The ragged man

CHAPTER 12

Major Amber looked up from his meal when a horn sounded in the distance: a single note that carried from the edge of the camp. It was all he needed to hear. With the help of crutches he got to his feet and made his way to the window.

'What's that about?' Horsemistress Kirl asked through a mouthful of mutton. Food in the Fist was far better than what was being served to the troops outside.

'Nothing to concern you,' Amber said distantly.

After another week of daily ministrations from the mages of Larat and the Priest of Shotir, his injuries had healed enough for him to get up and move about without help, if not without pain. His entire body still hurt, and he'd not be fighting any time soon, but it was a blessing to be out of his bed again nonetheless.

Kirl shrugged and went back to her food. In the darkness outside there was little to see, but Amber remained looking out of the window. He could just about make out the shapes of soldiers moving on the ground below and after a minute he caught sight of the one he was looking for.

The road to the Fist was marked with torches, clear lines in the evening gloom that stood out amidst the campfires. A pair of horsemen approached through the bustle of an army yet to settle down to sleep. Amber couldn't make out any detail, but guessed the smaller of the two would be Gaur's man, Chade. Lord Larim had told them to expect the Poisonblade at nightfall. When the riders were a hundred paces from the main gate Amber turned and headed for the door, grabbing a large sheathed sword as he did so and swinging the baldric over his shoulder.

Kirl watched him struggle to open the door without letting either crutch or sword fall, but she did nothing, just helped herself to the food he'd left. Amber glanced back just before he closed the door as she scraped the last of his rice into her bowl. The horsemistress had surprised him by showing a greater piety than he'd expected from her. From his sick bed it had been hard to miss her quietly saying the morning devotionals, or the prayer to Grepel of the Hearths when she lit the fire. Though she'd never given the impression of being a great supporter of dogma, or the priesthood in general, Amber was keen to avoid her discovering anything about the meeting he was heading off to. She caught him looking and flashed a brief smile; the major felt himself colour and retreated.

He made his way to the apartments General Gaur had made his own. Gaur's huntsmen stood guard rather than Menin soldiers, but they allowed him through with nothing more than a suspicious glance. They were an ugly lot, criminal-looking, but under the tattoos, ritual scarring and bone piercings, there were some educated minds as sharp as the long knives they carried.

Inside he was greeted by General Gaur, who relieved Amber of the sword and directed him to an armchair. Unusually, the beastman was out of uniform, dressed instead in a formal robe of red, edged in white fur and detailed with black insignias of the Menin and Chetse legions under his command. Amber looked at his own uniform and felt a flush of embarrassment when he realised how in need of cleaning it was. Convalescence and renown were making him forget the officers' code.

'How are you, major?' Gaur asked abruptly.

'Well enough, sir,' Amber confirmed. 'No strength for much more than walking from room to room yet, but at least I can do that. I've recovered some of my senses since I stopped taking the pain medicine.'

Gaur gave an approving nod. 'Good. Lord Styrax wants you in Byora as soon as possible – we're going to lift the restrictions on travel throughout the Circle City so you need to be in place there.'

'Lifting restrictions so soon?'

'Trade is the Circle City's lifeblood; if that isn't allowed to continue the resentment will only grow, and that's no way to build an empire.'

Gaur settled himself into another armchair and turned to face Amber. He rested the sword in the crook of his arm. 'Ismess has been shattered; that is nothing more than a minor problem. We occupy Akell to keep the Devoted on a short leash, and Fortinn is mainly at war with itself. Meanwhile, Byora's ruler is caught up in something altogether more complicated; I know Lord Styrax has told you this, that we believe her to be under Azaer's control. Azaer's disciples will keep down any insurrection, so as long as normal life is allowed to continue, the entire Circle City will quickly come to accept its new circumstances.'

'What resources will I have to monitor Duchess Escral and Byora?' Amber asked.

'Just a few troops, and some of my huntsmen – but there will be a standing garrison in Byora, of course, so that might as well be the Cheme Third until we march again. For the time being they will be kept close to the armoury and leave policing the city to the duchess' troops – she's not so foolish as to try anything, and a bit of normality will do the quarter good. You should set up operations away from your legion, remain on injury leave and relax a little. Have your men observe these "children" gathering outside the Ruby Tower in particular, but… Well, it is possible you will gather the best intelligence yourself. As yet we don't know Azaer's intention, and before we assume its plan is hostile to our own, we should allow its people the opportunity to approach us.'

'And Zhia Vukotic?'

Gaur nodded. 'Yes indeed. Lord Styrax believes she will want to clarify her position as far as we are concerned, so you should expect her too.'

The discussion was cut off by a sharp rap on the door and before waiting for invitation Chade had entered, ushering in a companion and closing the door swiftly behind them both before he'd even bowed to his lord. The other was tall enough that he had to duck his head a little as he entered, but having done so he then stood motionless while Chade bustled around him.

The newcomer was almost entirely hidden under a long cloak; what part of his face not shadowed by the hood was covered by a dull green scarf. Over one shoulder was a thin, rectangular weapons-bag that reached almost to the ground. To Amber's eyes he was oddly slim – most men of that height were white-eyes, and bulky with heavy muscle. Despite having the advantage of several inches' height over Amber, the newcomer looked like he weighed several stone less.

After a long moment the newcomer pulled his scarf away from his face with deliberate slowness, then slipped back his hood. Amber blinked in surprise; there was nothing unusual about his face at all. It was unremarkably in every way; it was the face of a typical Menin.

'Your true face please,' Gaur growled.

The man's mouth curled into a slight smile. He peeled his gloves off to reveal long, delicate fingers and unfastened his cloak. Underneath he wore a black tunic patterned with sinuous green dragons, overlaid by crossed baldrics. A bronze gorget at his neck was engraved with what looked like writing and studded with small gems.

He unhooked it, and Amber gave a start that sent a fresh twinge of pain around his ribcage.

The man's face seemed to fall away from his head and vanish for a fraction of a second. As Amber's eyes refocused he saw no man's face at all: a sharper, curved jaw line, a thinner skull and more prominent cheekbones. Though Amber had been expecting it, he could not quite stop a moment of shock.

As beautiful as a woman, with an unknowable air and a cruel glitter in his eyes, the true Elf slipped back his hood and gave a mocking half-bow. By some freak of birth he had been untouched by the curse and was one of only a handful of true Elves born to each generation. In that instant their eyes met, Amber realised Arlal Poisonblade knew exactly how rare he was.

'Drink?' Gaur asked, indicating a tall silver jug to Arlal's left.

'No,' he said, his voice little more than a whisper. With fastidious care the Elf tucked his gloves into his belt and slipped the weapons-bag from his shoulder. The only adornment he wore other than the gorget was a silver belt-buckle in the shape of a dragon's head. Everything else was as plain and practical as one might expect of an assassin in the land of his ancient enemies.

'Will you sit?'

'No.'

'To business then.' If Gaur took offence at the Elf's demeanour he gave no sign of it. He patted the sheathed sword meaningfully. 'We have another job for you. More difficult this time.'

'Who?'

'A Farlan general. By now we assume he will have returned to Tirah.'

'A general more difficult than the Krann of the Chetse?' Arlal said contemptuously. His Menin was imperfect, as though he was reluctant to sully his mouth with a human dialect, but it was understandable.

Amber was careful not to react. He'd known a Raylin mercenary had wounded Krann Charr with a magical arrow, but he hadn't been part of Lord Styrax's inner circle before the invasion and the name of the assassin had remained a secret. Even with the heretical direction their plans were now going in it was a shock to hear a true Elf had struck the first blow of their conquest – the arrow had allowed Charr to be possessed by a daemon, which had then usurped Lord Chalat's position.

Without Arlal's first blow the Menin advance force would never have been able to defeat the Chetse in one sudden strike, and Amber himself would never have had the opportunity to meet the Chosen of Tsatach in battle barely a month past, let alone kill him; more likely he'd have died assaulting Thotel.

'He is no longer just a general; he is also the Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn,' the general said.

The Elf laughed. 'Your Gods are so weak now they need mortals?'

Gaur didn't respond. No good could come from discussing the Gods with an Elf, one cursed or not.

'The spirits are stirred up. I hear their whispers in the dark,' Arlal continued, a sudden intensity crossing his face. 'They tell me the Farlan thief is dead.' The Elf's eyes glittered with avarice and Amber realised the thievery he meant was Lord Isak's possession of Siulents and Eolis – the greatest of Elven weapons.

'That is true,' Gaur confirmed. 'He was foolish enough to face Lord Styrax in battle.'

'Then my price is what is rightfully mine,' the Elf spat.

Gaur cocked his head and Amber realised he had been expecting that. 'His gifts? We do not have them to offer; all but his helm were sent to the Dark Place with him.'

As Arlal hesitated, Amber understood: they knew almost nothing of the Elven race, or its prophecies, with the exception of the prophet, Shalstik, who foretold Aryn Bwr's rebirth, but Eolis and Siulents would be more than just weapons to them. They were symbols of their greatest king – it might be that possession of them alone would be enough to confer the authority to rule, even without using them to claim he was Aryn Bwr reborn.

'What do you offer?' Arlal said at last.

'This sword,' Gaur said, holding out the weapon Amber had won. 'Taken from Lord Chalat's dead fingers, it is Elven-made – I believe in your tongue it is named Golaeth.'

Amber could see Arlal's shoulders stiffen, but the Elf made no effort to reach for the weapon.

'It is perhaps a relic of my people, but it is a poor thing compared to Eolis. It is not enough to kill a God.'

'He is no God, only one touched by the divine,' Gaur pointed out. 'It will be no different to killing one of the Chosen.'

'I need more.'

Gaur looked over at Amber briefly, who had nothing to contribute beyond meeting Gaur's look and looking stern, and hoping his slight nod would add to the impression of compromise. 'What do you need?' the beastman asked.

'Arrows to kill him, Golaeth if they fail to. The helm and its weight in rubies as final payment.'

'Rubies?'

The Elf gave a curt nod, but no explanation, and Amber realised suddenly he did have a contribution to the conversation.

'For making bloodrose amulets,' the major said, his eyes on Arlal. 'It's said they're composed of rubies.' One of the mages healing him had mentioned it – Lord Chalat had been thought to wear such an amulet, though nothing had been found on his body. They were created by the Elven warrior orders and used instead of physical armour. Clearly some such orders remained.

'Our friend here has plans of his own back home,' Amber went on, watching as Arlal's eyes narrowed enough to prove him right. 'With Golaeth, enough rubies to make several bloodrose amulets and Aryn Bwr's helm, he may find power and supporters enough for a coup.'

'That, human,' Arlal spat, 'is not your concern.'

'It is not,' Gaur agreed, 'but the price is acceptable. Inform Lord Larim of your requirements and he shall ensure the arrows are made.'

He held the sword out and this time Arlal took it and slipped the ancient copper-bladed weapon from the sheath to inspect it. Like many magical weapons it was oversized, too big to be of any real use without its imbued power. It would have looked comical in the hands of the slender Arlal but for the ease with which he moved it through the air. It was a straight, double-edged blade coming to a short point, and as Arlal ran reverential fingers down the flat Amber saw four complex swirling runes briefly glow orange.

'Agreed,' Arlal said finally, sheathing it again. He flicked the clasp of his cloak so that it fell from his right shoulder and he could attach the scabbard to his baldric; in a few moments the sword had disappeared, the cloak returned to position, and gorget and scarf restored. 'You require method or time?' he asked.

'As long as it happens before the end of summer, dead will do.'

Arlal murmured agreement and left with Chade hard on his heels.

When the sound of footsteps had receded, Amber turned to the general. 'How heavy is the helm then?'

'Not heavy.'

'Light as a bloody feather, I'd guess,' the major said, his amber eyes flashing with laughter.

'Close,' Gaur admitted with a twitch of a furred cheek that could have been a smile, although with tusks protruding up to his nose it was hard to tell. 'He may get one small amulet from them.'

'Pretty and stupid,' Amber commented as he eased himself upright again, 'just how I like 'em.'

'Thank you, Major,' the beastman replied gravely. 'Time for you to get back to your duties, I think.'

Daken reached out and grabbed the nearest King's Man by the scruff of the neck. 'What d'ya mean, they lifted the restrictions on entry? I've just spent a fucking hour in that there damned barrel! And with Telasin bloody-Daemon-Touch with me!' he added, pointing at the man now clambering out of the same smuggler's barrel. 'When he farts, it smells like the bastard Dark Place – and I had to put up with that for nuthin?'

'Could've been worse,' Coran called, clambering out of his own and gesturing to the woman behind him, 'Sparks kept comin' off Ebarn the whole bloody journey.'

Daken released the man and turned to watch Ebarn, the Brotherhood's dark-haired battle-mage, who was clambering her way out with a scowl on her face. She was a few winters older than Doranei, and a veteran of King Emin's war against Azaer.

'You learn to keep your fucking hands to yourself,' she growled, 'and that'll stop happening.' Once she was standing upright again Ebarn groaned and flexed her muscles before running her finger through her cropped hair.

Coran didn't smile with the rest of the Brotherhood, the more unusual of whom were still being helped out of the barrels used to smuggle them into Byora.

They were being unpacked in the storeroom of Lell Derager, the Farlan's agent and pet wine merchant. The cheerful middle-aged merchant and his two most trusted men were releasing them one by one from the half-dozen fake barrels they had escorted into the city.

Once she'd stretched, Ebarn noticed that Coran was still staring at her, and she turned away with a slight sneer on her face. The white-eye had never been popular with women, not even the whores on whom he spent most of his money. He'd never acquired the skill of treating one as a colleague.

Coran rubbed his hands together as though warming them up. 'My fingers have gone numb with all those sparks – didn't know what I was touching.'

'We've heard you say that before,' called Ebarn, 'and not even the goat-herder believed you then!'

While the rest of the Brotherhood smirked, Doranei's face remained set and stony. Coran ignored the taunting and made his way over to Doranei. He gripped his shoulder and looked him straight in the eye, his expression grave. They all knew Sebe and Doranei had been as close as birth-brothers, and his loss wasn't just that of a comrade. Doranei gave a glum nod of thanks and thumped Coran on the back in reply before pushing past him.

'You must be Daken,' he said to the other white-eye, who was eying him appraisingly.

The mercenary nodded as he tugged his enormous axe from the barrel and swung it up onto his shoulder.

'The answer to your question is this: you didn't put up with Telasin for nothing. While the restrictions have been lifted, there'll have been half-a-dozen folk watching the gate and taking note of anyone unusual coming in.'

'Well, we're in now,' said the mercenary battle-mage, Wentersorn, as he emerged from his own barrel and immediately sidestepped away from Daken. The white-eye hadn't had the opportunity yet to live up to his reputation, but the Mad Axe still clouted Wentersorn around the head every time he came within reach. 'I take that as a good sign, so how's about we find us some whores to celebrate my homecoming?'

'Fucking mercenaries,' Doranei sighed. 'Does keeping a low profile mean nothing to you?'

Wentersorn scowled and pointed at Daken. 'He's my commander, not you.' He gave Daken a hopeful look, not a kindred spirit, but at least a common interest. The white-eye's appetite for women was said to surpass even Coran's.

'Much as I'd love to agree with the ugly little shit and go get me some,' Daken said, 'we don't need the trouble.'

He lifted his shirt to reveal a mass of blue tattoos and pointed to the largest, a woman's head and upper torso in profile. Her mouth was twisted into a cruel smile and her fingers ended in sharp claws. As Doranei watched the smile widened a shade and her fingers briefly stroked the line of Daken's pectoral muscle.

'Litania does love to join in,' Daken said. He pointed to a series of scars just below his navel, adding, 'And she's a biter.'

Doranei coughed to cover his surprise and forced himself to tear his gaze from the Aspect of Larat inhabiting a man's skin. 'Well, if that's settled, have your men find bunks in there.' He pointed to a wide door on his left. 'That storeroom's been cleared; it's cramped, but it'll serve for tonight. Food and beer will be provided. Daken, do you have a second-in-command?'

The white-eye jabbed a thumb towards a bald man with bronze earrings and a pair of scimitars. 'Brother Penitence there.'

'Brother Penitence?' Doranei and Derager gasped in unison, both sounding dismayed.

'Aye, he's a cleric – Mystic o' Karkarn to be exact!' Daken gave a laugh at their expressions. 'Hah, look at the pair of ya; we ain't completely dumb, I just wanted to see your faces at his name.'

'I realise the name would be unwise in these troubled times,' the Mystic of Karkarn said in a surprisingly cultured voice. Many of their number were former soldiers, and most barely educated. 'Considering the way so many cults have abused the office of the Penitency in recent months I am willing to give it up for the time being. My birth name was Hambalay Osh; that is what you may use instead.'

'What's a mystic's involvement here?' Doranei demanded. 'I can't believe you're being paid like a mercenary.'

Osh dipped his head to acknowledge the point. 'I am an old acquaintance of the king's; one who owes him a considerable favour and whose skills are the only way of addressing the balance.'

Doranei grunted. This was neither the time nor place to pursue the matter. 'Follow me,' he said, and led them up to a staircase. Coran, Daken and Osh followed him two floors up to an attic room that had two small beds and a table at the window. One of the beds was neatly made up, a man's possessions arranged with military precision on top. As Coran passed it he kissed the knuckles of his right hand and touched them to the maker's mark on the guard of the dagger that lay there. The little-known but much admired weaponsmith provided most of what the Brotherhood carried.

Doranei headed for a seat at the window and took a moment to gaze out at the view across Breakale district to Eight Towers.

'What's the latest then?' Coran asked after a minute or two, interrupting Doranei's reverie.

'Apart from the lifting of restrictions?' he said. 'Only Lord Styrax killing a dragon.'

The white-eye whistled. 'Must've taken some doing.'

'Smacks of showin' off if you ask me,' Daken commented, perching carefully on one of the beds until he was sure it could take the weight of a white-eye.

'Maybe,' Doranei said. 'Whatever the truth, it sounds like he's won over more than a few by it. Folk here have never had such a powerful ruler and they're beginning to think it's better to be inside his empire reaping the benefits than outside trying to fight it.'

'Might have a point there,' Daken said with a grin. 'So we're goin' to be the ones fightin' it – folk call me mad; what's your excuse?'

'It's not our concern at the moment; we've only got one target in Byora.'

'Why? If not this season, then one comin' soon, Lord Styrax is goin' to want to add Narkang to his empire. Why not throw a few sails in the pond?'

Seeing both Doranei and Coran looking puzzled by the expression Daken explained, 'Sail-raptors? No? Ah well, type o' lizard; swims, eats ducks, scares the shit out of 'em. Anyways, why not try slow him up a bit?'

'You don't get to question the king's decisions,' Doranei replied, 'and we don't have the time or resources to set up something that'll catch a big-enough duck to make our lives worthwhile. The Menin can't move much further, they must be badly stretched as it is. If they don't stop to consolidate they'll lose the city-states they've taken and while they're doing that, we'll be invoking our agreements with the Farlan. Now, if you don't mind, let's return to the reason why we're here.'

'Killing Ilumene,' Coran said, savouring the words.

'Not only,' Doranei corrected sharply. 'As you'll see tomorrow – well, not you two, I guess, just Osh and me – there's more than just Ilumene in Byora.'

'Such as?'

'A child, Ruhen, and the rest of Duchess Escral's inner circle, a man called Luerce, even Aracnan, if he's still alive after Sebe winged him with a poisoned bolt.'

'Who's this Luerce?'

Doranei scratched the stubble on his cheek. 'I don't know if I've quite worked out his place in things yet. This is what I've got so far: there's a crowd of beggars camped right outside the gates to the Ruby Tower, writing prayers and fixing them to the wall and gates, asking Ruhen to intercede with the Gods on their behalf. Ruhen is – well, we'll come to him. The beggars are being organised by Luerce and his followers – they're calling themselves something like Ruhen's Children, though I've heard a few other names mentioned.'

'So what's the game?'

'I don't know yet,' Doranei admitted. 'The duchess has been turned against the cults; Hale district is still almost entirely shut off. The goal appears to be cutting the population off from the Gods, removing the priesthood from daily life. By having them call to Ruhen they're weakening the Gods, but to what end I can't say. This would have to go on for decades – and spread throughout most of the Land – before the Gods were weak enough for Azaer to be any sort of rival.'

'Could someone else be a rival instead?'

Doranei sighed. 'Perhaps – certainly someone with a Skull could kill a God, and the weaker they got, the easier it would be.'

'Remember that trip you got sent on after Scree?' Coran asked pointedly, 'to the monastery on the lake? You're looking for mad and strong enough to kill Gods – there's your answer.'

Doranei considered Coran's point. While King Emin had left the ruins of Scree with the Skull of Ruling, Azaer's disciples had been intent on getting something else the island-monastery's abbot had in his possession. The journal of Prince Vorizh Vukotic had been Azaer's prize, and its contents remained a worrying mystery.

'You could be right,' Doranei mused, 'but it doesn't explain why – unless it's revenge for something that happened in the Age of Myths, there's not a good enough reason. Just to cause chaos and misery can't be all there is to it: there has to be a plan, and that's what we're missing.'

'What if this is a game of the heavens?' Osh asked unexpectedly. 'I don't pretend to understand much of what is going on, but I suspect my theology is better than any of you. There is clear precedent of insurrection there – Lliot, the God of All Waters, rebelled against the rule of Death and His queen. That failed, so perhaps another God has chosen a different line of attack and found a daemon cunning enough to lay the way for it. If successful, the rewards would be commensurate.'

'The king doesn't believe so,' Doranei said. 'It's the best explanation we have, but investigations say it ain't right. No God of any significance has been spared the effects of the backlash, and the king's mages have consulted a host of daemons – there would be some sort of a whisper about it if such a thing were happening. Anyway, Azaer's no true daemon – '

'And too fucking arrogant to be a hired hand,' Coran broke in.

Doranei nodded. 'Even with the collusion of a God it doesn't fit with what we know of the shadow. If it sparks a war within the Pantheon it will be solely for its own purposes.' He raised a hand to stop any further conversation. 'We can discuss this later, but right now we have an assault to plan. Surviving that is my only concern at this time.'

'So what's the bet?' Coran asked automatically.

Doranei glowered and glanced at Sebe's belongings on the bed. 'You kill Ilumene or Ruhen, or you finish off Aracnan, you can name your fucking price. I'll pay it gladly.'

The next day was one of unexpected sunshine, long shafts of light cutting through clumps of drifting cloud to shine down upon Byora's streets. It felt to Doranei like the entire population had been ushered outside, flocking to the recently replenished markets or just making the most of the weather after the months of grim, lingering cold. He had left the wine merchant's not long after dawn, taking with him the Mystic of Karkarn, Hambalay Osh, and Veil, one of the Brotherhood.

The trio took a long, winding route through the quarter. They were in no hurry to get to the Ruby Tower; it was the perfect day to get a feel for the city again – they'd be more inconspicuous than usual with so many people out and about. The streets of Wheel and Burn were hives of activity now the Menin had reinstated free passage and carts of all sizes had clogged the streets in their eagerness to deliver the raw materials Byora so desperately needed. The few Menin patrols they saw were carefully keeping out of the way of everyday life; many were sitting outside taverns and eateries, behaving themselves like soldiers under orders.

Heading into Breakale, the central district where more than half of Byora's citizens lived, they found the streets no less busy. Doranei led them past the Three Inns crossroad, where their Brother Sebe had died, to an eatery that faced east, towards Blackfang. The wedge-shaped building had been built to divert the floodwaters that occasionally swept off the mountain slopes, and from the tip of the wedge on the upper floor they had a good view of the surrounding area. Since it was well before midday, they had it to themselves.

They sat in silence, sharing a jug of weak wine and watching gangs of labourers work through the rubble of the buildings that had once stood to the right of them; the place where Sebe had been holed up with his poison-tipped arrows, from where he shot Aracnan. And it was there he had died, when the immortal mercenary had indiscriminately unleashed the power of his Crystal Skull, killing hundreds in a storm of raging magic.

'Here's to you, Sebe,' Veil said at last, raising his goblet in salute, 'you monkey-faced little bugger. We'll miss you.'

Doranei kept quiet, he'd said his goodbyes already, but he downed the rest of his wine with the other two. When a girl brought them a plate of bread and white crumbly cheese he ignored it and picked up the wine jug, his eyes still on the workmen below.

'Something I thought I'd never see,' he said eventually, more to himself than the others. 'You see those men with white scarves tied round their necks?'

Veil looked up from his food a moment. 'Look like they're in charge of the work. Some sort of labourers' guild? I saw a few on the way here like that.'

Veil was a wiry man a few winters younger than Doranei. He wore his dark hair long, tied back with twine. Unlike Doranei he'd been late coming into the care of the Brotherhood; he'd been twelve winters when his parents died of the white plague. He'd been marked as someone worth watching from his very first night, when he'd blackened Ilumene's eye before the older boy had managed to land a blow, a very rare occurrence.

'I've been asking about that building. The owner was killed when it collapsed, but someone bought the plot and is rebuilding. Word is that it's going to be some sort of sanctuary.'

'And?'

'And that sanctuary will be for anyone in need, run by followers of the child Ruhen – that's what the white scarves signify. They're the ones camped outside the Ruby Tower.'

Veil took a closer look at the men Doranei was talking about. One wore a tattered leather jerkin that looked like padding to go underneath mail; the rest looked in even worse condition. 'It's no sense of civic duty. The fucker's pissing on Sebe's grave.'

'The ones you saw in the other districts have been preaching a bit too, mainly anti-cult talk. There's no one in Byora going to defend any of the cults nowadays, not since the clerics' rebellion when they tried to assassinate the duchess. Sebe and I started listening when we realised there's a whole bunch of them spreading the word. Those who're receptive to the message are taken aside and told about a prophecy, a prophecy of the Saviour that's known to only the Harlequins.'

'Let me guess,' Osh said grimly, 'this prophecy sees no need for the cults at all?'

'They're keeping it close to their chests at the moment, only telling those willing to believe anything: the desperate, the poor, those with a grudge against the Gods or the cults. There have been stories running through the city for weeks now about Ruhen performing miracles – breaking a curse, protecting the duchess from the clerics trying to kill her – that's what the crowd outside the compound are there for. They're praying to this child to intercede on their behalf with the Gods.'

'So those who know the secret put two and two together and get a new God for their pains.'

Veil grimaced, imagining what sort of God Azaer would make.

Osh paused mid-bite. 'There's a crowd of beggars outside the Ruby Tower gates? How big?'

'Few hundred at least,' Doranei said.

'Are we talking fanatics here?'

'Not for the most part, mostly folk broken by the Land they're living in and desperate for something better.'

'Thank the Gods,' Osh said with relief. 'We already know we're going to have to deal with guards and distract any Menin soldiers – I don't much fancy cutting my way through a crowd of men and women willing to die to protect the child.'

'Speaking of which,' Doranei said, 'what tricks do we have on that front? The crowd should be easy enough to frighten out of the way, but that's the easy part. We need a diversion to give us a chance, and I guess we'll need every mage we've got inside the compound.'

'The king has assembled a box of tricks for you to play with,' Veil said with a half-smile. 'For fighters we got the Brotherhood. We've got four thieves from Tio He who're bloody covered in charms of Cerdin, and we've got Osh here. Plus two high mages in the forms of our favourite bickering old women – Masters Shile Cetarn and Tomal Endine – plus two battle-mages. And then we've the more unusual members of our team: Camba Firnin is an illusionist by trade, but she's from the College of Magic and her bag of powders and chemicals'll do more than just make you think you're dead. Telasin Daemon-Touch you must'a heard of, and Shim the Bastard is a mage-killer, probably our best chance to deal with Aracnan. Daken plans on tying him to a stick and keeping him out front.'

Doranei sighed. 'And then there's Daken, the Mad Axe,' he added.

'Aye, and her that comes with him,' Veil said darkly.

'Daken and I have been speaking about that,' Osh interjected. 'Litania is a fickle bitch, to use Daken's term. She comes out to play when she feels like it, and she causes havoc whenever she does. We cannot have her with us in the Ruby Tower; it's just as likely she'll be the death of us as she will any sort of help.'

'So your suggestion is?' Doranei asked, knowing he wasn't going to like the answer.

'Daken asks her to provide the diversion.' Osh raised a hand, seeing Doranei open his mouth to argue. 'We keep one of the king's mages back in case all she does is swamp the district in butterflies or something of the like – you'll want one in reserve anyway, to cover your retreat.'

'But to willingly let the Trickster loose in a city?' Veil asked, aghast. 'You've no idea what destruction she could wreak!'

'Do we have a choice?'

Neither of the Brothers replied. Doranei looked towards the upper levels of the Ruby Tower, visible above the rooflines. Veil continued to stare at Osh, trying to think of an argument against the proposal. He closed his mouth again when Doranei gave him a slap on the arm and pointed at the street opposite.

'Look, what's that all about?'

The cobbled street had a smoother patch just as it reached the crossroads, where Aracnan's magic had somehow fused the cobbles together. It led from Eight Towers district, the widest and quickest route from the Ruby Tower through the city, and walking down it now was a group of a dozen men and women, some wearing white, some dressed entirely in white. Many carried long walking staffs, and all bore some sort of pack on their back.

'They're dressed for travel,' Veil pointed out, peering forward.

'Missionaries,' Osh concluded with a grave face. 'The word's being spread beyond Byora.'

'Piss and daemons,' Doranei growled, pushing his wine aside and shoving a hunk of bread in his pocket. 'As soon as they pass we go to look at the ground around the Ruby Tower. If they're starting the next phase of their plan we need to stop it, and soon. I want Ilumene and the child dead by Prayerday.'