Ghosts round here to catch the interest of our enemies.'

'Perhaps 1 didn't make myself clear,' Isak replied after a pause.

Even in the dim candlelight her eyes flashed and he could see Whisper had caught the warning. She was surprisingly young for her position, no more than thirty summers, and a handsome woman. Right now she was dressed like a merchant's son, apart from the mass of wavy black hair that shadowed her face. When she'd slipped through the single attic window it had been tied back. Isak guessed she was new enough in her position to be wary, even of the rest of the coterie. Unlike the others, he suspected she'd put some thought into her attire, for he could see she was wearing nothing unusual or identifiable, not even a piece of jewellery.

'I wanted this meeting to take place,' he continued, 'and so it is. I know you have rules in place to protect your identities, but at the moment that's not what I'm concerned about.'

There was silence. Isak inspected the faces, trying to decide who would be the key to winning over the group. Lesarl was leader, sure enough, but Isak had grown up on a wagon-train and he knew full well there was always a leader among the equals. Carel had been the commander of the wagon-train guards, but Valo Denn was the mercenaries' man, the one who formed their opinions and presented their arguments when necessary, the person who was just that fraction more than his peers.

So who've we got here? he wondered, managing not to jump when he got a reply from the privacy of his own head.

'Isn't it obvious?' came the scornful mutter in the corner of his mind: Aryn Bwr, last king of the Elves, or at least what remained of his tattered soul. The last king, unable to fully possess Isak's body and return to life, had been reduced to a bitter memory of former glory, while forever fearing the retribution death would bring.

'To you I'm sure it is,' Isak replied. 'How many years were you king of your people? For the rest of us, it takes a little more thought.'

He looked around at the nine faces, men and women as different as you could find, each bound within the fabric of those communities they represented. Whisper, newly chosen by Lesarl to lead his spy networks, working hard to live up to the standard her father, the previous incumbent, had set; Dancer, marked out as a knight or a marshal by the single gold hoop in his left ear — and Isak had no doubt he was a marshal, born to the title. Perhaps it was Sailor, sitting next to Dancer, a scarred veteran with a crumpled nose. He was dressed in red, typical of his trade among the Farlan, though he was risking a flogging by eschewing the macrame knotting on his shirt that marked his ship — and made him traceable. Con-jident in his ability to manipulate a superior? I wouldn't bet against it, Isak thought.

He couldn't judge Conjurer, so affected was her manner, and Soldier looked so terrified to be sitting in the presence of his lord that it looked like he'd forgotten he was a sergeant-at-arms of twenty years' service. Merchant and Farmer couldn't meet Isak's gaze for long, so he discounted them, and he doubted any group chosen by Lesarl would follow a priest's lead.

And then there was one. So, Citizen it is, and doesn't she look a formidable bitch? 1 doubt she even needs that fat lump on the door downstairs to keep control of her patrons.

As if to acknowledge his conclusion, Citizen met his gaze. She showed no trace of deference as she replied to his unspoken ques-tion. 'You're worried about it all,' she said in a rough local accent, her gravelly voice betraying a lifetime of pipe smoking. 'Not even your da's injuries are enough to take priority, though; it's the sound of the city that's got you troubled.'

Citizen was a thickset woman with hair trimmed almost as short as Isak's. Her face was a mass of laughter lines, and she had a jaw-linc (o make a Chetse warrior proud. She sported three thick gold rings in each earlobe, and even in his inexperience, Isak realised it was intentional that they bore a striking resemblance to the earrings of a duke.

'Explain, please,' he said politely.

She shrugged and gave a smile, more than comfortable with the attention of the whole room. 'Lived in this city my whole life — I know its sounds and its moods better'n any lord. You're a white-eye, so you feel it too, though you mayn't yet have recognised it as such.

'Some days 1 can just hear there's an ugly mood in the city, and those days the Cock don't serve, 'cos it's those days that there's riots. The city ain't like that right now, but it's stinkin' of men crammed together like too many bulls in a field.'

Citizen raised a forearm as solid as a man's calf and patted Prayer's shoulder. The priest, who was sitting on her left, ignored her and pulled his cloak tighter around his body. 'Then you got the fact that all this mob are actin' even worse than the nobles, preachin' war and whippin' honest folk in the street for stupid reasons.' She cocked her head at Isak. 'My guess is whatever's pissed on their mood — and I hear that's the Gods bein' so angry after Scree that their priests are feelin' the effect — it's done the same for you.'

'So your conclusion is that everyone's just a little bit tense?' Isak said irritably.

He had never been to the Cock's Tail before. Not even Carel's white collar would have stopped someone taking exception to a white-eye here, but the tavern — and Kepra Dei, its formidable landlady — were renowned throughout Tirah. She was tough, and could be heartless to anyone who wasn't family; anyone working the docks knew it was asking for trouble to mess with anyone bearing the Dei name. Even her sons-in-law, big men themselves, had been glad to break with tradition and adopt the Dei name as their own. And those three earrings aren't a joke with anyone but herself, I'll bet, he thought. To the rest it's a warning that round here her word's law as much as mine — maybe more so, if it came to it.

'Tense ain't even the start of it, boy,' she replied equably. 'It's the confusion in the air I'm talking about: no one's agreein' with anyone else, not the nobles, not the priests, not the soldiers. What's gettin' you concerned is the chaos this city's in — can't fight a war when you're fightin' yourselves, can you? And you've got it going at every level of society — as well as within yourself.'

Isak didn't reply immediately. The woman's calm expression nagged at the swirl of frustration and anger inside him. He knew she was right, but he hadn't wanted her to be quite so right. However the priests were being affected, he was too, albeit to a lesser degree, thanks to the Skulls which were acting as a buffer for his mind — and that wasn't information he wanted the Land to know.

'It sounds like you've put some thought into this,' he said after a moment. 'You've got a suggestion for me? Your job is to advise after all, not just to state the bloody obvious.'

She shrugged and broke his gaze, affecting a deference that he was sure she didn't feel. This one really is sharp, Isak thought. She knows that even here — for all the informality of the coterie, and her own position within it — that it does no good to issue me with instructions.

'Well, I can't claim to understand the trouble with the priests,' she began slowly, 'you've got that knowledge, not I, so I'm just goin' on guesswork-'

'Make the assumption you do,' Isak said, gesturing for her to get on with it.

'Then I'd want to get rid of the distractions that are gettin' the nobles heated up,' she said firmly.

'Which are?'

'Your coronation — they're here for that and they'll squabble like children until they know when they're goin' home to their families. Then there's the wondering over Lomin's dukedom. And most importantly, there's Duke Certinse.'

Isak nodded his agreement. Lesarl, Tila and Vesna had all been of one mind on the subject of the trial and execution of Duke Certinse. The man's family had too many supporters, too many dynasties tied to it for anyone's comfort and no one was sure what deals and recriminations might yet appear. Add to that, a dozen suzerains had weighed in for what appeared to be purely reasons o(principle.

'And how much of the argument over foreign policy will that solve?'

'None, but at least you'll be able to have the argument. With one of two fewer reasons to argue, folk get less troublesome. You are Lord of the Farlan, however newly made; once folk get used to that and realise the nation's still strong you'll find the authority Lord Buhl held waitin' on the other side.' Citizen paused and looked across to the far table. 'Dancer, am I right in thinkin' that there's no great lobby among the nobles for Cardinal Veck's reforms?'

The nobleman gave a twitch, as though startled from reverie, and stared blankly at Citizen before replying, 'True enough. Those that are listening to him are careful not to agree too loudly.'

Dancer's voice was rich and mellifluous, lacking Count Vesna's deep tones but with the same rounded, measured pronunciation. Unlike Isak, Dancer had removed his cloak to reveal his formal wear underneath — much drier than Isak's own clothes as Dancer hadn't been caught in the rain.

The man ran his long, greying moustache through his fingers, a practised mannerism to develop his fussy persona that was now habit, and nodded to himself. T can think of only one or two who'll take it seriously. The restriction on the nobility taking religious orders has thus far precluded that problem. Those who call themselves pious will follow Suzerain Torl's lead.'

'Suzerain Torl is a ranking member of the Brethren of the Sacred Teachings,' Isak snapped, 'and since Veck's demanding to be allowed to form a religious militia to enforce whatever laws he feels like, I'm not encouraged.'

'Lesarl says you've spoken to Torl about the Brethren,' Dancer replied patiently. 'The order's centuries old and they've never shown a desire to enforce religious law. Suzerain Torl is one of your most loyal citizens. First and foremost, he is a Farlan soldier, and that comes before everything else — his title, his dynasty, even the Dark Monks. My Lord, to treat him any other way would wound him more deeply than Eolis could — as well as digging the ground out from underneath your feet.'

'And it makes him a key element in your argument over Duke Certinse's trial,' Lesarl joined in suddenly from Isak's left. Pushing away from the wall he'd been leaning against, the Chief Steward walked behind the seated figures. 'The Synod have strength of their own, and they know it, but they're also fully aware that ultimately no group within the Farlan can oppose the nobility. Though they are demanding to conduct Certinse's trial, for a variety of reasons, Cardinal Veck doesn't think he's ever going to succeed. All he's doing is gauging his support among the nobility. That the faultlessly devout Suzerain Torl has not voiced support for him has been noted by all interested parties.'

'Prayer,' Isak said, causing the man's head to snap around from Lesarl to Isak, 'can you tell us any more of the current mood among the clerics? I can't help thinking that the longer Veck's demands go on, the more people are likely to be swayed by his argument.'

Isak could see the priest take a breath before replying. Lesarl had described Prayer as a ruthlessly clinical thinker, so the man must be hating having his thoughts clouded by his God's rage.

'What we feel now is a residual effect of Gods becoming enraged, an echo of their emotions, if you will. It began with a murderous irrationality for the few nights following the fall of Scree, and whilst that lasted only a short time, the effects will continue.' He stopped and looked around, then continued earnestly, 'What you must understand is that Gods are immortal — they feel emotions, but not in the same manner as mortals; when they do, the power is remarkable — such strong feelings emanating from their God may permanently alter the minds of some of their clerics, even if the God has subsequently calmed down. I recommend you assume that the extremists will hold sway for the immediate future.'

'So you and all your kind are my enemies this year?'

Isak spoke without thinking, but Prayer looked ashamed as he replied, 'I fear so, my Lord, but I will not be alone in working to change that. I hope we shall prove only a minor hindrance.'

An uncomfortable moment of silence stretched out into a minute, then two. Even Citizen appeared lost in her thoughts, unmindful of the muffled clatter of chairs from somewhere below them.

Isak went to the window and stared through the half-open shutter that looked out onto the street below. The early winter snows had been replaced by wet trails of rain that glistened darkly on the rooftops. There was no trace of the light white blanket that had covered the city a few days before, but Isak could feel its touch on the air, the bite of ice on his cheek. It made him think the winter would be a cruel one.

There'll be no marching to Lomin this year, he thought distantly, the events of the previous year now ancient history, almost unreal, in his mind. Let us hope the Elves think the same. Vesna says we hurt them badly enough last year to buy us time, but how long can that protect us?

He looked down at the empty street below, the cobbles washed clear of the day's debris. The rain and cold hadn't stopped trade on the docks; Tirah's merchants were intent on getting as much into the city's underground cold stores before winter laid siege. For a moment he thought he caught a shape in the shadows, nothing as definite as an outline, yet enough to make Isak catch his breath.

Gods, is this still my imagination? I've seen nothing, I can sense nothing, and yet… and yet I have that taste in my mouth again, the one that reminds me of the Temple Plaza in Scree when I found the Reapers. He found himself nervously biting down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood. Qods, what did I do when I summoned them?

He shook the mood from him; it wasn't something he could afford to think about right now. His dreams had been dark enough of late, even those where Xeliath had touched his mind, for the sky had appeared darker, the blurred horizon more menacing. When she was not there he'd started to find himself on a desolate plain scoured of life. The ground was scorched and smoking, but cold to the touch. He knew there were others around, though he could see no one. The wind whipped up from the ground, trying to lift him like a kite, but he felt himself drawn downwards all the same, down to the earth which was furrowed like a fresh barrow. Every time he'd awakened from that place it had been all he could do not to curl into a ball and wrap his blankets around his body to keep the emptiness away. Strange dreams had followed him his entire life, some not even dreams, and these were as powerful as his visions of Lord Bahl's death.

Isak forced himself to turn back to the room. 'So what you're saying is I should override the petitions and debates? I should make an executive ruling?' He tried to school his face so they wouldn't see his pained expression. 'Lesarl said the opposite; he thinks that'll bring even greater opposition.'

'And he's wrong,' Citizen replied bluntly.

Isak turned to the shadowed figure of his Chief Steward, looming behind the backs of his coterie. He gave Lesarl a weak smile. 'One of the annoying things about my Chief Steward is that he's acknowledged by finer minds than mine as a genius.'

'I don't doubt he's right in what he said, just that he's wrong in what should be done,' Citizen said firmly.

'I suppose that'll reassure both his supporters and critics. In the last two weeks it's been suggested both that I make him the next Duke of Lomin, and that I throw him in gaol for corruption. I don't know about the title, though. I'm not convinced he's got the breeding I'd want in my dukes.'

'Yes, milord,' Citizen said in a less than deferential tone, making it plain she had no intention of being affected by Isak's unnatural charisma. Some folk found themselves laughing along with Isak in the strangest of situations, but she was prepared for him. 'Lesarl's right that it'd make you appear dictatorial, and that's a bad way to start your reign; they would've accepted it under Lord Bahl but you're still unknown to them.'

'So?'

'Fuck 'em.'

Isak gave a snort and turned to the rest of the coterie. Citizen's expression was blank; she wasn't joking. Only Prayer showed any reaction as he narrowed his lips further.

'Citizen's correct,' Dancer joined, 'in her own delightful way. The priests aren't winning themselves any friends; attendance at High Reverence is up, but only out of shame, I suspect, and that'll change as soon as folk grow tired of being reminded of their sins. I know the College of Magic has just about had enough.'

'Can you blame us?' snapped Conjurer, 'with fifteen suits of consorting with daemons in the past two weeks and twenty-eight charges of impropriety and impiety? The cardinals have declared war on us!'

'You tell the Archmage to exercise restraint before he fights back,' Lesarl said firmly. 'The last thing we need is battle-mages reacting to provocation — or any other more subtle measures of retribution. Some of your brothers rival Larat for a twisted sense of humour.'

'And if the priests have a second focus of their complaints, that does the nation no great harm,' Dancer agreed. 'It will take a long time before people turn against the mages, they're too fearful for that. The College can instruct its members to maintain a low profile for the meantime.'

'Lesarl, how soon can the trial start?'

The Chief Steward shrugged. 'Four or five days. There are formalities to deal with, but the evidence is collected so the judge is ready. There are a number of ways the defence can prolong matters, hut that can only last so long.'

'Good, so let's announce the trial date and set up a quiet meeting with the dukes of Merlat and Perlir.'

'And you'll bring along your choice for Lomin as well?'

'Yes, I want Lokan and Sempes to have a chance to object. I'm making enough enemies without consulting with the two most

powerful people i-' A spark suddenly flared in his mind, stopping Isak mid-word. A trickle of magic swept the room, prickling and questing over his skin. He looked at Conjurer, but the woman showed no reaction. A shiver ran down his spine like the touch of a girl's fingertips and a voice whispered in his ear.

Isak.

Without thinking he turned back to the window. Xeliath was out there, the young brown-skinned woman who'd been tied to his fractured destiny. It looked like Morghien and Mihn had been successful in getting her to Tirah before any of the power-players in this game tracked her down and killed her. Lesarl caught the movement and shot an enquiring look towards his lord. Isak nodded.

'She's here; just about to enter the city,' he murmured.

It was clear from their faces that Lesarl hadn't yet shared that interesting piece of information with them. Isak managed to produce something approximating a grin as he pictured their reaction.

Heading towards the door he said, 'Those of you interested in what my foreign policy is to be will be delighted to hear that I've added a new complication.' He stopped as he reached the door, Lesarl on his heel, and turned back to the coterie. 'There'll be a new guest at the palace tonight, a young white-eye.'

'And how exactly does that affect the nation's foreign policy?' Dancer asked, voicing the question on the lips of all the faces turned in his direction.

'Her father didn't exactly give permission for her to leave, and he's a lord — one of our not-so-friendly neighbours, the Yeetatchen.'

Their protestations and questions floundered in his wake as he left the room. Outside, the narrow stair was lit only by what faint light crept up from the floor below, where a single lamp cast its light over the first-floor corridor, barely illuminating the three doors there. The two bunkroom doors were propped open; he glanced inside as he passed them and saw the usual labourers' junk in each: canvas bags, the odd oilskin coat and a pervasive smell of sweat and mud.

At the end of the corridor a second stairway led down to the ground floor. It was a little too narrow for his massive shoulders, so he had to turn slightly sideways to get down them. Stationed at the bottom was Citizen's eldest daughter. The girl, who shared her mother's build, heard him coming and started to open the alley door on her left, giving it a shove when it stuck a little, swollen with damp and lack of use.

Isak knew she had a long knife concealed in her right sleeve, and not one just plucked from the kitchen's rack, but the blade made no appearance as she stepped out and scannedthe street. The door on her right led into the tavern — Isak could hear an argument going on just the other side — but right now it was bolted shut.

Isak didn't wait for Lesarl. He pulled his hood low over his face and stepped cautiously out into the street. Citizen's daughter may have checked, but that was cold comfort: she'd neither notice nor be able to do anything about that which Isak was looking out for. Two strides took him to the corner of the building, and from there he could peer around the tavern and survey the length of the street whilst concealed in the tavern's shadow.

But it looked empty; his sharp eyes and ears caught nothing untoward beyond the occasional drip of water.

A glassy sheen had covered the cobbles as the night-time temperature fell. The day's rain had given way to a faint mist hanging in the air, catching the yellow-tinted moonlight of high Alterr. Isak was about to move off when he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head left, looking down the route he had intended to take home now that the streets were deserted. In the darkness, a good hundred yards off, something stood.

A crawling dread slithered down Isak's neck. No man stood there; its body was entirely black, and almost invisible in the fog, but he could guess something of the stance — it was on all fours. Visions of the Temple Plaza of Scree flooded back to him: the terrible slaughter done in the firelight, the towering figure of the Burning Man illuminating the terrified figures around him and in the distance, the humped back of the Great Wolf, stalking.

Now Isak could make out little more than a shape and a pair of burning eyes in the dark. It was untouched by the moonlight and aImost hidden in the fog. Shadow upon shadow, imagination or not, the black dog did not move an inch. It simply stood there with its baleful gaze fixed upon him.

'My Lord?' Isak jumped at the voice, his heart giving a lurch until he realised it was only Lesarl standing behind him. Lesarl gave him a quizzical look.

'Look,' Isak said quickly, pointing down the street, but when he looked back to where the black dog had been standing, the words died in his throat. The street was empty, and silent. Isak stared at where the creature had been, then searched all around in vain for it.

'What is it?' Lesarl said as he rounded his lord to look at where Isak was still pointing.

'I–I'm not sure,' Isak admitted after a pause. 'There was…' he stopped. I thought I saw a ghostly dog wasn't the sort of thing he really wanted to tell his Chief Steward. Isak hurriedly opened his senses to the Land and reached out all around. Aside from the taste of frost and mud on the air the only thing he could sense was Conjurer, in the room above, a faint flicker of magic in her body that grew as she felt his questing. There was nothing more. Hoping that he'd be able to sense something similar to Morghien's ghosts when they touched his mind, Isak reached as far as he could, but felt nothing at all.

'There was?' Lesarl prompted quietly. The man had seen enough during Bahl's reign not to question his new lord's first instinct.

'I thought I saw something, I must have been wrong.' Isak shook his head and took his hand off Eolis's hilt, where, predictably, it had drifted without him even being aware.

'My Lord, I find that a little hard to believe,' Lesarl said firmly. 'Your expression is not that of a man whose imagination has just played him false. So what is it that you saw?'

Isak glared at the man, but Lesarl waited patiently until the young white-eye exhaled and let the anger fade with his breath on the night air.

'What do you want me to tell you? What I thought I saw disappeared in the time it took to turn my head, and anything that can do that without me sensing where it went is a little out of your field of expertise.'

T do understand that, my Lord,' Lesarl said, bowing his head, 'but still I would share the burden I see in your face; no man should look so haunted-' He broke off as Isak gave a humourless snort.

'Haunted? Aye, that might just be it.' He took a step closer and leaned down to look Lesarl in the eye. 'I dream that death walks in my shadow. I have ever since the fall of Scree. On the edge of earshot I keep thinking I hear the footsteps of the Reapers. I feel the ground move at my feet as a grave opens before me; I remember the pain Aryn Bwr felt as he was cut down in battle, and it is so familiar to me I ache for it.'

He stopped and straightened, a hard expression falling across his face. 'And tonight I see a black dog with burning eyes standing in the road before me, something my mother's people believe to be a portent of death to come. Now who will share this burden with me?'

Lesarl stared up at him in alarm. For a moment Isak suddenly saw the Chief Steward for the man he really was: beneath his calculating expression and sardonic grin, Lesarl was just a man with a mass of worry-lines on his thin face and a nervous shiver enough to shake his bony body from head to toe.

'We will all share your burden, my Lord,' Lesarl said after a moment, his usual calm restored. 'Your advisors, my coterie, the Palace Guard, the whole tribe: if Death comes for you, He shall not find you alone.'

Isak sighed. 'It's good of you to say so. Something tells me otherwise, but if the future was fixed I'd already be dead, so perhaps you're right. Come on, it's time to meet the herald of our latest woes; you're going to hate her.'

'A white-eye lord's daughter?' Lesarl scowled at the ground as he started off at Isak's side down the street. 'I think you're right there.'