Waylander III: Hero In The Shadows

Chapter Two

They rode in silence for a little while and Keeva saw that the Grey Man's face was stern. She guessed he was angry. Even so, she noted that he studied the lands as he rode, always alert and watchful. Clouds obscured the sun and a little light rain began to fall. Keeva lifted her hood into place and drew her new fur-lined cloak about her.

The rain passed swiftly, sunlight spearing through a break in the clouds. The Grey Man angled his horse up a shallow slope and paused at the top. Keeva drew alongside. 'How are your wounds?' she asked him.

'Almost healed,' he said.

'In such a short time? I don't think so.'

He shrugged and, satisfied the way was clear of danger, heeled the steeldust forward.

Throughout the long afternoon they rode steadily, once more entering the forest. An hour before dusk the Grey Man found a campsite beside a stream and set a fire. 'Are you angry with the villagers for cheating you?' asked Keeva, as the flames licked at the dry wood.

'No. I am angry at their stupidity.' He looked at her. 'You were listening?'

She nodded. The Grey Man's face softened. 'You are a canny girl, Keeva. You remind me of my daughter.'

'Does she live with you?'

'No, she lives far away in another land. I have not seen her in several years. She is married now to an old friend of mine. They had two sons, last I heard.'

'You have grandsons.'

'In a manner of speaking. She is my adopted daughter.'

'Do you have children of your own?'

He fell silent for a moment, and in the firelight she saw a look of deep sadness touch him. 'I had children, but they . . . died,' he said. 'Let us see what food Jonan's wife prepared for us.' Rising smoothly he moved to the saddlebags, returning with a hunk of ham and some freshly baked bread. They ate in silence. Keeva gathered more dry wood and fed the fire. The clouds had returned, but the night was not cold.

The Grey Man removed his shirt. 'Time to draw these stitches,' he said.

'The wounds cannot have healed,' she told him sternly. 'The stitches should remain for at least ten days. My uncle . . .'

'. . . was a very wise man,' said the Grey Man. 'But see for yourself.'

Keeva moved closer to him and examined the wounds. He was right. The skin had healed, and already scar tissue had formed. Taking his hunting knife, she carefully cut through the twine, pulling each stitch clear. 'I have never heard of anyone healing this fast,' she said, as he pulled on his shirt. 'Do you know magic?'

'No. But once I was healed by a monster. It changed me.'

'A monster?'

He grinned at her. 'Aye, a monster. Seven feet tall, with a single eye in the centre of his forehead – an eye that had two pupils.'

'You are making fun of me,' she chided him.

The Grey Man shook his head. 'No, I am not. His name was Kai. He was a freak of nature – a man beast. I was dying and he laid his hands upon me and all my wounds closed, healed in a heartbeat. Ever since then I have known no sickness, no winter chills, no fevers, no boils. I think even time has slowed for me, for by now I should be spending my days sitting in a comfortable chair with a blanket around my knees. He was a fine man, Kai.'

'What happened to him?'

He shrugged. 'I don't know. Perhaps he is happy somewhere, perhaps he is dead.'

'You have lived an interesting life,' she said.

'How old are you?' he asked her.

'Seventeen.'

'Kidnapped by raiders, and taken away into the forest. There are some in years to come who will hear of this tale and say, "You have lived an interesting life." What will you say to them?'

Keeva smiled. 'I shall agree – and they will envy me.'

He laughed then, the sound full of good-humour. 'I like you, Keeva,' he said. Then, he added wood to the fire, stretched out and covered himself with a blanket.

'I like you too, Grey Man,' she said.

He did not answer, and she saw that he was already asleep.

She looked at his face in the firelight. It was strong – the face of a fighter – and yet she could detect no cruelty there.

Keeva slept, and woke with the dawn. The Grey Man was already up. He was sitting by the stream and splashing water to his face. Then, using his hunting knife, he shaved away the black and silver stubble from his chin and cheeks. 'Did you sleep well?' he asked, as he returned to the fire.

'Yes,' she told him. 'No dreams. It was wonderful.' He looked so much younger without the stubble, a man perhaps in his late thirties. She wondered momentarily how old he was. Forty-five? Fifty-five? Surely not older.

'We should be at your settlement by noon,' he said.

Keeva shivered, remembering the murdered women. 'There is nothing there for me. I was staying with my brother and his wife. They are both dead, the farmhouse burned.'

'What will you do?'

'Go back to Carlis and seek work.'

'Are you trained in some craft or skill?'

'No, but I can learn.'

'I can offer you employment at my home,' he said.

'I will not be your mistress, Grey Man,' she told him.

He smiled broadly. 'Have I asked you to be my mistress?'

'No, but why else are you offering to take me to your palace?'

'Do you think so little of yourself?' he countered. 'You are intelligent and brave. I also think you are trustworthy and would be loyal. I have one hundred and thirty servants at my home, administering often to more than fifty guests. You would clean rooms, prepare beds for those guests, and help in the kitchens. For this I will pay you two silvers a month. You will have your own room and one day a week free of all duties. Think on it.'

'I accept,' she said.

'Then let it be so.'

'Why do you have so many guests?'

'My home – my palace, as you call it – houses several libraries, an infirmary and a museum. Scholars come from all over Kydor to study there. There is also a separate centre in the South Tower for students and physicians to analyse medicinal herbs and their uses, and three further halls have been set aside for the treatment of the sick.'

Keeva remained silent for a while, then she looked into his eyes. 'I am sorry,' she said.

'Why would you apologize? You are an attractive young woman, and I can understand why you would fear unwelcome advances. You do not know me. Why should I be trusted?'

'I trust you,' she told him. 'Can I ask you a question?'

'Of course.'

'If you have a palace why are your clothes so old, and why do you ride out alone to protect your lands? Think of all you could lose.'

'Lose?' he asked.

'All your wealth.'

'Wealth is a small thing, Keeva, tiny like a grain of sand. It seems large only to those who do not possess it. You talk of my palace. It is not mine. I built it, I live within it. Yet one day I will die and the palace will have another owner. Then he will die. And so it goes on. A man owns nothing but his life. He holds items briefly in his hand. If they are made of metal or stone they will surely outlive him and be owned by someone else for a short time. If they are cloth he will – with luck – outlive them. Look around you, at the trees and the hills. According to Kydor law, they are mine. You think the trees care that they are mine? Or the hills? The same hills that were bathed in sunlight when my earliest ancestor walked the earth. The same hills that will still be covered in grass when the last man turns to dust.'

'I see that,' said Keeva, 'but with all your wealth you can have everything you want for the rest of your life. Every pleasure, every joy is available to you.'

'There is not enough gold in all the world to supply what I want,' he said.

'And what is that?'

'A clean conscience,' he said. 'Now, do you wish to return to the settlement to see your brother buried?'

The conversation was obviously over. Keeva shook her head. 'No. I don't want to go there.'

'Then we will push on. We should reach my home by dark.'

Cresting a hill, they began the slow descent on to a wide plain. As far as the eye could see there were ruins everywhere. Keeva drew rein and stared out over the plain. In some places there were merely a few white stones, in others the shapes of buildings could still be seen. Towards the west, against a granite cliff-face there were the remains of two high towers, which had crumbled at the base and crashed to the ground like felled trees.

'What was this place?' she asked.

The Grey Man gazed over the ruins. 'An ancient city called Kuan-Hador. No one knows who built it, or why it fell. Its history is lost in the mists of time.' He looked at her and smiled. 'I expect the people here once believed they owned the hills and the trees,' he said.

They rode down on to the plain. Some way to the west Keeva saw a mist rolling between the jagged ruins. 'Speaking of mists,' she said, pointing it out to her companion. Waylander halted his horse and glanced to the west. Keeva rode alongside. 'Why are you loading your crossbow?' she asked him, as his hands slid two bolts into the grooves in the small black weapon.

'Habit,' he said, but his expression was stern, his dark eyes wary. Angling his horse towards the south-east, away from the mist, he rode away.

Keeva followed him and swung in the saddle to stare back at the ruins. 'How strange,' she said. 'The mist is gone.'

He, too, glanced back, then unloaded his weapon, slipping the bolts back into the quiver at his belt. He saw her looking at him.

'I do not like this place,' she said. 'It feels . . . dangerous,' she concluded lamely.

'You have good instincts,' he told her.

Matze Chai parted the painted silk curtains of his palanquin and gazed with undisguised malevolence at the mountains. Sunlight was filtering through the clouds and shining brightly upon the snow-capped peaks. The elderly man sighed and pulled shut the curtains. As he did so his dark, almond-shaped eyes focused on the back of his slender hand, seeing again the brown liver spots of age staining the dry skin.

The Chiatze merchant reached for a small, ornate wooden box and removed a tub of sweet-smelling lotion, which he applied carefully to his hands, before leaning back against his cushions and closing his eyes.

Matze Chai did not hate mountains. Hatred would mean giving in to passion, and passion, in Matze's view, indicated an uncivilized mind. He loathed what the mountains represented, what the Philosopher termed the Mirrors of Mortality. The peaks were eternal, never changing, and when a man gazed upon them his own ephemeral nature was exposed to the light; the frailty of his flesh apparent. And frail it was, he thought, regarding his coming seventieth birthday with a mixture of disquiet and apprehension.

He leant forward and slid back a panel in the wall, revealing a rectangular mirror. Matze Chai gazed upon his reflection. The thinning hair, drawn tightly across his skull and braided at the nape of his neck, was as black as in his youth. But a tiny line of silver at the hairline meant that he would need to have the dye reapplied soon. His slender face showed few lines, but his neck was sagging, and even the high collar of his scarlet and gold robes could no longer disguise it.

The palanquin lurched to the right, as one of the eight bearers, weary after six hours of labour, slipped on a loose stone. Matze Chai reached up and rang the small golden bell bolted to the embossed panel by the window. The palanquin stopped smoothly and was lowered to the ground.

The door was opened by his Rajnee, Kysumu. The small warrior extended his hand. Matze Chai took it and stepped through the doorway, his long robes of heavily embroidered yellow silk trailing to the rocky path. He glanced back. The six soldiers of his guard sat their mounts silently. Beyond them the second team of bearers climbed down from the first of the three wagons. Dressed in livery of red and black, the eight men marched forward to replace the tired first team, who trudged silently back to the wagon.

Another liveried servant ran forward, bearing a silver goblet. He bowed before Matze Chai and offered him the watered wine. The merchant took the goblet, sipping the contents. 'How much longer?' he asked the man.

'Captain Liu says we will camp at the foot of the mountains, sir. The scout has found a suitable site. He says it is an hour from here.'

Matze Chai drank a little more, then returned the goblet, still half full, to the servant. Climbing back into the palanquin he settled himself down on his cushions. 'Join me, Kysumu,' he said.

The warrior nodded, pulled his sword and scabbard from the sash of his long grey robes, and climbed inside, seating himself opposite the merchant. The eight bearers took hold of the cushioned poles, raising them to waist height. At a whispered command from the lead bearer they then hefted the poles to their shoulders. Inside the palanquin Matze Chai gave a satisfied sigh. He had trained the two teams well, paying attention to every detail. Travel by palanquin was usually not dissimilar to sailing a small boat on choppy water. The cabin lurched from side to side and within minutes those with delicate constitutions would begin to feel queasy. Not so for those who travelled with Matze Chai. His teams were made up of eight men of equal height, trained for hours every day back in Namib. They were well paid, well fed, powerful young labourers; men of little imagination but great strength.

Matze Chai leant back in his cushions, transferring his gaze to the slim, dark-haired young man seated opposite him. Kysumu sat silently, his three-foot-long curved sword on his lap, his coal-black slanted eyes returning Matze Chai's gaze. The merchant had grown to like the little swordsman, for he spoke rarely and radiated calm. There was never a hint of tension about him.

'How is it you are not wealthy?' Matze Chai asked him.

'Define wealth,' answered Kysumu, his long face, as ever, expressionless.

'The ability to purchase whatever one desires, whenever one desires it.'

'Then I am wealthy. All I desire is a little food and water each day. These I can pay for.'

Matze Chai smiled. 'Then let me rephrase the question: how is it that your renowned skills have not supplied you with plentiful amounts of gold and coin?'

'Gold does not interest me.'

Matze Chai already knew this. It explained why Kysumu was the most highly prized Rajnee in all the lands of the Chiatze. All men knew that the swordsman could not be bought, and thus would never betray the nobleman who hired him. Yet it was baffling, for among the Chiatze nobility loyalty always came at a price, and it was perfectly acceptable for warriors and bodyguards like Kysumu to change allegiance when better offers were made. Intrigue and treachery were endemic to the Chiatze way of life – indeed, among politicians of all races. Which made it even more curious that Kysumu was revered among the treacherous nobility for his honesty. They did not laugh behind his back, or mock his 'stupidity'. Even though it highlighted, in glorious colour, their own lack of morals. What a strange race we are, thought Matze Chai.

Kysumu had closed his eyes and was breathing deeply. Matze Chai looked at him closely. No more than five and a half feet tall, slightly round-shouldered, the man looked more like a scholar or a priest. His long face and slightly downturned mouth gave him a look of melancholy. It was an ordinary face, not handsome, not ugly. The only distinctive feature was a small purple birthmark on his left eyebrow. Kysumu's eyes opened and he yawned.

'Have you ever visited the lands of Kydor?' asked the merchant.

'No.'

'They are an uncivilized people, and their language is hard on both the ear and the mind. It is guttural and coarse. Not musical in any way. Do you speak any foreign tongues?'

'A few,' said Kysumu.

'The people here are offshoots from two empires, the Drenai and the Angostin. Both languages have the same base.' Matze Chai was just beginning to outline the history of the land, when the palanquin came to a sudden stop. Kysumu opened the panelled door and leapt lightly to the ground. Matze Chai rang the small bell and the palanquin was lowered to the rocks. Not smoothly, which irritated him. He climbed out to berate the bearers, then saw the group of armed men barring the way. He scanned them. There were eleven warriors, all armed with swords and clubs, though two carried longbows.

Matze Chai flicked a glance back to his six guards, who had all edged their horses forward. They were looking nervous, and this added to Matze's irritation. They were supposed to be fighters. They were paid to be fighters.

Lifting his yellow robes to keep the dust from the hem, Matze Chai moved towards the armed men. 'Good day to you,' he said. 'Why have you stopped my palanquin?'

A bearded man stepped forward. He was tall and broad-shouldered, a longsword in his hand, two long, curved knives sheathed in his thick belt. 'This is a toll road, Slant-eye. No one passes here without payment.'

'And what is the payment?' asked Matze Chai.

'For a rich foreigner like you? Twenty in gold.' Movement came from left and right as a dozen more men emerged from behind rocks and boulders.

'The toll seems excessive,' said Matze Chai. He turned to Kysumu and spoke in Chiatze. 'What do you think?' he asked. 'They are robbers and they outnumber us.'

'Do you wish to pay them?'

'Do you believe they will merely take twenty in gold?'

'No. Once we accede to their demands they will demand more.'

'Then I do not wish to pay them.'

'Return to your palanquin,' said Kysumu softly, 'and I will clear the path.'

Matze Chai returned his gaze to the bearded leader. 'I suggest,' he said, 'that you step aside. This man is Kysumu, the most feared Rajnee among the Chiatze. And you are, at this moment, only heartbeats from death.'

The tall leader laughed. 'He may be all you say, Slant-eye, but to me he's just another vomit-coloured dwarf ripe for the taking.'

'I fear you are making a mistake,' said Matze Chai, 'but, then, all actions have consequences and a man must have the courage to face them.' He gave an abrupt bow, which in Chiatze would have been insulting, and turned away, walking slowly back to his palanquin. He glanced back, and saw Kysumu walk forward to stand before the leader. Two robbers advanced from the group to stand alongside the bearded man. For a moment only Matze Chai doubted the wisdom of this course of action. Kysumu seemed suddenly tiny and innocuous against the brute power of the round-eye robber and his men.

The leader's sword came up. Kysumu's blade flashed into the air.

Moments later, with four men dead, the rest of the robbers scattering and running away into the rocks, Kysumu wiped clean his sword and returned to the palanquin. He was not out of breath, neither was his face flushed. He looked, as always, serene and at peace. Matze Chai's heart was beating wildly, but he fought to keep his face expressionless. Kysumu had moved with almost inhuman speed, cutting, slashing, spinning like a dancer into the midst of the robbers. At the same moment his six guards had charged their horses into the second group, and they, too, had run for cover. All in all, a most satisfactory outcome, and one that justified the expense of hiring guards.

'Do you believe they will come back?' asked Matze Chai.

'Perhaps,' said Kysumu, with a shrug. Then he stood quietly waiting for orders. Matze Chai summoned a servant and asked Kysumu if he wished to partake of some watered wine. The swordsman refused. Matze Chai accepted a goblet, intending to take a sip. Instead he half drained it.

'You did well, Rajnee,' he said.

'We should be moving from here,' replied Kysumu.

'Indeed so.'

The cabin of the palanquin felt like a sanctuary as Matze Chai settled himself down on his cushions. Lightly striking the bell to signal the bearers to move on, he closed his eyes. He felt safe, secure, and almost immortal. Opening his eyes, he glanced out through the window and saw the setting sun blaze its dying light over the mountain peaks. Reaching up, he drew the curtains closed, his good-humour evaporating.

They made camp an hour later, and Matze Chai sat in his palanquin while his servants unloaded his night-time furniture from the wagons, assembling his gold-lacquered bed, and spreading upon it his satin sheets and thick goose-down quilt. After this they raised the poles and frame of his blue and gold silk tent, spreading out the black canvas sheet upon the ground, then unrolling his favourite silk rug to cover it. Lastly his two favourite chairs, both inlaid with gold and deeply cushioned with padded velvet, were placed in the tent entrance. When finally Matze Chai climbed from the palanquin the camp was almost prepared. His sixteen bearers were sitting together round two campfires set in a jumble of boulders, two of the six guards had taken up sentry positions to patrol the perimeter, and his cook was busy preparing a light supper of spiced rice and dried fish.

Matze Chai moved across the campground to his tent and sank gratefully into his chair. He was tired of living like a frontier nomad, at the mercy of the elements, and longed for the journey to be over. Six weeks of this harsh existence had drained his energy.

Kysumu was sitting cross-legged upon the ground close by, a section of parchment, pinned to a board of cork, resting on his knees. Using a shaped piece of charcoal Kysumu was sketching a tree. Matze Chai watched the little swordsman. Every evening he would fetch his leather folder from the supply wagon, take a fresh section of parchment, and sketch for an hour. Usually trees or plants, Matze Chai had noted.

Matze Chai had many such drawings in his own home, by some of the greatest Chiatze masters. Kysumu was talented, but by no means exceptional. His compositions lacked, in Matze Chai's opinion, the harmony of emptiness. Kysumu's work had too much passion. Art should be serene, devoid of human emotion. Stark and simple, it should encourage meditation. Even so, Matze Chai decided, he should – at journey's end – offer to purchase one of the sketches. It would be impolite not to do so.

A servant brought him a cup of scented tisane and, with the temperature dropping, laid a fur-lined robe around Matze Chai's thin shoulders. Then two of the bearers, using forked wooden poles, carried an iron brazier, glowing with coals, into Matze Chai's tent, setting it down on a pewter base plate, to prevent cinders singeing the expensive rugs.

The incident with the robbers had proved spiritually uplifting. As the mountains spoke silently of the fleeting nature of man, the sudden peril had brought to the fore just how much Matze Chai enjoyed life. It made him aware of the sweetness of the air he breathed, and of the feel of silk upon his skin. Even the tisane he now sipped was almost unbearably fine upon the tongue.

Despite the discomforts of travel Matze Chai was forced to admit that he now felt better than he had in years. Wrapping himself in the fur-lined cloak he settled back and found himself thinking of Waylander. It had been six years since last they met, back in Namib. At that time, Matze Chai had recently returned from Drenan, where he had, upon Waylander's instruction, purchased a skull from the Great Library. Waylander had then sold his home and journeyed north and east, seeking a new land and a new life.

Such a restless soul, thought Matze Chai. But, then, Waylander was a man on a mission that could never be completed, a quest born in despair and longing. At first Matze Chai had believed Waylander to be seeking redemption for past sins. This was only partly true. No, what the Grey Man sought was an impossibility.

An owl hooted close by, breaking Matze Chai's concentration.

Kysumu finished his sketch, and replaced it in the leather folder. Matze Chai beckoned him to sit in the second chair. 'It occurs to me,' he said, 'that had the remaining robbers not panicked and run you would have been overwhelmed.'

'Indeed,' said Kysumu.

'Or, if my guards had not attacked the second group at just that instant, they could have run at the palanquin and killed me.'

'They could have,' agreed the swordsman.

'But you did not think it likely?'

'I did not think of it at all,' said Kysumu.

Matze Chai suppressed a smile, but allowed the feeling of warm satisfaction to flow through him. Kysumu was a delight. The ideal companion. He did not gush or chatter, or ask endless questions. He was, in truth, harmony itself. They sat thus for a little while. Then food was brought and they ate quietly.

At the conclusion of the meal Matze Chai rose from his chair. 'I shall sleep now,' he said. Kysumu rose, pushed his sword and scabbard into the sash around his robes, and strolled from the camp.

The captain of Matze Chai's guards, a young man named Liu, approached his master and bowed deeply. 'Might I enquire, Lord, where the Rajnee is going?'

'I would imagine he is seeking out the robbers, in the event that they might be following,' Matze Chai told him.

'Should some of the men not go with him, Lord?'

'I do not believe he has need of them.'

'Yes, Lord,' said Liu, bowing and backing away.

'You did well today, Liu,' said Matze Chai. 'I shall mention it to your father upon our return.'

'Thank you, Lord.'

'You were frightened, though, were you not, before the fighting began?'

'Yes, Lord. Did it show?'

'I am afraid that it did. Try to exhibit a little more control of your expressions should any similar incidents occur.'

The Grey Man's palace had initially both surprised and disappointed Keeva. Darkness had fallen as they arrived. They had ridden slowly up a dirt road through thick woods, emerging on to open ground and an area of well-trimmed lawn, bisected by a wide stone avenue. There were no fountains or statues. Two spear-wielding guards were patrolling the front of a long, flat, single-storey building around two hundred feet long. There were few windows to be seen, and even these were dark. The only light Keeva could see came from four large brass lanterns hanging in the wide, marble-pillared entrance. It looks like a mausoleum, thought Keeva, as the Grey Man rode his horse forward.

The black doors opened and two young men ran out to meet them. Both wore grey livery. Weary now, Keeva dismounted. The servants led the horses away, and the Grey Man beckoned her to follow him inside. An elderly man was waiting for them, a tall, stooping figure, white-haired and long-faced. He, too, was wearing grey, an ankle-length tunic of fine wool. At the shoulder the image of a tree had been beautifully embroidered in black satin. He bowed to the Grey Man. 'You look tired, sir,' he said, his voice deep and low. 'I shall have a hot bath prepared.'

'Thank you, Omri. This young woman will be joining the staff. Have a room prepared for her.'

'Of course, sir.'

Without a word of farewell the Grey Man strode away across the marble-tiled hallway. He had said little since they had moved away from the ruins, and Keeva wondered if she had said, or done, something to annoy him. She felt confused and uncertain, and gazed around at the velvet hangings, the ornate rugs and the walls adorned by fine paintings.

'Follow me, girl,' said Omri.

'I have a name,' she said, an edge of irritation in her voice.

Omri paused, then turned slowly.

She expected an angry response, but he merely smiled. 'My apologies, young woman. Of course you have. So let us not keep it a secret. Pray share it with me.'

'I am Keeva.'

'Well, that was easily settled, Keeva. Now will you follow me?'

'Yes.'

'Good.' He moved across the hall, and turned right into a broad corridor, which led to a wide staircase that descended into shadow. Keeva paused at the top. She had no wish at all to spend the night in this ugly, flat dwelling. But to go underground? What kind of man would spend his wealth building a home burrowed under the earth? she wondered.

The servant Omri was a little ahead of her now and Keeva moved swiftly down the carpeted stairs. The whole building seemed dark and dingy, occasional lanterns casting sinister shadows to the walls. Within minutes Keeva felt hopelessly lost within a gloomy labyrinth. 'How can you live here?' she asked Omri, her voice echoing in the bleak corridor. 'It is an awful place.'

He laughed with genuine amusement. It was a good sound and she found herself warming to the man. 'It is surprising what one can become used to,' he told her. They passed several doors before Omri took a lantern from the wall and halted before a narrow doorway. Lifting the latch he stepped inside. Keeva followed him. Omri moved to the centre of the small room, took a candle from an oval table-top, and held the wick to the lantern flame. Once it was lit he replaced it in a bronze holder shaped like an open flower. Keeva looked around. There was a bed against the wall, a simple piece, unadorned and crafted from pine. Beside it was a small cabinet, upon which was placed another candle in a bronze holder. Heavy curtains covered the far wall. 'Get a little rest,' Omri told her. 'I will send someone to you tomorrow morning early to explain your duties.'

'What is it that you do here?' she asked him, her words tumbling out in her anxiety not to be left alone.

'I am Omri, the steward. Are you all right? You seem to be trembling.'

With a great effort Keeva smiled. 'I am well. Truly.'

Omri paused and ran his thin hands through his thinning grey hair. 'I know that he fought and killed the men who attacked your settlement, and that you were captured by them, and treated . . . badly. But this is a good house, Keeva. You are safe here.'

'How could you know all that happened?' she asked.

'One of our guests is a Chiatze priestess. She can see over great distances.'

'She practises magic?'

'I do not know if it is magic. There are no spells cast. She merely closes her eyes. But it is, I must admit, beyond my understanding. Now, get some rest.'

Keeva heard his footsteps echoing along the corridor. Safe she might be, but she was determined to stay in this awful place not one heartbeat longer than necessary. Never before had Keeva been afraid of the dark, but here, in this underground palace, she found herself staring at the little candle, pitifully grateful for its flickering light.

Weary from the long ride, she removed the cloak, dangling it over the back of a chair, then slipped out of her dress. The bed was comfortable, the mattress firm, the blankets clean, the pillow soft and yielding. Keeva closed her eyes and slipped into a dream-filled sleep. She saw again the Grey Man ride from the forest to confront the raiders, but this time when he came to rescue her his face was bleached of all colour. He took her by the arm and led her to a wide hole in the ground, dragging her in. She screamed – and woke, heart pounding. The candle had guttered and gone out, leaving the room in total darkness. Keeva rolled from the bed and scrabbled for the door latch, dragging it open. In the corridor a distant lantern was still burning. Taking the second candle from the bedside cabinet she ran to the lantern and lit the wick from its flame. Then she returned to her room, and sat quietly, berating herself for her fear.

'In life,' her uncle had told her, 'there are two kinds of people: those who run from their fears, and those who overcome them. Fear is like a coward. If you back away it becomes a fearsome bully who will beat you into the ground. Face him and he shrinks to a tiny noisy insect.'

Steeling herself, she blew out the candle and, lying down, pulled the blankets back into place. I will not give in to night terrors, she told herself. I will not panic, Uncle.

This time she slept more peacefully, and when she awoke there was the faintest of lights within the room. Sitting up, she saw that the light emanated from a crack in the heavy curtains of the far wall. Rising from the bed, Keeva crossed the room and drew back the curtains. Sunlight flooded in – and she found herself staring out across the brilliantly blue Bay of Carlis, the morning sun glittering on the waves. Tiny fishing-boats dotted the water, their white sails gleaming in the light. Above them gulls swooped and dived. Astonished now, Keeva opened the wooden-framed glass doors and stepped out on to a curved balcony. All around her, on different levels, were similar balconies, most larger, some smaller, but all looked out over the beauty of the bay.

She was not underground at all. The Grey Man's white marble palace had been built on the side of a sloping cliff, and she had entered at the top, unable to see its true magnificence.

Keeva glanced down. Below the balcony she saw terraced gardens and walkways and steps angling down towards the distant beach, where a wooden ramp extended into the sea. A dozen sailing-boats were moored there, sails furled. Returning her gaze to the palace itself, she saw that two towers had been erected to the north and south, huge structures, each with its own terraces.

Everywhere gardeners were already at work among the scores of flower-beds, some clearing away dead plants, others sweeping leaves from the paths and gathering them into sacks slung over their shoulders. Still more were planting fresh border flowers or dead-heading the many rosebushes.

Keeva was so entranced by the beauty of the scene that she failed to hear the gentle tapping at her door, or the creaking of the latch as it opened.

'I think perhaps you should come inside and dress yourself,' said a voice. Keeva whirled and saw a young woman with braided blond hair. She was carrying a neat pile of folded clothes. The woman grinned at her. 'The priests might catch sight of you, and what would happen to their vows then?'

'Priests?' asked Keeva, stepping inside and accepting the clothes from the woman.

'Chiatze foreigners. They are studying the ancient books that the Gentleman keeps in the library of the North Tower.'

Keeva took a white cotton blouse from the pile, shook it out, then slipped it over her head. The material was very soft – like a summer breeze upon the skin. She shivered with pleasure, then stepped into the long grey skirt. It had a belt of silvered leather, and a bright silver buckle. 'These are mine?' she asked.

'Yes.'

'They are wonderful.' Keeva reached up and touched the embroidered tree on the right shoulder of her blouse. 'What does this represent?' she asked.

'It is the Gentleman's mark.'

'The Grey Man?'

'In public we call him the Gentleman, since he is not a lord and far too powerful to be merely a landowner or a merchant. Omri says you came in with him last night. Did you bed him?'

Keeva was shocked. 'No, I did not. And you are very rude to ask such a question.'

The blonde woman laughed. 'Life is very different here, Keeva. We speak freely and think freely – except in front of the Gentleman's guests. He is a very unusual man. None of us is beaten, and he does not use the young women as his personal slaves.'

'Then perhaps I shall like it here,' said Keeva. 'What is your name?'

'I am Norda, and you will be working with my team in the North Tower. Are you hungry?'

'Yes.'

'Then let us get some breakfast. You have a great deal to learn today. The palace is like a rabbit warren and most of the new servants get lost.'

Some minutes later, after what was for Keeva a bewildering journey through endless corridors and several sets of stairs, the two women emerged on to a wide, paved terrace. A long breakfast table was covered with a score of deep dishes containing cooked meats, vegetables, smoked fish, cheeses and fruits. Fresh-baked bread had been set at one end, and flagons of water and fruit juices at the other. Keeva followed Norda's lead and took a plate, heaping it with bread, a slab of butter and some smoked fish. Then they walked to a table by the terrace wall and sat down to eat.

'Why did you ask if I'd slept with the Grey Man?'

'The Gentleman!' corrected Norda.

'Yes, the Gentleman.'

'There is great harmony here between the servant girls. The Gentleman does not play favourites – and neither does Omri. Had the Gentleman bedded you it would have caused discord. Many of the young women would like to … enchant him.'

'He is a strikingly attractive man – but he is very old,' said Keeva.

Norda laughed again. 'Age has little to do with it,' she said. 'He is handsome, strong – and immensely rich. The woman who captures his heart would never want for anything, even if she had ten lives to live.'

'From what you say it is surprising he has taken no wife,' observed Keeva.

'Oh, he has taken many.' Norda leaned in close, dropping her voice. 'Gold wives.'

'He pays for his pleasures?' asked Keeva, astonished.

'Always. Isn't that weird? Most of the girls here would rush to his rooms at the merest gesture from him. Yet he sends his carriage to bring whores from the town. Oh, fancily dressed and bedecked with jewels, but whores nonetheless. For the last year his favourite has been Lalitia – a red-headed strumpet from the capital.' Norda's face reddened, and Keeva saw her pale blue eyes grow cold.

'You obviously don't like her.'

'Nobody likes Lalitia. She rides around in a gilded carriage, with liveried servants whom she treats abominably. In her house she has been known to thrash the maids when the mood takes her. She is a vile creature.'

'What does he see in her?' asked Keeva.

Norda laughed aloud. 'Oh, you'll recognize it when you lay eyes on her. Loathe her as I do, even I have to admit she is astonishingly beautiful.'

'I would have thought him a better judge of people,' offered Keeva.

'You don't know much about men, do you?' said Norda, with a quick smile. 'When Lalitia passes by you can hear the sounds of jaws striking the ground. Strong men, bright men, scholarly men, even priestly men all fall under the spell of her beauty. They see what they want to see. Women, on the other hand, see her for what she is – a whore. And not as young as she pretends. I'd say she was closer to forty than the twenty-five she claims.'

Other servants had begun to arrive, gathering their food and finding places to sit and eat. A young man in a grey mailshirt approached them. Removing his helm he smiled at Norda. 'Good morning,' he said. 'Will you introduce me to the newcomer?'

Norda smiled. 'Keeva, this is Emrin, the guard sergeant. He thinks he's more handsome than he is and will do everything in his power to lure you to his bed. It is, sadly, his nature. Do not judge him too harshly.'

Keeva glanced up at the man. He had a round, good-looking face and blue eyes. His hair was light blond, short and tightly curled. Emrin extended his hand and Keeva shook it. 'Do not believe everything Norda says about me,' he told her. 'I am really a gentle soul, seeking the perfect partner for my heart.'

'Surely you found him the first time you looked in a mirror,' said Keeva, with a sweet smile.

'Sadly that is true,' said Emrin, with disarming honesty. Taking her hand he kissed it, then turned his attention to Norda. 'Be sure to tell your new friend what a great lover I am,' he said.

'I will,' said Norda. She glanced at Keeva. 'The best ten heartbeats I've ever experienced.' Both women laughed.

'I think I should leave,' Emrin said, 'while I have a modicum of dignity left.'

'Too late,' said Keeva. The man grinned and moved away.

'Neatly done,' said Norda. 'He will pursue you with even greater vigour.'

'Not something I desire,' Keeva told her.

'Oh, don't rule him out,' said Norda. 'As he says, he really is quite good in bed. Not the best I have known, but more than adequate.'

Keeva burst into laughter, and Norda joined in.

'So who was the best?'

She knew it was the wrong question as soon as she spoke: the good-humour faded from Norda's face. 'I am sorry,' said Keeva, swiftly.

'Don't be,' Norda told her, laying her hand over Keeva's. 'Now we'd better finish breakfast for there is much to do. There are several more guests due to arrive today, and one of them is a Chiatze. Believe me, there is no race so fussy.'