The Grave thief

CHAPTER 8

Haipar needed no help to look desperate. No longer the proud mercenary, the shapeshifter, the leader; the years had finally caught up with her and now she was just a broken relict. Where once she had proudly smeared ash in her hair, now there was only grey, both natural and unnatural. Her limbs, once corded with hard muscle, were now as brittle as those of a starving refugee. Only her prominent nose and brow looked almost unchanged by their trek and an all-too-brief pregnancy. Ilumene had treated her kindly on the journey south, surprising even himself. Unlike that snivelling wretch Jackdaw, whom Ilumene had been glad to see head north with Venn, Haipar had been too fragile, too broken, to really incur Ilumene's contempt. It had been easy for the former member of the Narkang Brotherhood to restrain his vicious nature. If nothing else, King Emin had taught him the importance of self-control when on a mission.

Haipar's mind was fractured, unable to follow any thought to its conclusion, but something unconscious, primal, made her check the bundle in her arms. When she looked at the child, her own face lit up with wonder and fear. He looked back, the curl of a smile on his lips and shadows in his eyes — watching, always watching.

The crowd around her had swelled in the last hour. She had been one of the first to arrive in the big square in the city of Byora, just where the main highway led out of the quarter. Byora was the largest and most prosperous of the Circle City's four self-governed quarters that nestled around the huge shape of Blackfang Mountain.

Sipping disgustingly sweet tea from a dirty cup, Ilumene continued to watch his charge as she shielded her child from being buffeted as a sudden swell ran through the assembled beggars. They assembled there hoping — mostly in vain — for casual work of any sort. Ilumene had told Haipar to go there and there she'd gone, but she most likely had no idea why she waited there now. There was no recognition in her grey eyes, only bewilderment at a Land she no longer recognised.

The square was unremarkable save for its location on the highway between the main gate from the upper districts and its equivalent in the quarter's wall. Ilumene raised his eyes and looked at the upper districts, snug behind a high wall of stone and looking down on the rest of Byora with gentle disdain.

The huge structures that gave the Eight Towers district its name were just about visible against the low winter cloud. Flanking that, like squabbling children kept apart by a parent, were the imposing buildings of the districts of Hale and Coin. In contrast with Byora's southern neighbour Ismess, where religious law ruled and no building could stand taller than a temple, the eight towers looked down on their neighbours, much to the ire of the priests of Hale and the merchant-princes of Coin. In the shadow of Blackfang, height was the province of the powerful, and Eight Towers made a statement to the low-born of Byora.

Behind them loomed the mountain. Ilumene found it impossible to ignore its presence; he had been born in the coastal city of Narkang, miles from any mountains, and he was unsettled by the jagged bowl-like cliffs and the thin black spire that rose from the crater within those cliffs. He felt crowded, and more than once he had found himself leaning away from Blackfang, as if it were physically oppressing him.

A sound broke his reverie and he turned to see the bobbing heads of the retinue of the Duchess of Byora, Natai Escral. The scarlet tunics of the Ruby Tower Guards were an abrupt splash of colour on such a drab day. They had been seeing to the duchess's defences, no doubt. Everyone in Byora had heard that the Menin were marching north towards Tor Salan, and if they continued on after defeating the mercenaries defending that great trading city, the Circle City was surely the next prize in Lord Styrax's sights.

'And you know you don't have anywhere near the strength Tor Salan can bring to bear,' Ilumene whispered as the duchess rode closer, 'despite Aracnan and the Jesters awaiting my command.'

He finished his tea, glad for the warmth no matter how vile the taste, and eased his chair back a little so when the time came there would be no obstacles in his path. 'Don't worry, your Grace,' he murmured, 'you're about to be introduced to your Saviour.'

As the noblewoman's retinue reached the square, the beggars surged forward to meet them, hands outstretched for alms and a wordless keening filling the air. The shivering poor were filling the road; it was almost as if the winter wind had robbed them of any sense of danger. Haipar found herself being pushed along with the crowd. She heard a cry and looked up to see a mounted soldier bearing down on her.

'Back, back! Clear the road!' he roared, reining in at the last moment to avoid trampling the beggar in rags; he scarcely noticed the tiny bundle in her arms. It was no concern to him. The wind caught his cloak and swirled it open to reveal his pristine crimson uniform adorned with gold braiding as noticeable as the weapon at his hip. The crowd ignored his words, shrinking together to avoid the cold, moving almost as one as those at the front pressed forward.

Ilumene sat forward, watching intently. The wind had a flavour he knew, a subtle touch on his mind he recognised. Aracnan was following Ilumene's orders. The immortal would be standing at a window, somewhere within sight of the crowd, naked and holding his Crystal Skull in shivering hands. His stomach would be growling with hunger.

Ilumene pulled his own fleece-lined jacket closer as a chill seemed to rise from his bones. Aracnan had cast his own ill-humour and discomfort out into the wind to affect everyone in the square, and even though he was prepared, Ilumene felt a familiar growl of resentment. His thoughts went back to Narkang, to the king he'd once loved as a father, until he got a grip of himself and returned his attention to the crowd.

The change was immediate. Ilumene, a man well-schooled in anger, sensed the shift in mood before anyone else did. His eyes were drawn to a tall man on the left-hand side of the pressing crowd who reached out to grasp the bridle of the nearest horse. The rider saw him move and reacted first, kicking the man and sending him sprawling in the dirt. The crowd, instead of retreating, surged forward. The rider cried out for help, but the words were lost as voices on both sides were raised in a wordless paean of hatred.

The cavalry remembered their training and didn't fight into the crowd. They kept their line, content with hammering down with the butts of their spears at anyone within range. Blood sprayed and men screamed, falling to the ground before being trampled. Ilumene finally rose from his seat, his sword, still sheathed, in his hand as two squads of infantry ran around from behind the duchess's carriage.

The soldiers roared as they barrelled into the crowd, which actually moved forward to meet them before half a dozen or more beggars were smashed to the ground by soldiers' heavy shields. Ilumene tensed, his eyes on Haipar as she was pushed here and there, her arms raised to protect her child. The crowd's voice began to fail as the infantrymen drove them back, and Haipar ducked down in fear — until suddenly she was standing alone in front of the duchess's defenders.

Ilumene was already moving when a high scream cut the air. Everyone else paused, watching as three infantrymen turned towards the woman, their weapons raised. Haipar stood still, watch' ing her own death, while the child in her arms shrieked again.

The sound seemed to freeze everyone except Ilumene in their tracks, until the big man smashed his shoulder into the nearest soldier and knocked him to the ground. He saw a flicker of fear in the eyes of the next man as, moving with unnatural grace, he drew his sword, cut down into the soldier's knee and moved past. The face of the third infantryman was filled with fury as he lunged at Haipar with his spear-

— but Ilumene was there. He cut down into the shaft and let his momentum carry him forward into the man. He slashed upwards, catching the man across the face. He felt blood spatter on his cheek as the soldier fell. A small man was the first to react, charging forwards with shield and spear held close together. Ilumene turned away from the spear-point, letting his bulk take the impact of the shield, and then slammed his elbow into the man's neck, sending him sprawling. His sword was already rising to catch the next soldier's blow.

'Stop!' bellowed a voice behind him. 'Put your weapons up!'

The soldiers came to a halt as if their feet had just been nailed to the ground. Ilumene, his head moving constantly to keep his eyes on both sets of soldiers, kept moving until he'd reached Haipar's side. Then he lowered his sword and looked at the woman whose order had stopped the soldiers. The duchess, who was standing up in her open carriage, was a middle-aged woman with a proud face. Her fur-lined hood was pushed back to expose cheek reddened by the blustery wind. Her hair was held back by a ruby-studded circlet. At her side was, Ilumene supposed, the duke, although all he could make out was an anxious face, above which was a rather smaller circlet.

'No more killing,' the duchess continued in 'a slightly softer tone. Ilumene waited for the soldiers to put up their weapons before doing so himself. He glanced over at Haipar. The woman had sunk to her knees, her head bowed as though sobbing — or praying. Ilumene kept his face blank, hiding his disgust at what the woman had become. She'd forgotten all her abilities, her bravery, her strength. She was worthless now, except as a wet-nurse for his Master, and that would not be for much longer. After that, her survival would depend entirely on Azaer's appetite for cruelty.

Sheathing his sword, Ilumene nodded and, as if on cue, the child let out another wail. The heart-rending sound was enough to bring the duchess from her carriage. She was well-known to be childless, a situation the ignorant masses blamed fairly and squarely on her meek husband.

She was as tall and solid as Haipar had been when they first found her, but otherwise she could not have been more different. Her features were small, neat, and not a single sandy-brown hair was out of place. She wore earrings, spirals of gold encasing more rubies.

'What is your name?' she asked Ilumene as she pushed past her men.

'Kayel,' he replied hesitantly, casting a nervous look at the soldier who'd dismounted and taken up position at her side, 'Hener Kayel.'

'You're not a native of the Circle City, are you?'

'No, Canar Thrit,' he replied before remembering himself and adding belatedly, 'your Grace.' Bugger; stupid mistake to make when I'm trying to look humble. Maybe she'll think I'm overawed.

'You're a mercenary; signed, or looking for work?' Her manner was open, almost welcoming; clearly Ilumene had succeeded in his attempts to impress her.

He shrugged. 'Was working for some merchant, escorted him to the city. Supposed to be meeting him later to talk about more, your Grace.

'Good work, is it?'

Ilumene shrugged again and lowered his eyes, waiting for her to speak again. Good work, hah! You should have seen the flames of my last work!

'You look like you've seen your fair share of fighting,' the duchess said, looking at the rough scar on his cheek that ran to his mutilated ear.

Ilumene raised a hand to his ear and touched the scar. There were too many injuries on his forearms, even for a mercenary, but they were concealed by the long leather vambraces backed with steel links he wore — though in a moment of caprice he had wrapped twine haphazardly around the vambraces to remind him of the scars.

He shrugged, wearing a pained expression as he replied, 'Been on the wrong side of a few fights, your Grace. I'm in no hurry to see many more, but I reckon I'm big enough to frighten off thieves still'

'Are you a deserter?'

Ilumene shook his head and looked at the ground as he feigned shame. 'No regiment left to desert, Ma'am.'

'And yet you didn't fear to step in when you saw a child in danger — one I presume you don't know, from the way you're both dressed.' She looked at him musingly.

Ilumene gave a bob of the head; that was all most rulers needed in response to their questions.

The duchess turned to Haipar and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. A rumble of disapproval came from the soldier behind her, but she waved his concerns away. 'Fohl, you're such an old woman sometimes! It's perfectly obvious she's barely strong enough to stay standing by herself.' Gently she urged Haipar up and onto her feet again. 'Are you hurt?' she asked.

Haipar looked bewildered for a moment, her eyes darting between the duchess and Ilumene, then she shook her head.

'And your child?' Carefully, the duchess pushed aside the fold of cloth obscuring the baby's face. Ilumene felt his breath catch at the cherubic features of Azaer's mortal form. He looked up at the duchess and twisted his mouth into an enchanting smile. Ilumene, even a few feet away, could feel the arresting power of Azaer's gaze as the duchess looked deep into his shadow-clad eyes. He shivered as he remembered the first time he had done the same thing.

'I-' The duchess sounded stunned. 'Your child is beautiful.'

'He's a prince,' Haipar whispered. From her dull tone it was unclear if she even knew what the word meant. The sentence had been learned by rote until she could not forget it, even if everything else had drained away from her mind.

The duchess nodded dumbly. After another-second or two, the baby blinked and the spell was broken.

'A prince indeed. I have never seen a more beautiful child. What is his name? How old is he, six months?' the Duchess of Escral continued in a soft voice, sounding completely smitten.

Haipar shook her head and Ilumene had to restrain the urge to reach out and cuff her around the head.

'A month,' she whispered. 'He is called Ruhen.'

'A month only?' The duchess turned with a sceptical look towards Ilumene who just shrugged again. T think you have lost track of time a little, my dear. Your child is older than a month.'

Haipar started to shake her head again, but as she did so she caught sight of Ilumene staring at her and she faltered, frowning.

'Are you certain?' the duchess continued gently. 'Well, no matter, a little confusion affects us all as we get older, I find. Come, let's get you up into my carriage, for I would not sleep myself if I left a child as beautiful as this to go hungry tonight. The streets are too cold and cruel for one so young.' She forced a small laugh. 'And we must not forget that one cry from his lips was enough to inspire a jaded soldier to take on an army. Just think what greatness may await Ruhen when he learns to speak!'

More than you know, bitch, Ilumene thought. You'll regret saying that so carelessly. Once you've served your purpose, the only thing your future holds is the pleasure of me fucking you over your throne while that sap of a duke watches, bleeding out his last minutes at our feet. And then you will join him-

'Captain Fohl, perhaps you might find a space in the guard for one who fights as well as Master Kayel? I'm sure we could offer a better wage than most merchants. He's proved his skill already.' She waved a careless hand towards the fallen soldiers. One was clearly dead; the other two were still unconscious.

The captain looked less than impressed with the idea of having an unknown mercenary admitted to his troop, but he knew better than to argue with his mistress. When she had made up her mind about something, that was the end of the discussion.

'Dare say we could find a uniform to fit him,' Fohl growled. He was a slim man, past forty winters, with greying blond hair and a milkiness dulling the yellow of his left eye.

'What do you say, Master Kayel?' the duchess asked. 'The Ruby Tower needs more guards than most merchants, and looking scary enough to ward off thieves will serve you just as well there.'

Ilumene looked at the ground and did his best to look uncomfortable. 'Suppose I could manage that,' he said at last, earning a scornful look from Fohl, who clearly thought his victory over the guards had been down to luck and surprise rather than skill.

Proper Litse stock, this one, Ilumene thought as he took the reins one of the cavalrymen offered him. Yellow hair, yellow eyes and arrogant as shit. Dare say you could find a uniform to fit me, but I think I'll take yours. Even if you had both eyes working you'd never see me coming.

One squad of infantry was left behind to see to the injured. Ilumene kept his eyes on the road ahead, glancing only once at the crowd, where he picked out a face easily enough, a man with pinched features and scarred cheeks that spoke of childhood disease. As they trotted past, Ilumene caught a snatch of the man's voice on the wind, too faint to make out properly, but he knew the words anyway.

The cries of a child: enough to make a coward become a hero.

Legana leaned out over the polished wooden balcony and looked down at the streets. The winter wind didn't bother her; that was a small hardship when one had such luxurious lodgings. Raising her glass, she offered a general salute to the district and knocked back the last of the warmed wine.

'If only every assignment could be so comfortable,' the Farlan agent sighed, brushing a rogue strand of hair from her face. 'I doubt Chief Steward Lesarl would approve of me lazing about just waiting for Zhia to turn up, but there's really not a lot he can do about it, is there? So balls to him!'

She straightened up and tugged at her sleeves. Even after several months under Zhia Vukotic's determined tutelage Legana was still far from what Zhia considered a noblewoman to be; she preferred her plain leather tunic and breeches any day. Dresses were for women — not what Legana considered herself — but the sharp-eyed vampire would have noted an improvement in the cut of Legana's clothes all the same. The knife in her boot and short-swords on her belt remained, of course.

'But what are you doing with your time while you wait?' The woman's voice came from the room behind her…

Legana cursed; the room had been empty and she'd locked the door herself. She moved quietly to one side, grimacing as she knocked her glass off the balcony. She had her swords drawn as she turned to face the newcomer in one smooth movement.

'A little unnecessary,' the woman continued, sounding amused. She took a step forward, motioning for Legana to lower her weapons. Legana felt a shiver down her arms, and they went numb. Unbidden, the weapons fell to the floor. As the woman moved closer, the weak daylight illuminated her long copper hair and her startling emerald eyes.

'Gods!' Legana breathed, for a moment stunned into stillness, then she dropped to one knee. 'Lady.'

'Just one of us, my dear, but you got there in the end.'

Legana could feel Fate's assessing eyes on her.

'Oh, do get up, girl. Grovelling suits neither of us.'

Legana obeyed, but she kept her eyes low, desperately trying to remember her childhood lessons. They'd all thought it a big joke when the temple-mistress had told them the protocols for addressing their Goddess, but now Legana found herself wishing fervently that she'd paid a little more attention. Catching sight of her short swords on the floor at her feet, she felt a pang of shame and tried to nudge them behind a drape with her toe.

'Never mind those,' the Lady said. 'Why don't you fetch me a glass of that wine?'

Legana surprised herself at how eagerly she complied.

'And it looks like you'll be needing another glass too,' Fate called out from the balcony.

Legana looked back to see the Goddess leaning out over the balcony, looking down and, of all things, blowing a kiss to someone shouting below. There was nothing to interest a Goddess out there; it was just a minor street in Coin, the city's financial district. There were no temples here not even to Fate, the variously named Goddess of Luck — which was why Zhia Vukotic had wanted her to take rooms here.

Oh, piss and daemons, Legana realised, did 1 drop that glass on someone? Quickly she joined her mistress on the balcony and, a little hesitantly, handed Fate her wine.

'Ah, thank you.' Fate had a sly smile on her face as she sipped the wine and settled into a chair. After a moment she indicated Legana should take the other. Legana did so feeling awkward and heavy-limbed next to the Goddess, who had sat as gracefully as silk billowing on the wind. 'I think you caused a young man to wet himself in the street,' she said abruptly. 'Did the vampire not ask you to maintain a low profile then?'

Dark Place take me, she's here about Zhia, Legana thought with a sudden sense of dread. I'm dead — dead and damned.

'She, ah, I-' The words faded in her throat as Fate made a dismissive gesture and Legana felt her entire body freeze; all too like a dog responding to its mistress's command.

'I'm not here about the vampire, not principally, anyway,' she said after a moment.

'So why are you here then?' Legana tried not to sound curious, and afraid.

The Goddess gave a soft laugh that felt like icicles prickling down Legana's spine. 'To do what I do best; to present a choice.'

'A choice? For me?' Legana's startled look only amused Fate further. 'Why? What sort of choice would you need to offer? I'm a devotee of your temple, I'm yours to command.'

'Oh come now, you've never been the most pious of women, have you? I hardly think a divine proclamation would be appropriate.'

There was no anger in Fate's voice, but Legana still trembled slightly, fighting the urge to fall to her knees. She knew that was the effect the Gods were supposed to have on mortals, but it was alarming to experience it in person. She wasn't frightened of much the Land had to offer, and she'd been trained to be a killer of the highest calibre, and yet the merest hint of a smile from her mistress sent shivers down her spine.

'I'm afraid I don't understand, my Lady.'

'I do have a mission for you, that is true, but first I have a proposal.' The Lady leaned forward suddenly and Legana flinched involuntarily before finding herself once again mesmerised by the unnatural emerald shine of Fate's eyes.

It reminded her of a friend who'd won a set of dice with emeralds marking out the numbers on each face. A week later he'd offered her all the money he'd won to take the dice off his hands. Few mortals would survive such luck for long.

'You were in Scree; you saw what happenedthere.'

'I saw, but I didn't understand much of it,' Legana admitted, unable to hold the Lady's gaze for long, though she found herself continually drawn back to it.

'For a time the Gods were driven out of the city; the natives turned against my kind.' Fate spoke in a whisper, now no trace of a smile on her face. 'It was never intended to last, that much we do know, but the precedent is, let us say, concerning us.'

'And the fervour?' Legana asked timidly, unsure what reaction her question would receive. 'I've heard mild-mannered priests are suddenly preaching fire-and-brimstone; that it's driven some to violence already.'

'I am mindful of the situation,' the Lady said, a fierce look in her eye, 'but there are others whose anger is unmatched since the days of the Great War. There was hurt done to several of the Upper Circle, and they demand vengeance.'

Legana shuddered. That sounded distinctly worrying. 'And what would you have of me, Lady?'

'A bargain,' Fate said. 'The mistakes of the past should not be repeated. Our greatest failure of the Great War was to pay insufficient attention at the outset. Immortals are not suited to the mundane details of mortal life, yet I suspect that is the battleground on which we will soon be fighting.'

The Goddess paused and inspected Legana's clothes, which looked even shabbier than usual when compared with Fate's dark green dress, which flowed around her in a breeze Legana couldn't detect. After a moment, she said, 'What I would have you do is to join me. Normally I make little use of priests or champions, but I believe this — and more — will be required if we are not to be left behind in the coming conflicts.'

'The coming conflicts? What do you mean by "join you"?'

Fate hesitated. 'We have reached the Age of Fulfilment, and I am blind to what may come to pass. There are so many possibilities, and all conflicts are as one; dark portents feed off one another. There is no single enemy to face, but a hurricane of potential to unravel, to comprehend and map. The Gods are not united. They have different goals, and will not share followers willingly — we will never again see Nartis commanding Menin armies, or Death walking the streets of a city to rally its poorest in its defence. The deeds of the Great War broke us in many ways.

'As for what I mean by joining me, I mean just that. I suspect I am the first of my kind to make such an offer but I doubt I will be the last.' She produced a delicate golden necklace of the finest workmanship, studded with emeralds. 'We Gods need mortal agents such as we have never required before. Legana, I offer you the chance to become part of me — to share my power and act in my name.'

'You want me as your Chosen?' Legana gasped. Of all the things she might have imagined, this would never have occurred to her, not for a-

'Nothing so feeble,' the Lady said with a sniff. She did not yet offer the necklace to Legana, though it was plainly part of the bargain. T intend you to be part of me, not my servant. I wish you to be a Mortal-Aspect. You will walk the Land with my strength and my authority.

'Place this necklace around your throat and you will become an Aspect of Fate, no longer fully mortal, but not entirely divine. I require a mortal mind to see what I cannot, a mortal body to fear what I may dismiss.' She looked at Legana, something like sorrow in her eyes. 'My dear, this will not be an easy decision. Such a thing has never happened before, and I cannot promise you I am certain of the effect. But I cannot wait long. I give you until dawn to make your decis-'

'There's no need,' Legana said with a sudden surge of confidence. 'My Lady, I accept.'

Fate gave her a quizzical look, but this time Legana refused to let her gaze fall. The word 'Chosen' had sent a thrill racing through her body. She had been raised by devotees of the Lady, treated with nothing but kindness; even punishment for misbehaviour had been lenient by comparison with tales she'd heard about the cruelty some novices suffered at other monasteries and temples.

The day she'd left the temple, Legana had realised the firm hand of the devotees had tempered her impetuous nature, and made her a better woman. She owed them — and her Goddess — a lot, and she would serve the Lady however she could.

And Legana was smart enough to know that this offer would never be surpassed. It was more than she'd ever dared to dream for.

'Are you so sure?' Fate said after a moment!. 'This is not something to be undertaken lightly, and I have no wish to bind myself to an unwilling soul.'

'I'm certain,' Legana said, looking her Goddess directly in the eye, her fear gone. 'I have never felt I belonged, other than inside your temple — any lack of piety on my part was because I felt insignificant, not worthy of you. I'll not betray my people, or my lord, but I wish to be more than an agent of a man I barely know.

'I'll take your gift and pay the price it demands.'

Fate studied the young woman, then broke into a sudden, brilliant smile. 'I have indeed chosen well. Now, listen before you put the necklace on, for I suspect the sudden sense of mortality will come as an awful shock to me, and I may have to retreat to the Palace of the Gods to recover.'

Legana nodded quickly, her eyes glimmering with eagerness.

'Consorting with necromancers and vampires will no longer do. Deal with your current companions, then go to my temple in Hale. You may live there; Zhia Vukotic will not come after you there.'

Legana nodded again, her eyes flickering to her fallen weapons. Neither Mikiss, the vampire asleep in the next room, nor Nai, the necromancer she'd last seen the previous night, would be easy to kill, but with the strength of a Goddess what could she not achieve?

The Lady had seen Legana's eyes move to her swords. 'Good; kill them both, and then look to the voices in this city. The crossroads of the West is divided into quarters, but to get through whatever is coming, it will need to stand united — and believe me, the crossroads of the West must survive.'

The Lady spoke quickly now, and handed over the necklace to Legana.

She ran her fingers over the emeralds without taking her eyes off the Lady's face.

'I suggest you start your work by killing the High Priest of Alterr

here in Byora. He's a waddling little misery of a man who goes by the name of Ayarl Lier.'

Legana's eyes widened. The Qods are turning on each other now? 'We have never been the most harmonious of entities,' the Lady said with a smile, guessing correctly what Legana had been thinking. 'Alterr is one of those whose rage flows unabated. She will lead us to rashness if her strength is not curtailed, and Lier has great influence, both within the court of Natai Escral, and with the common folk of Hale. It is best that influence be removed. And anyway,' she added with a mischievous smile, as though she had suggested nothing more than a mild prank, 'Alterr is of the Upper Circle of the Pantheon, while I am not. Ambition is not limited to mortals.'

Venn slowly opened his eyes, trying not to wince at the light as he focused on the figures sitting nearby. They were all young, all with the unmistakable poise of Harlequins, dressed in furs and leather, the rough clothes of the clans rather than the distinctive diamond patchwork of a Harlequin. Not their final visit to the cavern then, but not long until this fresh crop would be presented with their blades and sent out into the Land.

And they have waited for me, Venn thought with satisfaction. It appears my newfound weakness is yet another sign of my divine mission.

There had never been a Harlequin who had renounced the ways after years out in the Land — those who saw it as a betrayal had no idea what to do about him, and increasingly, folk of the clans were seeing him as a man who had moved beyond the usual pattern of life. The Land had reforged the finest of the Harlequins and returned him to them to usher them into the future. The otherworldly air about him, courtesy of Jackdaw, ensured those with complaints or accusations spoke them only quietly. He had asked nothing of them and had spoken no heresy; until he did so their very uncertainty protected him.

His arm felt leaden as he reached out for the water-bowl he kept close at hand. The cavern was a vast place of open temples and shrines, but the natural grain of rock meant there were dozens of ledges and alcoves. Venn had adopted once such ledge and spent most of his days sitting there with his back resting against the wall. He ventured outside only rarely; what little exercise he took nowadays consisted solely of walking from one shrine to the next.

There were more visitors despite the winter months, and they were there to see him, the Harlequin who had returned from the Land a changed man, so he forced himself to be awake when they came, to debate with them, or preach to them.

He drank thirstily, then replaced the cup, ignoring the growl in his stomach. Jackdaw remained in his shadow, silent for sometimes days on end, yet still requiring everything a normal man needed to live. The only difference was that he now drained it from Venn.

Is this how a mother feels? he wondered, his cracked lips curving into a slight smile. A child feeds greedily from my body while 1 must sit here and extol the virtues of another? Master, once more I applaud your sense of humour.

'Age is a curse we must all bear,' he began, aware that the group of young men and women were all waiting eagerly for his latest teachings. Religion: what a masterful tool. They expect wisdom, so that is what they hear.

'The wisdom of years clouds understanding. In life there is always fear, and that leads us from truth. Given the power of speech, a newborn would provide counsel surpassing that of any king because a newborn has not known pain, not the pain of loss, nor of love, nor of hunger, nor of fear.'

Beside him he felt Jackdaw stir as the former monk recognised his cue; his skills were required again. Venn raised his palms in a manner that would remind some of the icons of Shaolay, Goddess of Wisdom, that often adorned thrones. He saw the wonder in the eyes of his new disciples as a sliver of Jackdaw's magic raced through his body, subtly enhancing the God-touched image he was presenting.

'A perfect child can remind us of how we ourselves once were, before we were stained by our years in the Land; its voice can strip away the fear that clouds our judgment and take us back to that unsullied state. Such a child would calm the enraged. Such a child would give heart to a coward, and cause him to fight like a God in the defence of innocence. To seek out such innocence in others, to serve a child who knows nothing of hatred; what higher calling could there be?'