RAYMOND E. FEIST

A KINGDOM BESIEGED

COPYRIGHT

HarperCollinsPublishers

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Published by HarperVoyager

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 2011

Copyright © Raymond E. Feist 2011

Raymond E. Feist asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780007264766

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780007290178

Version: 2014-09-19

DEDICATION

This one’s for John and Tammy

CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

KEEP READING

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

OTHER BOOKS BY

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

• PROLOGUE •
Child

THE SKIES SHRIEKED.

Overhead, a storm of black energies shot out tendrils that reached forth and attached themselves to the first structure they encountered. The sound generated was almost as terrifying as the sight of everything they touched collapsing into rubble.

The inhabitants of the city fled in abject terror, ignoring the plight of others, even family or close friends. Above the onrushing tide of darkness loomed a figure, a thing of such massive size and monstrosity that it lay beyond comprehension.

The remaining King’s Guardians did what they could to oppose the Darkness: but there was little they could achieve against such madness. A female fled through the streets amidst the trampling throng. Fearful of what she might see, she chanced a quick glance behind her and clutched her child to her chest.

Other city residents huddled in doorways, given over to despair, waiting the inevitability of their own destruction, clinging weeping to one another, or staring towards the Centre, whence the Darkness was coming.

From the Time Before Time legends about the Final End had persisted, but these stories were seen as nothing more than metaphors, cautionary tales with which the Elders might teach children so they could contribute usefully to the People during this particular Endurance.

It was said that some Elders had repeated the Endurance so many times that they remembered bits and pieces of previous incarnations and had begun to piece together the plan of everything in the world. It was even whispered that some had ventured into the realms of madness – known as the ‘Other Places’ or ‘the Outside’ – or even to the edge of the Void, and returned, but few credited such reports as anything other than tall tales.

The People rejoiced in their Existence and their Endurance, and when their personal end came they knew it was no more than an interruption of the Eternal Journey.

But what they faced now was the Final End, the termination of the Eternal Journey, and no words existed to express the terror and anguish that assailed them.

The female pushed through a knot of the People clustered at an intersection in the centre of the city’s Eastern Canton. Some had come to seek the Sunrise Gate but having come here did not seem to know what to do next.

Nothing in the history of the People had prepared them for the Darkness.

The mother looked down at her child, who clutched her robe with delicate claws, her black eyes enormous in the still-tiny face. ‘My child,’ she whispered, and although the screams and cries from those surrounding them drowned out the sound, the child saw her mother’s lips move and understood. She smiled at her mother, showing rapidly growing fangs. Her baby skin had already sloughed off and her first set of scales were visible. If she could feed her, her mother thought, she would grow quickly and would be better able to flee.

‘But flee where?’

East.

Out of the gate to the Quartz Mountains and through the Valley of Flame, then on to the Kingdom’s boundary. It was rumoured that others had found safety in the Kingdom of Ma’har, to the south, where age-old enmities had been put aside in the face of the common terror.

The mother elbowed her way through the press, sensing more than seeing that a fight had erupted to the north. Ancient perceptions, buried under civilized training, rose to the surface to aid her and the child. Along with them rose ancient hungers, appetites for the flesh of something more substantial than the lesser animals the King had decreed would form their sustenance. Soon the People would become like the Mad Ones, struggling for survival by devouring one another. She sensed that several threats were converging, threats that would soon turn into feeding frenzies, and she knew that to be caught up in one of those would be her doom or the child’s, or both.

She chanced a brief look back and as she had suspected, claws were being wielded and fangs were dripping blood. A feeding frenzy would soon sweep through this area of the city and even with her child’s life in the balance, she could easily be caught up in it. Neither of them had fed in a very long time.

A few Guardians not detailed to delay the onslaught were quickly intervening, their flaming swords rising and falling, dispatching not only those involved in the nascent frenzy but also those unfortunate enough to be slow in departing.

She turned and fled.

Once, like so many who lived in the city, she had marvelled at the splendour of the King and his Guardians. They were magnificent in their armour, their terrible beauty a source of fear and breeding lust. It was forbidden for a Guardian to breed, but that didn’t still a young female’s desire when they flew by, their massive red wings unfurled, eyes blazing as they sought out any source of discord which might break the King’s peace.

Now, she wondered how anyone could gaze back at the all-consuming Darkness and imagine any part of the realm enjoying the King’s peace.

She hurried on to join a press of frightened citizens making their way through the Sunrise Gate, the eastern entrance to the King’s city. The jostling and bumping threatened to turn into fights, and fights would turn into frenzies. She felt her fear and rage rising. Glancing down at the child she found its eyes studying her face. It seemed to see more, know more, than a baby should.

The streets running eastward were becoming ever more crowded as others sought to put as much distance between themselves and the coming Final End. She turned down a back alley, running past two males who appeared to be on the verge of conflict, the energy generated by one’s mounting rage acting like a beacon to others nearby. Within minutes another melee would erupt, drawing the attention of the Guardians; and then yet more lives would be lost.

Part of her wondered, as she ducked around a corner, if there was any point in trying to maintain order in the face of the Final End anyway, especially now that the King was gone. Those Guardians left behind were attempting to keep the peace, but to what end?

Everyone lived and died by the King’s edict: his word was law, which was how it was and always had been.

Thus had the Kingdom of Dahun flourished through many Endurances, and Existence was as it should be. The People thrived, at peace with the other kingdoms, safe from the predations of the Savage Ones and the Mad Ones beyond.

But now he was gone.

She found herself assailed by a rising hopelessness, an alien emotion for which she had no name. Suddenly she wondered why she should go on, whether there was anything to gain by it. And then her child stirred against her, and she knew the answer.

The child was hungry. And so was she.

She spoke her own name, ‘Lair’ss,’ as if she wished her child to remember it. So much left undone, she thought as she hurried on.

With the King gone no one could say what would become of the People now that the Final End was approaching, but she was determined to see her child to safety or die trying.

When she reached the wall, she saw the stairs to the ramparts were empty, so she climbed to get a better view of the gate. As she had feared, riots were underway everywhere as terrified people tried to leave, but the remaining Guardians at the gate held them back. No one could leave the city without the King’s writ; and the King was gone. She paused, fearful and undecided.

She turned and looked down on the city of her birth: Das’taas. It had been a place of terrifying majesty, and although it was never truly at rest, it had gradually achieved a state of equipoise, a state almost approaching tranquillity. While the People would never be without their impulses towards bloody violence and destruction, the King and his Guardians had managed to keep it to a minimum, even though there were many with ancient memories which stretched back to the Time Before Time, when the People had lived like the Savages and the Mad Ones; when every individual had been spawned in the birth pits, creatures of frantic need and limited power. Strength had been earned and the price had been bloody. Child had eaten child and the victor had emerged stronger, smarter and more cunning. The subsequent battles were never-ending.

Then Dahun had arisen, as had Maarg, Simote and others, each carving out their empires. Of all these rulers, Dahun had moved farthest from the madness and savagery that marked the People. But his most bitter enemy, Maarg, had been more like the Mad Ones during his rule. Dahun had instituted laws and created the Guardians and the majesty of the People had reached its highest expression, seeking to evolve them in a way unknown before. In the end, Maarg had created a realm in which the chaos of the Mad Ones had been contained, channelled, and used to build a meritocracy, in which merit was defined by strength, cunning, and the ability to recruit allies, vassals, and protectors.

All this Lair’ss knew: her memories, and those of others, flowed through her as she looked at the city, trying to decide what she should do. She crouched to prevent her child and herself from being seen against the sky by those below. Where were the flyers? she wondered.

The child stirred, hunger making her fractious. Lair’ss slapped her lightly, just enough to communicate danger but not hard enough to hurt and the child fell quiet instantly, understanding the warning.

The role of parent was not natural to the People. Yet for generations Dahun had demanded pairs meet, mate, and then rear children. The days of crawling out of the birth pits were behind them and each parent was required to teach a child as well as provide for it. Letting the child die or giving in to rage and killing it brought harsh punishment. Like all of her clan and class, Lair’ss did not fully understand all she had been taught. She had spent most of her youth dreaming of murder and male mates until she had been paired with Dagri. Then she had learned a skill, becoming a mender of garments, working long hours in a room with other females.

Each night she would return to her mate, but he had perished opposing the Final End that was now upon them. Now, she felt an unfamiliar pang at the thought of him; she hadn’t particularly liked Dagri when Dahun’s Masjester had paired them. Still, he had become familiar and the child seemed to find him agreeable. He had been a vassal of a rising servant of the King, and had gained rank and some prestige. He was young and powerful, and the matings had been fun and always rewarding. She had even felt some delight when giving him the news that she would bear a child, which had been an unexpectedly pleasant experience. She was not sure why, but she had found joy in knowing he wanted that child. Now she felt an emptiness inside her when she thought of Dagri. He had left with the King’s army to fight against Maarg, and neither the King nor Dagri had returned. She had often wondered what had happened. Had he died in battle surrounded by comrades and enemies? The image that came to her brought her both sadness and pride. Or was he lost in some distant land, with no way of returning? That image made her grieve.

Yet despite everything coming to ruin around her, she still felt it was her duty to Dagri to care for his child. She glanced down at it now, large enough that its weight was a burden on her arm, and saw those dark eyes regarding her again. What was it thinking? Did it think?

She shook her head, knowing the answer. Of course it thought. She had killed for it and seen it eat, making it stronger and smarter. Even now the child responded to her quiet words or touch, as Lair’ss wished. If anything, the child was cunning enough that if she could feed it one or two more times, it would become more of an ally in this flight and less of a hindrance.

Lair’ss knew it was time. With everything falling apart, the stricture against preying on others of the People would no longer be obeyed. She was certain others had already taken to the old ways and as a result potential enemies, those who would devour her and the child, were growing more powerful and arising at every hand.

She peered in all directions until she saw a furtive figure hiding in the shadows below. A small being, it trembled at being discovered.

In a swift series of moves, Lair’ss put down the child, giving it a warning poke to keep it quiet, leapt from the rampart to the stairs halfway down, and was upon the hiding figure before it knew it. After delivering a quick stunning blow, she carried the limp being up to her child.

No sooner had the unconscious figure been laid on the stones than the child threw herself with astonishing energy upon it. The shock of the attack roused the tiny creature, but Lair’ss was ready for it. A long talon slashed its throat.

Fighting back her own hunger, the mother watched her daughter feed. She could swear she saw the child grow before her eyes. The need to push the child aside and feed upon the creature herself was almost overwhelming, but her mind was still relatively free of animal rage and she knew it was crucial that the child grow quickly. She would be too large to carry now, but after this feast, she should grow large enough that she should be able to keep pace with her mother.

Ignoring her own hunger pangs, Lair’ss watched as the corpse was consumed – bone, sinew, hair, and skin – until nothing was left but the simple robe and sandals it wore. Lair’ss’s brow furrowed. In her haste she had not noticed the design of the robes. The dead creature was an Archivist, a keeper of knowledge.

Now her daughter looked at her, her gaze narrowing for an instant. Then she spoke her first words. ‘Thank you, Mother. That was … enlightening.’

‘You can talk …?’ said Lair’ss, stating the obvious.

‘This one … lacked strength or magic … but he had knowledge.’ The child spoke each word carefully, as if trying them out and judging them before uttering a syllable. Then she rose up on slightly unsteady feet; the growth she had gained from her feasting had changed her balance and she needed a few minutes to adjust. Then she looked at her mother and added, ‘A great deal of knowledge.’

Lair’ss knew fear then. Before her eyes, in a matter of minutes, her daughter had ceased being a mewling infant and was now a young adult, one with memories and knowledge belonging to the most guarded caste of the King’s courts, the Archivists.

The child’s face was now almost on a level with the larger female who sat huddled against the inner wall. ‘I am ready, Mother,’ she said.

Lair’ss accepted that. Her child now had knowledge.

The child glanced around to see if they were still hidden. Then she declared, ‘I know a way.’ She turned, and moved downwards, and unquestioning, Lair’ss followed.

They struggled through the jagged rocks. Over the city wall, down the gullies that ages of wind and rain had carved out along the roadside and through the marshes. Flaming jets of gas had barred their way, but the child knew the route to take. From the moment she had devoured the Archivist, she had become a being unlike any Lair’ss had known.

At one point they huddled beneath an outcrop of rocks as a solitary flyer hovered overhead, seeking prey below. The child would be an easy target, and if Lair’ss’s strength became any more depleted she would be no match for the winged predator.

In the quiet of early morning, as the nocturnal predators were sweeping the mountains one last time before returning to their lairs, the child looked into her mother’s face, barely visible in the faint light from the stars above and the tiny moon nearing the western horizon. Softly she said, ‘I know things, Mother.’

Weak from hunger, Lair’ss replied, ‘Yes, I understand.’

‘Do you?’ The child took her mother’s face gently between her hands. ‘The Archivist’s … knowledge, but not his memories, are mine. I know things, but other things are empty, holes in my mind.’ She tilted her head to one side, her eyes fastened on her mother’s features. ‘Tell me.’

‘What, Daughter?’

‘Tell me those things I do not know.’

‘I do not understand.’

The child gazed out from under the sheltering rock at the setting moon. ‘What is that?’ she said, pointing to the faint light on the western horizon.

‘That is Das’taas, or what is left of it,’ said her mother weakly. ‘It was our home.’

‘Why did we leave?’

‘The Darkness came and our Lord Dahun was gone and no one knew how to fight it.’

‘Darkness?’ asked Child.

Lair’ss was so weak now that she sensed this might be her last conversation with her daughter. ‘I know little, but this much is what is known. The Darkness came from the Centre.’

The child tilted her head as if remembering something. ‘Ah, yes, the Centre. The Ancient Heart.’

‘I do not know it by that name, but the Old Kingdoms, Despaira, Paingor, Mournhome, Abandos and the others held sway since the first days after the Time Before Time. Our lord Dahun paid tribute to the Old Kingdoms, and we stood as a bulwark against the Savages.’ Lair’ss inclined her head behind them. ‘There, to the east, where we go now. But we were told a bad thing happened.’

‘What, Mother?’

‘I do not know,’ Lair’ss said wearily. ‘So much of what has happened is a mystery.’ She stared out towards the distant city. ‘I have been told we once lived like the Savages, spawning in pits, fighting for survival from the first moment. Each death returned us to the pits and the struggle was endless.

‘I have been told that the Kings brought order and taught us how to live a new way, how to build as well as destroy, how to care for one another without constant killing. We were told these were good things.’

‘Why?’

‘Again, I do not know,’ she said with a long sigh. ‘But what the King wills is law.’

The younger female was quiet for a while as the sun to the east grew brighter. ‘Where do we go?’ prodded Child.

After a moment, her mother answered, ‘To the east, towards the lands of the Savages and the Mad Ones.’

‘Why?’ asked Child.

‘Because there is nowhere else to go,’ answered her mother softly.

A smile crossed the child’s lips and she said, ‘No, there is another place to go.’ Suddenly she lunged forward and her fangs closed around her mother’s throat and with one pull, she tore it open. Blood fountained and she drank deeply as the light faded from her mother’s eyes.

Thoughts came with the feeding, not her own, but those of the being whose life she ended.

A time of calm, with a male, by the name of Dagri, who was her father. He had vanished with the King.

Images flashed, some understandable and some not, places, faces, struggles and quiet. And some of the holes in her knowledge were filled in as the more abstract knowledge she had gained from the Archivist blended with her mother’s experiences.

There are been a stable time, a time of Dahun’s dominion. Then word had come of a struggle to the west. Dahun’s kingdom was not one of the Old Kingdoms, but one of the Second Kingdoms, those that ringed the five original Kingdoms.

Then there had been a war, not here, but in some other place, against a king named Maarg, and her father and others had gone with Dahun to fight him. No one had returned, leaving only the City Guardians and those who knew magic to face the Darkness when it appeared. No one knew what had become of the Old Kingdoms.

Bits and pieces of knowledge of those times and places seemed to float around the periphery of her thoughts, almost understood, tantalizingly so, but still not coherent. She knew one thing, though: if she were to survive, she needed more knowledge and power.

She regarded what was left of her mother’s body, then consumed what was left. She kept feeling odd sensations as she did so and tried to put a name to them, but couldn’t. In a strange way she regretted the need to feed on the female who had brought her into this world, but her abstract knowledge of her race’s breeding history made it difficult to understand why she would feel a bond with this female more than any other. She paused; the Archivist thought of their collective society as ‘the race’, but her mother had been taught to consider herself a member of ‘the People’. She understood that this was a distinction, but why it was important eluded her.

She crawled out from under the overhang, peering about for any threat. In the distance she saw a group of flyers frantically beating towards her, so she ducked back under the overhang until she was certain they had passed. Peering to the west, she saw a dark spot on the horizon. From the knowledge she had inherited from her feeding she knew it to be something fundamentally wrong, and a radical and terrible change in the order of her world, yet it remained abstract to her. She had no feelings about that.

Feelings?

She paused. Strange sensations in the pit of her stomach and rising up into her chest and throat visited her, but she had no name for them. For an instant she wondered if she was in danger from them, like poison or exposure to dangerous magics.

Something tickled the edge of her consciousness. She paused and considered this unfathomable material. From the knowledge she had gained from the Archivist, she understood that memories were either there or not. To have memories from those devoured, yet be unable to reach them, was unheard of; so this must be something else.

But if it was something else, then what was it?

Still not enough knowledge, she thought, and certainly not enough power. She must hunt. She must grow stronger, more powerful.

There was a stirring above and suddenly another flyer dropped out of the evening sky. Without thought, she reached out a hand, but not in the clawed defensive position. Instead, her palm faced the attacker and a searing bolt of energy shot from it and slicked cleanly through his neck, severing the head, which dropped at her feet as the body crashed into the rocks a few feet away.

The child felt only mild hunger, but knew she needed more food to become more powerful than she was.

She hunkered down to begin eating the flyer’s head. ‘Magic,’ she said softly to herself. But she had not encountered a spell-caster, let alone devoured one. Even more softly she pondered, ‘Now where did that come from?’

Then she set about eating the creature’s brain.

• CHAPTER ONE •
Hunt

THE HORSES REARED.

The two young riders kept them under control, their long hours of training used to good effect in the face of the unexpected attack. From the brush behind them came the shouts of the men-at-arms and the baying of the dogs, signalling that relief would be there in minutes. Until then, the two youthful hunters were on their own. The two riders had come through an upland scrub of gorse and heather, growing in a swathe of sandy soil that had been denuded of trees in ages past.

Searching for wild boar or stag, the brothers from Crydee had stumbled upon something both unexpected and terrifying: a sleeping wyvern.

First cousin to a dragon, the green-scaled beast was far from its usual mountainous hunting grounds, and had been asleep in a deep gully masked from their approach by tall ferns and brush.

Now, disturbed from its rest, the angry beast rose up, snapping its wings wide to take to the sky.

‘What?’ shouted Brendan to his elder brother.

‘Don’t let it get away!’ replied Martin.

‘Why? We can’t eat it!’

‘No, but think of the trophy on the wall!’

With a grunt of resignation, the younger brother dropped his boar spear, threw his leg over his horse’s neck and dropped to the ground, nimbly removing his bow from his shoulder as he did so. His horse, usually a well-trained mare, was all too happy to run off as fast as possible from the large predator. Brendan drew a broad-tipped arrow from his quiver, nocked his bow and drew and fired in a matter of seconds.

The arrow flew truly, striking the emerald creature squarely at the joint of shoulder and wing, and it faltered. Slowly, the wing drooped limply.

Martin leapt off his horse, gripping his boar spear tightly, and his horse sped off after Brendan’s mount. The injured wyvern snarled and reared up and inhaled deeply, making a strange clucking sound.

‘Oh, damn!’ said Brendan.

‘Down!’ shouted his brother, diving to the right.

Brendan leapt to the left as a searing blast of flame cut through the air where he had been standing only a moment before. He could feel the hair on his head singe as the flames missed him by bare inches. He kept rolling, unable to see the wyvern, though he could hear it roar and smell the acrid smoke and blackened soil as it attacked wildly.

Having clutched the spear to his chest, along the same axis as his body so that he could come swiftly to his feet, Martin launched himself upright. The wyvern seemed momentarily confused by having two antagonists moving in different directions. Then it fixed its eyes on Brendan and started to suck in more air. From what Martin knew of wyvern behaviour, his brother was about to be targeted again with another blast of flames. He cast the spear despairingly, but the range was too far: it fell agonizingly close, but short of the creature.

Suddenly, miraculously, an arrow sliced through the space between the brothers, taking the wyvern in the throat. The creature gagged, choked, and staggered backwards, then shuddered and began to thrash in pain. Reprieved, the brothers raced forward. Martin retrieved his spear and impaled the creature upon it, while Brendan took careful aim and loosed an arrow into the exposed joint between the wyvern’s neck and torso, straight at the creature’s heart. It thrashed for another long moment, then fell still in death.

Looking to see the author of the saving shot, the brothers saw a young woman in leather breeches and tunic, knee-high riding boots, standing a little way away from them. She wore a short rider’s cape thrown back over her left shoulder for quick access to the quiver slung across her back. Her bow was a double recurved, compact and easy to shoot from horseback or on foot, evolved from an ancient Tsurani design, but no weapon for a beginner. Only the traditional hunter’s longbow had more power and range.

Brendan’s face lit up at the sight of her. ‘Lady Bethany, a pleasure as always.’ He shouldered his own bow and wiped perspiration from his brow and grinned as he glanced over at his brother and saw how Martin attempted to rein in his expression of annoyance and replace it with a neutral expression.

Born a year apart, the two brothers might as well have been twins. Unlike their older brother, Hal, who looked liked their father, being broad of shoulder and chest, dark of hair and six inches above six feet in height, these two brothers took after their mother. Their hair was a lighter brown, their eyes were blue rather than dark brown and they were lithe in movement, slender of frame, and four inches shorter than both their father and Hal. They had a whipcord strength and resilience rather than brute power.

Bethany’s dark red hair fell to her shoulders and her face was elegant and finely formed. Her smile carried a hint of something akin to condescension as she walked in measured steps, leading her horse towards the fallen beast. ‘You looked as if you could use a little assistance,’ she said with barely veiled humour. Like the brothers she stood on the verge of adulthood, glorious in her youth and taking it for granted. She would be nineteen years old at the next Midsummer Feast, as would Martin. The three of them had been friends since babyhood. Her father was Robert, Earl of Carse, vassal to their father, Lord Henry, Duke of Crydee. She was the tallest woman in either Carse or Crydee at six feet.

Martin frowned. ‘I thought you said you found hunting a bore?’

‘I find most things a bore,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I changed my mind about hunting and decided to catch up with you louts.’

Noise from behind her indicated that the rest of the Duke’s hunting party was closing in. A moment later, three horses burst through the underbrush and the riders reined in as they regarded the three young hunters and the dead wyvern.

The rider in the middle was Duke Henry, known as Harry, since his father had also been named Henry. He grinned at the sight of his two boys and the daughter of his friend standing without injury over the fallen monster. His face was sunburned and weathered, making him look older than his forty-nine years, his dark beard showing shots of grey. ‘What do you think of that, Robert?’ he asked the rider on his right.

Robert, Earl of Carse, reined in. His blond hair had turned grey at an early age, so it looked nearly white in the mid-afternoon sun. Like his companion, his face was sunburned and weather-beaten. That his daughter was as good an archer as any man in the west pleased him. ‘I think my daughter’s arrow did the honours,’ he answered. Then his expression darkened. ‘But riding unattended from the castle was the pinnacle of foolishness!’

The woodlands around Crydee had been pacified for generations, but they were still not without risk. He took a deep breath of resignation; Bethany was his only child and had been much indulged. As a result she was wilful and impetuous at times, much to his despair.

Bethany smiled at her father’s ire; she had been a nettle as often as a balm since her mother had died. Raised in a household of men, she had developed a combative nature. ‘I grew bored with the chatter of the ladies of Crydee.’ She smiled and nodded at the Duke. ‘No offence is intended, my lord, but I have only so much interest in needlework and cooking, to my mother’s chagrin. My limit was reached, so I decided some sport was needed.’ She glanced at the fallen creature. ‘Though this sport did end abruptly.’

‘Ha!’ said the Duke, and he laughed. ‘so one should wish, Lady Bethany. A wounded wyvern is a dangerous beast. Most would give the creature a wide berth.’

The trackers and beaters and dogs had arrived, and Huntmaster Rodney motioned for the beast to be secured.

Brendan said, ‘We all took a hand in killing the wyvern, Father, but I’ll concede honours to Bethany. Her arrow spared me a scorching, I’ll avow.’

Martin nodded in agreement, as if who claimed the kill was of no importance to him.

‘What do you intend to do with it?’ asked Robert. ‘You can’t eat it.’

The brothers glanced at the repeat of the oft-repeated joke. The nobility in the east might hunt the big predators for sport, but along the Far Coast they were nothing more than a nuisance, a menace to herds and farms. Years of controlling the population of big cats, packs of dogs and wolves, and dragon-kin such as the wyverns, had kept their incursion into the lowlands a rare occurrence. Most of the Duke’s hunting was for giant boar – as it was today – elk up in the foothills, deer in the forest, and giant bears.

‘I think its head on the wall would make a wonderful trophy for my room, Father,’ said Bethany, shouldering her bow.

Lord Robert glanced at his host, who shook his head, barely containing his mirth. ‘Not one for finery?’ asked the Duke.

‘Silks and oils, gowns and shoes are lost on my Bethany.’ Turning back to his only child, he said, ‘It will hang in the trophy hall in the keep, not your quarters.’

Martin cleaned off the head of his boar-spear in the tall grass, then handed it to one of the men-at-arms.

Brendan grinned. ‘Remembering her attire at the last Midsummer Feast of Banapis, I don’t think finery is entirely lost on her.’

Even the usually dour Martin was forced to smile at this. ‘It seems you took note.’

Now it was Bethany’s turn to look slightly annoyed, and the colour rose in her fair cheeks. It was a poorly-kept secret that everyone expected the Earl’s daughter eventually to become the next Duchess of Crydee when Henry’s eldest son, Hal, became Duke. The politics of the Kingdom required all such alliances to be approved by the King, but as the Duke and his family were distant kin to the Royal House of conDoin it kept things simpler if no strong alliances were formed between those nobles on the Far Coast and the powerful noble houses in the distant Eastern Realm.

‘How fares young Hal?’ asked Robert of his host.

Harry’s expression revealed his pride in his eldest. ‘Very well, according to his last missive.’ The younger Henry was away at the university on the island kingdom of Roldem. ‘His teachers grade him well, his presence in the Royal Court does honour to our house, and he only loses a little when he gambles. He writes that he intends to enter the Tournament of Champions.’

‘Bold,’ said Robert, watching as the three youngsters retrieved their respective horses and mounted up. ‘The best swordsmen in the world vie for the title Champion of the Masters’ Court.’

‘He’s a fair hand with the blade,’ offered Martin as he rode over to his father. Martin often understated things, sometimes from a dry sense of humour, at other times from a sceptical view of the world. He was always reserved in his praise or condemnation, rarely smiled or displayed displeasure, keeping his own counsel on most matters.

Brendan could barely contain his delight. ‘He’s the finest blade in the West. Only Martin here can press Hal. According to family lore he’s a match for our ancestor, Prince Arutha.’

Brendan was the youngest, seemingly set loose in the world with but one purpose, to plague his siblings. He had been a happy baby and a rambunctious child, always striving to keep up with his older brothers. There was rarely a circumstance that found him unsmiling or unable to wrench humour out of the situation.

‘A legendary name,’ said the Earl with a polite nod.

‘Now, if he could only learn to master the bow …’ Brendan added with an evil grin. Martin had never been well suited to the weapon and had shunned it for the sword.

Robert saw the brothers eyeing one another. He had known all three sons of the Duke since they were born and was used to their constant rivalry. Should this discussion continue, he knew it would become an argument with Martin growing more frustrated by the moment, to Brendan’s evil delight.

Sensing that his sons were on the verge of another of their many confrontations, the Duke shouted, ‘Bearers, bring the head of the beast to the keep. We’ll make a trophy of its head for Lady Bethany!’

Her father’s scowl caused a grin to return to the girl’s face.

The Duke continued. ‘And you two—’ he pointed at first Martin then Brendan ‘—behave yourselves or I’ll have you riding night patrol along the Eastern border.’

Both boys knew their father wasn’t joking as each had had to endure more than one night with the garrison’s night patrols, wending their way through treacherous forests in the bitterly cold dark. ‘Yes, Father,’ they replied, almost in unison.

The Huntmaster set his bearers to work, while the nobility started the ride back to Crydee Keep.

As they made their way among the boles of the forest, seeking the game trail that would lead them back to the road to Crydee, Bethany said in a falsely sweet tone, ‘Too bad you boys didn’t find a boar.’

Both brothers exchanged looks, and for a rare moment, Brendan’s sour expression matched Martin’s.

Supper was festive despite the furious storm building outside. The mood was abetted by a roaring fire in the great hall, ample wine, and a sense of safety from the fury of the elements. The banter around the table was predictable; the two families were close and the meals shared uncountable.

Formal seating had been abandoned years before, as the two wives, the Duchess Caralin and the Countess Marriann, had quickly become like sisters, and had talked across their two husbands until the Duke had decided that comfort outweighed protocol.

So the Earl Robert sat in the seat tradition gave to the host’s wife, while she sat in his. The two men could chat, as could their wives, and harmony was ensured.

The Duke’s two sons sat to the right of the Earl, while Lady Bethany sat to her mother’s left. After most of the meal had been consumed, Brendan elbowed his brother lightly. ‘What is it?’

‘What is what?’ said Martin, his brow furrowed as if irritated by the question.

Martin’s dour expression made Brendan’s grin broaden, as if he sensed another opportunity to vex his brother. ‘Either you’re dying to overhear Mother’s conversation with Countess Marriann, or there’s something on the end of Bethany’s nose.’

Martin had indeed been inclining his head in that direction as his brother spoke, but his gaze returned with a snap to his brother. His expression was one Brendan had seen only rarely, a deep and threatening look that warned the youngest brother that this time he had stepped too far over the line. Those previous experiences usually resulted in Brendan running very fast for his mother’s protection when he was very young, or his father’s or his brother Hal’s when older.

But rather than erupt in the rage that followed that particular black look, Martin simply lowered his voice and said, ‘You saw nothing.’

His tone was so filled with controlled anger and menace that Brendan could only nod.

Sensing something between his sons, Duke Harry said, ‘If this storm gets worse, we’ll have a lot of work to do in the town for quite a few days.’ He looked at Martin. ‘I’ll want you to take a patrol to the north and north-east, to see how the villagers fare.’ Then he said to Brendan, ‘And you’re old enough to lead one as well. To the south and south-east.’

‘I can see to those villages on my way home, your grace,’ said Earl Robert.

‘Linger a few days more,’ said Harry. With a warm smile he glanced to where his wife sat in animated conversation with the Countess and added, ‘They do so miss one another.’

‘True,’ said the Earl. ‘We do seem to have less time for visits.’

Leaning over, Harry asked, ‘You have closer ties with kin in the east. What do you hear?’

The Earl knew exactly what the Duke referred to. ‘Little. It is as if people are suddenly cautious to the point of silence.’

Almost since the creation of the Western Realm of the Kingdom there had been rivalry between West and East. Everything east of the small city of Malac’s Cross was viewed as ‘the real Kingdom of the Isles’ to the majority of citizens and the ruling Congress of Lords. The West was often seen as a drain on national resources, since much of it was empty and mountainous or, worse, inhabited by non-humans, dwarves, elves, trolls, goblins, and the Brotherhood of the Dark Path. Administration costs were high relative to the amount of revenue generated for the Crown, and there was almost no political advantage to be had from serving in the West. Real military and political advancement came from serving in the Eastern Realm. Hunting down raiding bands of goblins or trolls was not a path to promotion; fighting against Keshian raiders or border skirmishes against the Eastern Kingdoms was.

‘I count on you for something more dependable than what comes through Krondor,’ said the Duke. ‘Your family is new to the Far Coast, while my house …’ He let the sentence trail off.

The history of House conDoin in Crydee was well known. A brother to the King had conquered the Far Coast, once Great Kesh’s most far-flung frontier, and annexed it to the Kingdom, almost doubling the breadth of the nation in less than five years. Liking the area where he had ended up after his struggles, he had persuaded his brother to give him the Far Coast and built the very keep in which they now dined, Crydee.

Carse, the Earl’s home, was actually the more critical trading and commerce centre, being blessed with a far better harbour and sitting squarely at the heart of the coast, with all farming, mining, and foresting materials bound for export eventually finding their way to Carse’s docks.

Earl Robert’s father had been given the office of earl by Henry’s grandfather, with the King’s blessing, when the previous earl had died without issue. As no estate on the Far Coast was considered desirable enough for any Eastern noble, the award went unchallenged. More than once Lord Henry had considered that he, Earl Robert, and Morris, Earl of Tulan, were almost an autonomous little kingdom unto themselves. The taxes paid to the Crown were modest, reduced by half by what the Prince in Krondor took, but the requirements were meagre as well, so for the most part the Far Coast was ignored.

‘One hears rumours,’ said Robert, leaning over. ‘The King’s health is poor, according to one cousin I consider reliable. It’s said that healing priests are required frequently for maladies that would be counted mild in most men his age.’

Henry sighed as he sat back, lifted his goblet of wine and took a sip. ‘Patrick was the last true conDoin king, in my judgment. Those who have come after are like his wife, vindictive and manipulative, always plotting: true Eastern rulers.’ He set down his wine. ‘Mark you well, if the King dies without male issue, we may be sucked into conflict.’

Robert’s expression clouded. ‘Civil war, Harry?’

Henry shook his head. ‘No, but a political struggle in the Congress which could keep the throne vacant for a long time. And if that happens …’ He shrugged.

‘A regent. Who do you think the Congress would be likely to appoint?’

‘There’s the rub,’ said Henry. ‘You’d have to ask your Eastern kin. I haven’t the foggiest.’

The Duke retrieved his freshly-filled cup and drank slowly as he reflected. What he had said about the last ‘true’ king was a dangerous remark should any but the most trusted of friends, like Robert of Carse, overhear it.

The conDoins were the longest line of rulers in the history of the Kingdom of the Isles. There had been petty kings on the Island of Rillanon before the rise of this dynasty, but it had been a conDoin who had first planted the banner of the Isles on the mainland and conquered Bas-Tyra. It had been conDoin kings who had forged a nation to rival Great Kesh to the south and kept the pesky Eastern Kingdoms in control and forged a close relationship with the island kingdom of Roldem.

Robert noticed his friend’s thoughtful expression. ‘What?’

‘Roldem.’

‘What of Roldem?

Henry leaned over, as if cautious of being overheard, even here in the heart of his own demesne. ‘Without an acknowledged heir, there are many claimants to the throne.’

Robert waved aside the remark. ‘Your family has more distant cousins than a hive has bees, but there are only a few of royal blood.’

‘There are three princes—’

‘Seven,’ interrupted Robert. ‘You and your three sons are of the blood royal.’

Henry grimaced. ‘By grace of our ancestor, we’ve renounced claim to the inheritance of anything but Crydee.’

‘Martin Longbow may have, to avoid a civil war with his brothers, but that was then. This is now. There are many in the Congress who would consider you a worthy claimant to the throne should the need arise. They would rally to you.’

‘You speak boldly, Robert. Many might say you tread the edge of treason, but I have no interest, for myself or my sons. Back to the truths of the moment: there are three nephews who would vie for the crown: Oliver, the King’s nephew is closest in blood, but from the King’s sister’s marriage to Prince Michael of Semrick, and that makes him a foreigner in the eyes of many. Montgomery, Earl of Rillanon, and Duke Chadwick of Ran are both cousins to the King, though distant.’

Robert sat back and let out a long sigh. ‘It’s a shame King Gregory wasn’t the lady’s man his father was. Patrick left a litter of bastards along the way before he married. Still, he has managed to sire one son.’ The Earl paused, then added, ‘Prince Oliver’s a good lad, and you’re right, he has as much conDoin blood in him as any, and he’s betrothed to the Duke of Bas-Tyra’s second daughter, Grace. Since the Tsurani war the houses of Bas-Tyra and conDoin have stood close, more than a hundred years as one.’

‘That’s a powerful faction,’ agreed the Duke. ‘But Gregory has yet to name Oliver as his heir. The lad is approaching his twentieth year and Gregory is not likely to produce another son, no matter how hard he and that girl he married try.’ Both men chuckled. After the unexpected death of the Queen, the King had chosen to marry a girl barely a year older than his son. She was the daughter of a minor court noble, who had been raised up in rank by the auspicious marriage. The girl’s only grace was her stunning beauty, and it was reported she kept the king very happy, but other than that, she seemed a simple soul.

Rumours abounded that the King’s health was not as it should be. Given his age, barely fifty years, and his short rule, only five years since the death of his father, the potential for instability in the Kingdom was higher than it had been in a century.

‘Montgomery is not a factor,’ Robert continued. ‘He’s a creature of the court and is likely to emerge as a candidate only as a compromise short of war, but he has no standing, no factions behind him, nothing. He’s just there.’

‘But he is the King’s sister’s second son, and as close by blood as anyone after Oliver.’

‘It is regrettable that his older brother didn’t live. Now, he was a young man of talent.’

Henry nodded and said nothing. The death of Montgomery’s elder brother Alexander had always been something viewed with suspicion. No one gave voice to the thought, but his death in a raid by Ceresian pirates had seemed both pointless and convenient. The pirates had raided an estate which was heavily fortified yet containing little of worth. Some trinkets had been looted, but the only notable thing had been the death of the King’s nephew, who was at that time the leading contender for the title of heir to the throne. Fortunately, Oliver had been born soon after and the question of inheritance seemed to subside.

‘Do you think Edward is a factor?’ asked Robert.

‘No. He’s a prince in name only.’ Henry laughed. ‘And he might make a good king, because he desperately does not want the position. He rules in Krondor only as a favour to the King’s late father. Patrick and Edward were as brothers. He looks upon Gregory as a nephew and he’ll stay there until relieved. He will certainly retire to his estates in the East when Oliver comes west.’

‘So if no heir is named by the King, and the King passes, who will the Congress support?’ asked Henry. ‘That is the question.’

Robert let out a long breath as if in exasperation. ‘Only the gods know, I suspect. And Sir William Alcorn.’

Henry gave a wry chuckle. ‘Our oddly mysterious Sir William.’

Both men fell silent as they considered the man just named. A common soldier by all accounts, from the city of Rillanon, an islander born, he had risen quickly to the rank of Knight-Captain and had been promoted to the King’s personal guard.

But when the King was a young man and sent by his father to study at the University of Roldem, Knight-Captain William had been named head of the then Prince Gregory’s personal retinue and had returned two years later as Sir William Alcorn, newly appointed personal advisor to the heir to the throne. Now five years later he was advisor to the King of the Isles.

‘He seems to favour no faction.’

‘Or he plays off one side against the other, securing his own position.’

Robert sighed. ‘It is rumoured he is now the most powerful man in the Kingdom, despite his overt displays of modesty and humility. The King hangs upon his every word, which means no few of the Lords of the Congress do as well.’

‘How the truth is seen often defines the truth,’ observed Henry. ‘If he is feared for power, how much power he truly has to wield is immaterial, for the fear is still real. And how does Lord Jamison take his position as First Advisor being usurped?’

Robert shrugged. ‘He’s still a power, but he’s ageing. His son James the third is able, but it’s his grandson, yet another James … Jim’s the one to keep an eye on.’

The Earl nodded. Both men had met Jim Dasher in his guise as Lord Jamison, grandson to the Duke of Rillanon.

‘What is known about Alcorn?’ posed Earl Robert. ‘He rose through the ranks, hardly the first man of common birth to do that – Duke James’s grandfather was a common street lad, a thief even by some recounting. But this Sir William holds no specific title – it is said he refuses them, though even the office of Duke of Rillanon might be his for the asking once Lord James steps down.’

Henry shook his head ruefully. ‘The current Duke might object; I think he sees the office going to his son or grandson. And Lord James is still a man with whom to reckon. He holds together the Congress of Lords, truth to tell.’

‘Well,’ said Earl Robert, ‘it is of little concern for us on the Far Coast, it’s true.’ Then he smiled, ‘Yet it is always interesting.’

‘You’re a more political animal than I, Robert. But to say it is of little concern is to assume things will go forward as they have in the past, and that may not be so. There’s a difference between the Crown ignoring us and abandoning us. It’s when I consider that possible bleak future I’m glad to have friends such as you and Morris here in the West.’

‘Ever your loyal vassal, my friend.’

At that moment a soldier, drenched to the skin, hurried into the Keep, approached the Duke’s table, and bowed. ‘My lord, a ship is making for the harbour.’ He sounded out of breath.

The Duke stood. ‘In this weather?’

‘We have tried to warn them off with red flash powder in the lighthouse, but they’ve ignored us and are coming straight in!’

The Duke looked to Robert. As one they said, ‘Reinman!’

Henry said, ‘Only that madman would run before the gale and think to not end up with his ship a half-mile inland. Let’s go up to the tower.’ He motioned for Robert to follow, but by then the boys and Bethany had also stood up.

‘Father,’ said Martin. ‘You’ll never see anything from up there!’

‘If it’s Reinman and he doesn’t bring that ship to heel in this gale, we’ll have plenty to see,’ Henry answered. He moved out of the great hall towards the stairs that led to the tallest tower in the fore of the keep. It was called the Magician’s Tower, for once the Duke’s ancestor, Lord Borric, had given it over to a magician and his apprentice. Now vacant, it still afforded the best view of the western vista.

Servants hurried to bring oiled cloaks for the Duke’s court. As Henry and Robert reached the top of the tower, a page barely able to catch his breath overtook them and handed each man a heavy hooded cloak of canvas soaked in seal oil. Moments later the two rulers of this land were atop the tower, faces into the biting rain, attempting to see what they could in the darkness.

As the others gathered behind them, Earl Robert shouted over the wind, ‘Can you see anything?’

Henry pointed. ‘Look!’

The town of Crydee was shuttered fast against the storm, but light could be glimpsed leaking around the edges of shutters, cracks in door frames, and from the lanterns of those who hurried toward the docks. The alarm was sounding and it carried faintly to those atop Crydee Keep’s tallest tower.

In the distance the glow from Longpoint Lighthouse could barely be seen, faintly red from the powder that had been tossed on the beacon to warn ships off attempting to enter the harbour.

In a severe storm, ships would make for a headland seven miles up the coast and heave to behind the shelter of some tall bluffs. In a storm like this, the wise choice could be to keep sailing along the coast and circle back when the winds lessened, or to drop anchor and turn the bow into the gale.

But this captain was no ordinary seaman; rather, as Lord Henry had observed, he was something of a madman. Considered the finest captain in the King’s Western Fleet, he was always the first to be sent after pirates and on dangerous missions.

‘It must be something important to make Reinman chance coming in tonight!’ shouted Martin from behind his father.

‘The fool!’ replied Robert. ‘He’ll crash into the docks!’

In the rain and gloom, the ship raced past the lighthouse like an eerie shadow, a skeleton thing of grey and black lit by the yellow-and-white reflections of torches along the breakwater leading out to the lighthouse. As the vessel entered the harbour every door and window of every shop along the wharf was thrown open despite the rain, as onlookers gaped in wonder at the mad captain who drove his ship to destruction.

Suddenly, a bloom of light appeared around the ship, expanding bubble-like into a sphere of almost daylight brilliance. Within the dome of brilliance they could easily see the ship’s crew frantically chopping at the rigging with hand axes so the sails quickly fell away.

‘Damn!’ said the Duke quietly.

• CHAPTER TWO •
Warning

THE WIND HOWLED.

Captain Jason Reinman bellowed to be heard above the noise. ‘Cut ’em loose, damn ya!’

The crew had been ordered aloft during the mad dash toward the harbour of Crydee in preparation for this desperate act.

‘Hard to starboard!’ he shouted and two men wrestling with the long handle on the rudder shoved with all their strength towards the left, to bring the balky ship around in the opposite direction.

The Royal Messenger’s timbers groaned in protest as the ship fought against stresses she was not designed to withstand. Turning to the man seated on the deck next to him, Captain Reinman shouted, ‘Hold! Just a few more minutes!’

The man squatted on the decks, his eyes closed and his face a mask of concentration as he fought to stay upright on the tossing deck. Reinman’s sunburned face turned upward, and he saw with satisfaction that the sails had all been cut loose and were now littering the decks. He’d refit in Crydee and what sail he’d lost the Duke could replace for him. The ropes would be mended and should any of his men have been overly zealous with the axes, the spars would be repaired.

The sound of the storm died away: the bubble of light was a tiny pool of calm in the middle of the storm-tossed harbour. ‘Don’t you fail me, you magic-wielding sot! You’re not allowed to pass out until we are at the docks!’ If the man at whom Reinman was shouting heard him he gave no indication, seemingly intent on keeping himself sitting upright.

The ship came about in the relative calm of the bubble of magic, and Reinman shouted, ‘Get the fenders over the side! As soon as this shell is down, the gale will slam us into the docks. I don’t want to sail home on a pile of kindling!’ To the men aloft, he said, ‘Grab hold and hang on, it’s going to be rough!’

As the large padded fenders went over the side to protect the ship from the dock wall, the magic bubble collapsed, and as the captain had predicted, the sudden gale slammed the hull against the pilings. But the fenders did their work and although there was the sound of wood cracking, both the dock and the ship held intact.

Then the ship rolled and the grinding sound of wood on wood was almost painfully loud, and the three masts came down towards the cobbles of the harbourside road at alarming speed. Men aloft held on for their lives, shouting in alarm.

But just as it seemed the ship would roll on its side and smash the yards into the ground, the movement stopped. For a pregnant moment the spars hovered mere feet above the stones, then they started to travel back the way they came. Men’s voices rose again in alarm as they realized they might be suddenly pitched off in the other direction.

‘Hang on!’ shouted the captain as he gripped the railing that had almost been overhead a moment before. Glancing around, he noticed that his companion on the poop deck was nowhere to be seen. ‘Drunken fool!’ he shouted at the spot recently vacated and then returned his attention to not being flung over the side of his ship.

As the ship rolled back, more creaking signalled the continuation of the elements’ assault on the vessel he loved dearly. He silently damned the need for such reckless behaviour and vowed that should the ship be rendered salvage, he would see to it that Lord James Dasher Jamison paid for a new one out of his own pocket. Thought having secret access to the King’s treasury, he would barely miss the sum.

The ship was upright for a moment, then continued on its recoil, but the force of the wind and sea kept it from rolling very far. Captain Reinman let go of the railing and shouted, ‘Make fast! Any man not already dead get this ship securely lashed secure. Any man dead will answer to me!’

He hurried to the fore railing and looked around. The ship was in better shape than he had any right to expect, but not as pretty as he would have liked. But it did not seem that the main timbers had been compromised, so he thought a few days of carpentry and paint would make her as good as new.

He took a brief moment to congratulate himself on the insane entrance into Crydee Harbour and then shouted, ‘Anyone seen that drunken magician?’

One of the deck hands shouted, ‘Oh, was that what that was, sir? I think he went over the side when we heeled back.’ Suddenly realizing what he said, the sailor shouted, ‘Man overboard!’

Half a dozen sailors hurried to the rail and one pointed, ‘There!’

Two men went over the sides despite the dangerous chop in the water and the risk of being swept into the side of the ship, or worse, under the docks in what had to be a clutter of debris.

The object of their search, a slender man with a usually unruly thatch of black hair which was now plastered to his skull, sputtered and coughed as one sailor dragged him to the surface and held his head above water. The second sailor helped pull him to the side of the ship where two other sailors clung tightly to ropes despite the slashing winds.

Drenched, miserable, and wretched, the man in the soaked robes looked at the captain and said, ‘We there?’

‘More or less,’ said Reinman with a grin. ‘Mr Williams!’

The first mate appeared in front of his captain. ‘Aye, sir.’

‘Get below and see how much work needs to be done. I didn’t hear anything to make me believe we have any serious damage. Don’t tell me I’m wrong, if you please.’

The first mate saluted and turned away. Like the captain, the first mate knew the ship as well as he knew the face of his wife and children. He suspected that the groaning of wood and snapping of lines would mean repair, but nothing major. He’d heard the sound of a keelson cracking in a storm, and it was a sound he’d never forget.

Captain Reinman ordered, ‘Run out the gangway!’

The crew nearest to the docks hurried to obey. Unlike passenger ships with their fancy gangways with steps and rails, this was a merely a wide board of hardwood that managed to reach the docks without bowing so much it wouldn’t support a man carrying cargo.

No sooner had it touched the dock than Reinman was down it, his leather boots sliding along the plank as much as walking it. As he expected, by the time he stood on the dock, a company of horsemen was riding to meet him.

Duke Henry, Earl Robert, and half a dozen men-at-arms reined in.

‘Miserable night for a ride, your grace,’ said the captain with a grin, ignoring the pelting rain. Standing in the storm, water coursing off his head and shoulders, the red-headed seaman looked as if he was almost enjoying the experience.

‘Hell of a landing,’ said Duke Henry. ‘It must be something urgent to make you pull a stunt like that.’

‘You could say,’ he glanced around, ‘though it will keep for another few minutes until we can be alone. Strict instructions: for your ears only.’

The Duke nodded. He motioned to one of his escorts. ‘Give the captain your horse and follow on foot.’

The soldier did as ordered and handed the reins to Reinman. The captain mounted a little clumsily, as riding was not his first occupation, but once in the saddle he seemed comfortable enough.

‘To the keep!’ said the Duke over the wind’s howl and they turned back and started up the main street of Crydee Town, the boulevard that would take them to shelter and a roaring fire.

Still dripping wet, Captain Reinman accepted a heavy towel and began mopping his face, but waved away a servant bearing a change of clothes. ‘In a minute,’ he said, then to the Duke. ‘A word, my lord.’

They stood in the entrance to the keep with the Duchess, Countess and the three children waiting for an explanation for the mad display they had just witnessed. Both Martin and Brendan had started to speak at once, but the captain’s words cut them short.

Somewhat surprised by Reinman’s more than usually abrupt manner, the Duke nodded to the others to return to the great hall, indicating that he and the captain would join them. The two men moved to a corner of the entry hall and the Duke said, ‘Now, what is so important you’ll risk wrecking the King’s fastest ship to tell me a day early?’

‘Orders from the Crown, my lord. You’re to begin muster.’

The Duke’s face remained impassive, but the skin around his eyes tightened. ‘It’s war, then?’

‘Not yet, but soon, perhaps. Lord Sutherland and the Duke of Ran both say the frontier is quiet, but rumours have it Kesh is moving in the South and you’re to be ready to support Yabon or even Krondor if the need arises.’

Henry considered. War along the Far Coast had occurred only twice in the history of the Kingdom: the original conquest when the land was wrested from Kesh, and then the Tsurani invasion. The people of the Far Coast had known peace for a century and had almost nothing to do with Kesh, save for the occasional trader looking for a market hungry for exotic goods.

But east of the Straits of Darkness it was another matter. The border between the two giant nations had long borne witness to skirmishes and incursions as one side or the other sought advantage. The last time a major assault on the Kingdom had occurred had been on the heels of the invasion by the forces of the Emerald Queen. With the entire West in rubble, Kesh had moved against Krondor, only to be sent home with its tail between its legs by the power of the sorcerer Pug. He had scolded both sides against such wasteful recklessness and thus had earned the enmity of the Crown. Yet his lesson had held, as there had been little by way of conflict between the two giant nations for almost fifty years. The occasional border clash in the Vale of Dreams was not unusual, but this was the first hint of any major military action against the Kingdom by the Empire of Great Kesh.

Henry said, ‘They expect a move against Krondor?’

Reinman shrugged. ‘What the King’s council expects, I have no idea. If Kesh moves against Krondor, Yabon will have to move south in support, and you no doubt will be sent east to support Yabon. But that’s just speculation. All I know is that I have my orders from the mouth of Lord Jamison.’

‘Richard or James?’

‘James.’

Henry let out a long sigh. Richard was the Prince’s Knight-Marshal, second cousin to James, who was a lot closer to the Crown in Rillanon. If the message came from him, it really did mean war was coming. ‘So, Jim was in Krondor?’

‘The man seems to be everywhere,’ said Reinman, mopping his head one more time with the towel. ‘I don’t know how he does it, but I hear from this bloke or that that he was seen a week ago in Rillanon, then I see him in Krondor, and unless he’s sprouted wings and flown I don’t know how he could do that short of killing a string of horses and not sleeping for a week.’

‘He has his ways, obviously,’ said the Duke. ‘Change into something dry and come into the hall. Dinner’s still on the table and I’m sure the boys will pester you with questions once I tell everyone what’s going on.’

‘You’re going to tell everyone?’

‘Remember where you are, Captain. This is Crydee. If there’s been a Keshian spy around here in the last ten years he was lost and wandering far from anywhere he should be.

‘And I must instruct Earl Robert as well as send messages down to Tulan so Earl Morris can begin his muster.’ He smiled. ‘After the entrance you made if you think I could tell my wife that this is a matter of state … well, you don’t remember my wife very well.’

With a grin the captain said, ‘Well, yes, there is that.’

‘Besides, my boys are old enough that they need to learn some warcraft, and while I’m loath to see them fight this young, they are conDoins.’

‘Aye, my lord, there is that as well.’

The Duke led Reinman into the hall where the others waited expectantly. He motioned for the servants to depart, then quickly recounted the very simple but vital order from the Crown.

Earl Robert shook his head. ‘Muster. It’s a bad time of year, my lord. Spring planting begins in a few weeks.’

‘I know, but wars are inconvenient at any time of the year. Still, we can muster levies in stages. One man in three to report as soon as word reaches, outfit and train and return to the village in two weeks or three, the next man, then the last, and by the time we reach full muster, the planting should be in.’

‘If the rain stops,’ added Martin with a sour expression. ‘The ground won’t be ready for most crops for a week if it stops tomorrow, Father.’

‘Farmer, are you?’ asked Reinman with a grin.

Brendan returned the grin while Martin tried to suppress a chuckle. ‘Father believes in the old virtues. We were forced to work at every apprenticeship in the Duchy for a week or two as we grew up, the better to understand the lives of our subjects.’

‘The King’s subjects,’ corrected his father. ‘The citizens of the duchy are ours to protect, but they belong to no man, not even the King, though they are charged to obey him. As are we. Such is the tradition of the Great Freedom, upon which our nation is founded.’

‘So I’ve been told,’ said Brendan rolling his eyes.

Martin changed the subject: ‘Captain, how did you manage that … event, in the harbour, with the light bubble in the midst of the storm?’

‘Ah!’ said Reinman, obviously delighted. ‘That was my weather witch.’

‘Weather witch?’ asked the Duke.

‘Well, he’s not really a witch, I’ll grant you, but “weather magician” doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as neatly. Besides, it annoys him.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Bellard, by name,’ answered the captain. ‘One of the lot from Stardock. He was up with the elves north of here for a couple of years, learning weather magic from their spellweavers.’ He nodded in thanks as a mug of steaming mulled wine was presented to him by a servant. He sipped at this for a moment, then put down the mug and said, ‘Quite good at it too, save for one problem.’

‘What would that be?’ asked Earl Robert.

‘He drinks.’

‘Ah, a drunkard,’ said Martin.

‘Well, not really,’ said the captain. ‘He was having the devils trying to learn the magic, and got tipsy at one of the moon festivals or sun festivals or flower festivals or whatever it is the elves use as an excuse to get drunk and carry on, so they did, and apparently not wishing to offend his hosts, he did as well. Then the fun began. As I hear the story, after several cups of wine, he caused quite a little tempest in the middle of the forest. Took a few of the spellweavers a bit of time to make things right.

‘So Bellard discovered that because he’s a human, not an elf, or at least that’s what he thinks, he has to be drunk to make the magic work.’

‘Ah!’ said Brendan in obvious delight. ‘He must love that!’

‘Actually, quite the opposite. Turns out the other thing Bellard discovered at that festival was he didn’t care for strong drink. We have to hold him down and pour the grog down his gullet if we need his craft.’

Everyone was wide-eyed at that, and indeed Brendan and his father were both open-mouthed as well. Then the room erupted into laughter. Even the captain chuckled. ‘He fair hates it, really. But he drinks and does a masterful job, as you could see tonight, creating that bubble of calm in the middle of the storm. He pushed us along with a steady wind for three days, once, on a run from Rillanon around the southern nations up to Krondor – when we would have been becalmed for goodness knows how many days. Had the grandfather of all thumping heads for days after that and a sour stomach to put a man off food for life.’

‘Why does he do it?’ asked Lady Bethany. ‘Surely there are other magics he’s more suited to?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Reinman with a laugh. ‘Perhaps it’s because I told him he was pressed into service on the Prince’s writ and had no choice?’

‘You didn’t?’ said the Duke. ‘The press was outlawed after the war with the Tsurani.’

‘Yes,’ said Reinman with an evil barking laugh, ‘but he doesn’t know that.’

Laughter burst out again, though Brendan and the ladies all looked pained at the amusement at such duplicity. Reinman said, ‘In the end, he will be well rewarded. His service to the Crown will not be taken for granted.’

Martin said, ‘What of Hal?’

‘Yes,’ added Brendan, ‘should he be recalled?’

‘As to that,’ replied Reinman before the Duke could answer, ‘for the time being, the Prince would appreciate it if we kept word of the Western muster from Eastern ears.’

Henry waved the captain to a chair and held up his hand. Martin was standing closest to the door, so he opened it and motioned the servants waiting outside to enter. ‘Serve us, then leave us,’ the Duke told his staff.

The servants hurried to make sure everyone at the table was supplied with more food and drink, then left.

‘Sending the servants away?’ asked Robert.

‘They gossip, and while I trust all in this household, a stray word to a merchant, or a visiting seaman, would be unfortunate …’ He paused, ‘Now, Jason, what aren’t you telling us?’

Reinman smiled. ‘Just rumours. Before I left Rillanon last it was being said the King was ill, again.’

Henry sat back. ‘Cousin Gregory was never the man his father was,’ he said softly. ‘And with no sons …’

‘He would save a lot of trouble naming Oliver as his heir,’ said Robert.

Reinman sat back. ‘Prince Edward would appreciate that,’ he observed dryly. ‘The Prince of Krondor can hardly wait for the King to name another to the post and let him retire back to “civilization” as he likes to call the capital.’ Reinman shrugged. ‘As capitals go, Krondor’s not such a bad place, though it does lack a certain grandeur. Edward lives in deathly fear that somehow he’s going to make a terrible mistake one day and end up King.’ They all laughed.

‘Eddie was always a caretaker appointment,’ said Henry thoughtfully. ‘He has no political support and no ambition. I think if the Congress rallied and named him King after Gregory, he’d find a way to reject the crown and run off to his estates. He has a lavish villa on a small island off Roldem.’

Robert added, ‘Where it is said his wife spends most of her time …’ he glanced at the ladies ‘… reviewing the household guard.’

The Duchess raised an eyebrow. ‘Who are reputed to all be very handsome, very young and … very tall.’

Countess Marriann and the Lady Bethany both laughed out loud at the remarks, while the two boys exchanged glances before Brendan’s eyes widened and he said, ‘Oh!’

‘Marriages of state are not always what they might be,’ said his mother, as if that was all that needed to be added.

Reinman seemed uncomfortable. ‘You were speaking of Hal,’ he said. ‘How is he doing at that school in Roldem?’

‘That school in Roldem’ was the royal university, the finest educational facility in the world. It had been created originally for Roldem’s nobility and royalty as a place where they could study art, music, history, and the natural sciences, as well as magic and military skills. But over the years it had attracted the best from every surrounding kingdom and the Empire, until it had become almost a necessity for any young man of rank seeking to advance.

‘No one from the Far Coast has attended before,’ said Henry, ‘but Hal seems to be enjoying it, or at least so his letters suggest.’

‘He’s entering the Masters’ Court Championship,’ said Brendan to the captain.

‘That’s a feather in his cap if he wins,’ said Reinman.

Henry glanced at a shuttered window, as if he could somehow see the still-pouring rain outside. ‘Given the distance, it’s about midday in Roldem. He may be competing now, if he hasn’t already been eliminated.’

The swordsman lunged while the crowed watched in silent admiration as the combatants parried furiously. They were evenly matched and this was the first of three bouts to name the new Champion of the Masters’ Court.

The dark-haired youth from the Far Coast of the Kingdom had been an unexpected challenger who had been discounted by the betting touts in the early rounds. As he rose rapidly, vanquishing his first three opponents easily, the betting had shifted quickly, until now he was considered an even bet to emerge as the new champion.

His opponent had been the favourite, a blond youth of roughly the same age.

Henry conDoin, eldest son of Duke Henry of Crydee, parried, riposted, then feinted left and lunged right. ‘Touché!’ cried out the Master of the Court.

The crowd erupted in appreciative applause.

The two combatants exchanged bows and retired to separate corners of the huge duelling hall that was the heart of the Masters’ Court in Roldem City.

The blond youth returned to stand by his father. ‘He’s very good.’

Talwin Hawkins, the thirty-second Champion of the Masters’ Court, nodded, then smiled at his son. ‘Almost as good as you. You’ll have to be a little more focused. Even though you watched him, you didn’t expect him to be this quick. Now he can take risks, because he only needs one touch to win. You need two.’

Ty Hawkins turned a slightly sour expression on his father. He knew he was right, for young Tyrone Hawkins, the twenty-five-year-old son of a former champion, had been such a dominating force in the Masters’ Court as a student that he had entered the competition a heavy favourite. That reputation had aided him in easily disposing of all his early opponents, and he had become a little too self-confident in his father’s estimation.

‘He favours a triple combination,’ Tal said to his son. Looking into the young man’s face he considered how much he resembled his mother, Teal, and how deeply Tal had come to love him, even though he wasn’t his true father. Large blue eyes and a dusting of freckles gave a boyish countenance to a strong young face, with a smile that made him charming to the ladies. ‘If you can recognize it as he begins,’ he went on, ‘you can get under his second feint and reach him.’

‘And if I don’t recognize it, he’ll win the match,’ Ty said wryly.

Returning the lad’s crooked smile, Tal said, ‘Worse things happen.’

‘True,’ said Ty. ‘Nobody dies here … usually.’

That got him a dark look from his father, for part of the lore of the Masters’ Court was the attempt on his father’s life by two opponents that had ended in the first intentional bloodshed in the Court in a hundred and fifty years.

Waiting for the second round of the final bout to be signalled, both young men regarded their surroundings. Ty had been to the training floor countless times, but for Henry it was his first visit to the Court; indeed it was his first visit to Roldem. He had seen this hall for the first time when he was allowed his four practice bouts against the instructors only two days ago.

Yet for both young men the grandeur of the vast hall was still daunting. Large carved wooden columns surrounded a massive wooden floor which had been polished to a gleam like metal, like burnished copper. Intricate patterns had been worked into the floor. These served a function beyond aesthetics, for each pattern defined a duelling area, from the confined, narrow duelling path for rapier fencing, to the larger octagon for longer blades.

This was the reason the Masters’ Court existed.

More than two centuries earlier, the King of Roldem had commanded a tourney to name the greatest swordsman in the world. Contestants of all rank – noble and common – had travelled from as far away as the southernmost province of the Empire of Great Kesh, the distant Free Cities of Natal, and all points in between. The prize had been fabled: a golden broadsword studded with gems. It was a prize unmatched in the kingdom’s history.

For two weeks the contest had continued, until a local noble, Count Versi Dango, had triumphed. To the King’s astonishment, the Count had announced he would reject the prize so that the King might use the sword to pay for the construction of an academy dedicated to the art of the blade, and there hold this recurring contest, thus creating the Masters’ Court.

The King had ordered the construction of this school, covering an entire city block in the heart of the island kingdom’s capital, and over the years it had been rebuilt and refined until it now resembled a palace as much as a school. When it was finished, another tourney was held, and Count Dango had successfully defended his reputation as premier swordsman in the world. Every five years swordsmen gathered to compete for the title of Champion of the Masters’ Court. Four times Dango had prevailed as the ultimate victor, until a wound had prevented him from competing further.

Now, the instructor who was Master of the Competition signalled for the two combatants to return. Both young men assumed their positions as the Master held out his arm between them. They approached and raised their blades; the Master took hold of the points, brought them together, then stepped back crying, ‘Fence!’

Instantly Ty launched a wicked overhand lunge that almost struck home, driving Henry back a step. Then Ty recovered and took a step forward, his sword extended, his left hand resting on his hip, not raised in the air for balance as most fencers favoured. His father had taught him there was little advantage in doing this unless one overbalanced since holding the hand aloft robbed you of energy; not a severe problem on the fencing floor, but one that could get you killed in a battle.

Henry took a slight hopping step and started a circular motion with his blade, and Ty knew he was about to try that same triple move that had cost him a touch. Instead of pulling back on the second feint, Ty extended his arm, gaining right of way, and made an extraordinary low lunge, which struck Henry less than an inch above his belt, but still it was a clean strike. Even before the Master could announce it, Henry shouted, ‘Touché!’

Both combatants stood at attention for a moment, saluted one another, then turned to their respective ends of the floor. Henry came over to where his trainer, Swordmaster Phillip, waited. ‘He saw that one coming,’ said the old warrior.

Henry nodded and removed the basket helmet worn during these combats. Slightly out of breath, he said, ‘I was foolish to try the same move twice. He cozened me into trying that with his high lunge. Made me think he was desperate.’ He took the offered towel and wiped his face. ‘So now we come down to one touch for the championship.’

‘Too bad your father isn’t here. Win or lose this last touch, you’ve done your family proud, Hal.’

Henry nodded. ‘Better than I expected, really.’

‘Your many-greats-uncle Arutha was reputed to be a wicked swordsman. Seems you’ve inherited that skill.’

With a tired grin, Henry said, ‘Good thing, ’cause I’m nothing like the bowman my great-great-grandfather Martin was.’

‘Or your grandfather, or your father,’ said the Swordmaster dryly.

Realizing the rare compliments were over, Henry returned his mask and said, ‘Or my little brother.’

‘Or that lad who works at the blacksmith’s.’

‘So, what you’re saying is, I should win this.’

‘That’s the general idea.’

The two combatants returned to the fencing floor and the waiting Master of the Court. He held out his hand and the two young men raised their swords. He gripped the two padded points then removed his hand suddenly, shouting, ‘Fence!’

Back and forth fought the two young swordsmen, equal in gifts and guile. They measured, attacked, regrouped and defended in an instant. The life of a match such as this was measured in seconds, yet everyone in the audience was not anxious for it to conclude. And they were not to be disappointed.

Across the floor, advance and retreat, to and fro, the two young swordsmen battled. Experienced warriors like Tal Hawkins and Swordmaster Phillip recognized that the two duellists were evenly matched: Ty possessed slightly better technique, but Henry was just a touch quicker. The winner would be decided by whoever made the first mistake, either in concentration, mistiming, or succumbing to fatigue.

With a rhythm of its own, the contest moved in a furious staccato, punctuated by brief pauses as the two combatants took a moment to assess one another.

Then Ty launched a furious high-line attack, driving Henry back towards his own end of the floor. If he could be forced to step across his own end line, he would lose on a fault.

‘Oh …’ said Swordmaster Phillip as his finest student retreated in a way that looked as if he was losing control. But before he could accept that his pupil was about to be defeated by a clever attack, a remarkable thing happened.

Ty thrust at the highest point a legal touch was permitted – the tunic just below the face-guard – a move which should have caused Henry to move either to his right or his left, as he had no room behind him. Either step would have taken him off line and out of the prescribed area, causing him to forfeit the match, or to lose his balance.

But Henry simply kept his left foot firmly planted a scant fraction of an inch before the end line, twisted his body and slid his right leg forward, allowing the tip of Ty’s foil to cut through the air just above his canvas tunic. As he slid forward, Henry extended his arm and found Ty running right up against his foil tip.

The crowd gasped as the two combatants froze in tableau. For the briefest second there was no sound in the room, then the Master of Ceremonies shouted, ‘Judges?’

Four judges, one at each corner of the combat area, were required to signal a valid touch. The two closest to Henry’s end of the floor looked at one another, each unsure of what he had just seen. Henry now sat on the floor, in a full split, one leg straight ahead and one behind, while Ty held his position, his body bowing Henry’s blade. ‘This is really uncomfortable,’ Hal said just loud enough that those nearby could hear.

‘Embarrassing, really,’ said Ty.

The Master signalled for the two judges to join him and said, ‘Contestants, return to your positions.’

Ty held out his left hand and Henry took it, letting his opponent pull him to his feet. ‘That looked painful,’ said Ty as he removed his helmet.

Removing his own helmet, Henry brushed his dark brown hair aside and winced. ‘You have no idea.’

As Henry reached him, Swordmaster Phillip said, ‘I’ve never seen a move like that before. What was it?’

‘Desperation,’ said Henry. Taking the offered towel, he dried his face. ‘He really is better than I am, you know that?’

‘Yes,’ said Phillip softly, ‘but not by much. And not enough for you not to contest. He may win, but so may you.’

‘What’s taking the judges so long?’

‘My guess is they’re arguing about right of way. Tyrone was still extended, so you had no right of way, even though he ran right up on your sword-point. I’d rule it a non-touch and make you do it over again.’

‘I don’t think I can,’ said Henry with a wince. ‘I think I’m going to need to see a healer if I ever want to have children.’

‘Probably just a muscle. Rest for a while and it will heal.’

‘I can feel my left leg is not what it should be, Swordmaster. It feels weaker than it ought to and if I push off, even a little, it hurts like demon fire.’

Phillip stepped back. ‘Try to lunge.’

Henry attempted a lunge just to Phillip’s right and lost his balance. Phillip caught him before he could collapse to the floor. He patted the young man on the shoulder affectionately, then said in a loud voice, ‘Masters of the Court!’

The three masters who had been taking council in the hall turned as one and the seniormost said, ‘What is it?’

‘We must withdraw.’

There was an audible groan of disappointment through the hall from the spectators as the Master of Ceremonies said, ‘Why do you withdraw?’

‘My young master is injured and unable to continue.’

Ty and his father crossed the floor. As they neared the judges, Ty said, ‘I can wait if young Lord Henry needs time to recover. An hour if needed, or perhaps tomorrow?’

Henry was limping visibly now. He shook his head. ‘No, good sir. I cannot continue and,’ he said with a wince, ‘I suspect I will not be at my best for a while.’ He smiled at his opponent. ‘Well won, young Hawkins.’ Lowering his voice he added, ‘You probably would have won in any event. You really are the best I have met.’

‘Fairly said,’ returned Ty, ‘and no one has ever pressed me as hard as you.’ He looked at the three judges, who nodded.

The Master of Ceremonies proclaimed, ‘As young Lord conDoin cannot continue we judge this match concluded. Hail the Champion of the Masters’ Court, Tyrone Hawkins!’

The crowd was obviously disappointed at the lack of a resolution by combat, but after a hesitant start, they cheered loudly. Even if the final touch was absent, the tourney had provided days of entertainment and the champion was without a doubt an exceptional swordsman.

When the applause died down, Ty said quietly, ‘This will come as a great relief to the King’s Master of Ceremonies, for to postpone the great gala would put the man into an apoplexy.’

Henry glanced over at the royal box where the King and his family had been watching the finals and saw a visible expression of relief on the Master of Ceremonies’ face as he moved to stand before the King.

‘Time to get your prize,’ Tal Hawkins told his son. To Henry he said, ‘Please, you must let me send a healer friend: he can get you right in a day or two. Those groin injuries are more than annoying; I know. If not treated quickly, they can linger for months, years even.’

Hal nodded his acceptance of the offer.

The two finalists and their companions were escorted to the royal box where they bowed before the King of Roldem. King Carol was an ageing man with grey hair, but he still looked alert and happy. Next to him sat his wife, Queen Gertrude, and to her side stood their youngest son, Prince Grandprey, who was only a few years older than the two combatants and was dressed in the uniform of a general of the Royal Army; and his sister the Princess Stephané, resplendent in a gown of softly folded yellow silk, which spread gracefully out to the floor. Her shoulders were bare and her somewhat daring décolletage was hidden by a sheer shoulder wrap of the same hue. Her choice of colours made a dramatic contrast to her chestnut hair and striking brown eyes.

Henry tried not to blush as he looked away from her, then he noticed Ty Hawkins was staring boldly at the King’s daughter. And instantly decided he disliked the victor of the contest.

On the King’s right side stood Crown Prince Constantine, the Heir Apparent to the throne, and the middle son, Prince Albér, the Heir Presumptive. Henry and Tyrone both bowed before the royal family.

The Master of Ceremonies said, ‘Your majesties, your highnesses, the victor and vanquished of today’s final match. Lord Henry of Crydee, approach.’

As the first among those who were defeated by the winner, Henry was awarded a miniature silver sword. As he knelt to receive the gift from the hand of the Crown Prince, the King said, ‘Shame to end this way, lad; you’ve acquitted yourself admirably. Still, second is nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe you’ll have better luck in the next tourney.’

‘Your majesty is gracious,’ said Henry, accepting the sword and with some discomfort returning to stand next to Swordmaster Phillip.

‘We’ll send a healer over to your quarters at the university, and have that … leg seen to. You must be ready for tomorrow’s gala,’ said the King.

‘I thank your majesty,’ said Hal, bowing.

‘Tyrone Hawkins of Olasko,’ intoned the Master of Ceremonies.

Ty knelt and the King said, ‘Young Hawkins, I gave the King’s prize to your father many years ago.’ He gave Tal a rueful smile. ‘That was a day we’ll never forget.’

The bout had ended in the death of two of Tal’s opponents: a trained swordsman from Kesh who had come with one purpose, to kill the young swordsman, and a lieutenant in the army of Olasko who had been among those responsible for the death of most of Tal’s people.

The King said, ‘So concludes this contest, and we shall gather in five years to see if young Hawkins can continue his family’s achievements. I bid you, good lords, ladies, and gentlemen, a fair day and will welcome many of you to our gala tomorrow night.’

Everyone who had been seated rose when the King stood, and led his wife and family from the Hall of the Masters’ Court. As Ty turned to find Hal staring at him with a narrowed gaze, a man wended his way though the press of folk leaving the building to come and stand before Tal.

But it was Hal who spoke first, ‘Lord Jamison!’

James Dasher Jamison, Baron of the Prince’s Court in Krondor, nodded at the young nobleman and then to Ty and his father. ‘Well, Jim,’ said Tal Hawkins, ‘this is an unexpected pleasure.’

Lord Jamison, also known as Jim Dasher to some, glanced around the room and said, ‘Unexpected, I warrant, but hardly a pleasure.’ Lowering his voice a little he added, ‘We need to speak in private, Hawkins.’ Then he turned to Hal and said, ‘Don’t wander too far, Hal. I need to speak with you as well.’

Moving a short distance away from the throng surrounding the victor, Jim said, ‘Tal, I need to ask you a favour.’

‘What?’ replied Hawkins. His relationship with Jim Dasher and everyone else associated with the Conclave of Shadows had been a mixed one at best. They had saved his life as a child but exacted a high price in service, and even now, after he had been formally released from their service, they still were a presence in his life. He knew he owed all that he was to them, but there was no tender affection in his sense of obligation.

‘I need you to keep a close watch on young conDoin over there.’

‘Why?’

‘Something’s coming. I will tell you more tonight, in private.’

‘Very well, but how am I to keep watch over him while he’s at the university living in the students’ dormitory?’

‘We don’t let him return there.’ Jim glanced over his shoulder at the two young swordsmen and their admirers. ‘Invite him to dine with your family at the River House tonight and I’ll chance by afterwards to have words with you both. Yes, that would serve.’

‘Very well, again,’ said Hawkins, nodding his head once, then moving past the dark-eyed Kingdom noble.

Jim Dasher glanced around the room, trying to discern who might be observing him. If Kesh had agents in the room – which was almost certain – they would be very good at their jobs, which meant that he stood scant chance of identifying them. Still, a moment to scan the room was a little price to pay against the slight chance an agent might make a mistake and reveal himself.

Or herself, he amended as he caught sight of a young woman staring at him, then averting her eyes a moment later. Jim resisted an impulse to sigh; irrespective of her true intent, she had wished to be noticed, and notice her he had. If she was only an ambitious status-seeker, singling out the slightly older, but still very eligible nobleman from the Kingdom for a possible profitable liaison, or a Keshian spy, he had to find out.

Relaxing his expression and attempting to appear merely an interested spectator in the day’s events, he appeared to meander through the crowd, but made a straight path towards this woman.

A brief distraction arrived in the form of Lord Carrington, a minor court baron attached to the Kingdom’s delegation to Roldem, a fussy, officious man with an inflated sense of his ability at diplomacy and a strong appetite for gossip. ‘Lord Jamison!’ he exclaimed, taking Jim’s hand for a brief, limp squeeze.

‘My lord,’ said Jim trying not to take his eyes off the beautiful brunette he felt certain was a Keshian spy.

‘Pity young Lord Henry didn’t continue,’ said Carrington. ‘Had a bit of gold wagered on him and it would have done wonders for the Isles to have a champion in the Masters’ Court. Still,’ he said glancing over his shoulder to where Ty and Hal still talked to the onlookers, ‘I suppose it’s the next best, what with Hawkins over there claiming some title or another in the west, even though he now resides in Olasko.’

Sensing a potentially long conversation, Jim said, ‘I’ve known Talwin Hawkins for years, my lord Baron. His title is not “claimed” but his own.’

‘Oh?’ Like every other member of the King’s court in Rillanon,

Carrington wasn’t entirely certain what Jim did for the Crown, but he knew it was important and, besides, his grandfather was still Duke of Rillanon. ‘I see.’

‘Somehow I don’t think you do,’ said Jim under his breath, then loudly spoke up. ‘Excuse me, my lord, I must speak to someone over there.’

Before the portly courtier could reply, Jim was away from him and heading straight towards a large pillar next to which the object of his attention had paused. The woman glanced at Jim, and a small, almost flirtatious smile crossed her lips. Jim wondered if perhaps he had misjudged the woman: perhaps she wasn’t a agent of the Empire but merely a young woman with her eye on a man of position and wealth.

He reached the pillar a moment after she had passed behind it, and she was nowhere to be seen.

‘I’ll be damned,’ Jim muttered, glancing around. He was very good at keeping watch on someone in a crowd, even across a busy market in a big city, but for the moment, he seemed to have met his match. She was better.

• CHAPTER THREE •
Mysteries

DINNER HAD BEEN FESTIVE.

At Tal Hawkins’ request, Hal and Phillip had dined at the River House, a restaurant located in one of the richer districts in the city. Named after the original establishment Hawkins had opened in the city of Olasko years earlier, it enjoyed much the same success and reputation as the original. The food was splendid, the most important personages in the Kingdom came to dine there, and not being a tavern or inn, the dining room was not crowded with travellers, merchants, and foreigners. In other words, the establishment appealed to the worst in Roldemish elitism and snobbery.

To Hal’s surprise, a healer had arrived before the meal and had used some impressive magic to heal the groin injury and now he was beginning to wish he had agreed to a one-day postponement. He found himself drawn to Ty, though he still was fairly sure he disliked him after the way he had looked at the Princess. Hal was working himself into a fair state of youthful jealousy over a girl he hadn’t even spoken with, despite the fact it was a foregone conclusion he was to marry Lady Bethany of Carse.

Jim had acted as host at dinner, despite the invitation coming from Tal. At first Hal and Phillip had been a little surprised, but after the first course of wine and food arrived, all questions of who had made the invitation were put aside. For Hal and Phillip, this was the finest meal they had ever had.

At the halfway point, Hal said, ‘I feel fit to burst, my lord Hawkins, yet I can’t wait to see what your next culinary surprise is.’

‘Not “my lord”, just Tal.’

Jim smiled. ‘Our host is being modest. He holds the title of Court Baron in the Kingdom, though he abides in Olasko now, and has a few commendations from Roldem.’ For years an independent duchy, Olasko had become part of the Kingdom of Roldem as part of a treaty settlement after the last independent duke, Kaspar, had been deposed. Tal had played a major hand in that and as a result was highly regarded in Roldem. He still resided in Olasko, but kept quarters in the River House.

‘Still,’ said Tal, ‘I fear my patents are—’ he glanced at Jim, ‘not of sufficient import to deserve the honorific.’ In fact, both men knew that the original role played by Tal, that of an obscure Kingdom noble, was a charade. Born of a tribal people high in the mountains called the High Fastness which bordered Olasko to the west, he had been one of the few survivors of a brutal war waged on his nation. Fate and circumstance, and the invisible hand of the Conclave of Shadows had led him around the world and had gained him fame and wealth, but it had come at a bitter price. Finally, he said, ‘Just Tal is fine.’

‘Where did you learn to fence?’ Ty asked Hal. ‘I didn’t expect such skill from someone from …’ he paused as if trying to pick his next words carefully. The Far Coast of the Kingdom might as well have been on another world to those who lived around the Sea of Kingdoms.

Hal grinned. ‘The rustic West?’ he supplied.

Swordmaster Phillip shrugged. ‘It’s true, but there are several lads I’ve trained who would be no shame to the Duchy of Crydee had they come in his stead.’

‘It’s not all broadswords and heater shields,’ said Hal. ‘Our family’s tradition is to train in a variety of weapons. The Far Coast is heavily wooded, with few places for battles on open land, so we train as we must to defend our homes.’

‘Interesting,’ said Tal. ‘I know from experience that terrain is critical, and those who do not know how to fight where they find themselves are at a disadvantage.’ He was thinking of his mountainous homeland and how different warfare was there compared to the more civilized regions of the Eastern Kingdoms where there were roads and rivers to transport armies and their necessities.

‘We have a good number of archers,’ said Hal. ‘Both bondsmen and franklins, most of whom are skilled hunters with the longbow.’

At that Tal smiled.

‘You know the bow?’ asked Phillip.

As wine was poured by the servants, Talwin began to shake his head, but it was Jim who answered. ‘He can take a rider out of his seat at a hundred yards.’

Tal’s eyes narrowed. That story was only known to a few and up until this minute he would have bet every gold coin he had that Jim Dasher had never heard the tale of his hunting down the mercenary named Raven.

After being silent for a brief second, Tal said, ‘Could once, but I fear my skills have declined with age.’

Suddenly Swordmaster Phillip was animated. ‘You know, speaking of riders, there’s this new sort of bow, Keshian originally, a double recurved laminated with ox horn instead of heartwood. Have you seen it?’

Jim caught Tal’s eye and Hawkins said, ‘Yes, but perhaps we can discuss archery another time, Swordmaster.’ He had noticed that the last of the other diners had departed. ‘We are alone, Jim.’

‘The servants?’

‘All with me for years and trusted. If Roldem or Kesh has an agent in my employ, Pug’s got some magic-users who cannot do their jobs.’

‘Good enough,’ said Jim. He turned first to Hal, then Tal, and said, ‘I have sought you out to bring you warnings, both of you.’

‘What?’ asked the young Western lord, under the influence of a little too much wine, but not quite drunk.

Jim held up his hand to silence him. ‘On instructions from the Prince of Krondor, the call has been sent to your father for the Western Muster.’

Phillip was half out of his seat at hearing that. ‘I must return to Crydee at once!’

‘Please, sit,’ said Jim. ‘You can’t find a ship until morning to get you to Salador, so abide a few moments longer.’

‘Why the muster?’ Tal asked. ‘I would not have thought the West was at much risk.’

‘The Prince, at the King’s direction, is being cautious. All forces in the West – the Principality, the Southern Marches, Yabon, and Crydee – are to muster.’ Jim sat back, obviously unhappy. ‘It’s what we don’t know that has us worried.’ Glancing at Hawkins, he said, ‘Our Western friends are probably not too current with the gossip from the Imperial Keshian Court.’

Hal said, ‘I suspect you’re not talking ladies’ fashions, as from what I hear, they hardly wear enough clothing to worry about such a thing.’ Seeing that his humour was falling flat, he sat back in his chair and said, ‘Sorry,’ to Ty’s obvious amusement.

Tal shook his head. ‘Just that there’s a growing faction within their ruling body, the Gallery of Lords and Masters, between some of the Trueblood, especially among the Masters of the Chariots and some generals of the Inner Legion.’

Phillip said, ‘If I know my history, it’s only about twenty years since the last time that alliance nearly plunged the Empire into civil war.’

Jim paused for a moment, before saying, ‘Correct. Tal, what else is being gossiped about in the halls of power?’ He was uncertain how much either man knew (and he was certain both boys were ignorant of) the true nature of the events Phillip referred to. An evil sorcerer by the name of Leso Varen had taken possession of the old Emperor’s body and almost destroyed the heart of Great Kesh. The story made public had been that Pug and other members of the Academy of Magicians at Stardock had hunted down a rogue spell-caster who had attempted to destroy the royal family.

Tal continued, ‘Most of what we hear seems to be the usual Keshian politics. The envoys to the Court of Roldem are much as you’d expect; Truebloods with ties to the Imperial Family, loyal beyond question to the Emperor, so what we hear over dinner is fairly much what you’d expect from those worthies.’ He looked at Jim. ‘Emperor Sezioti feels a debt to Pug and the Conclave, as well as having a much kinder perspective on the Kingdom for the aid that saved his family from Leso Varen.’

‘He does,’ said Jim. ‘However, not so many in the Gallery of Lords and Masters feel as the Imperials do. Remember, it’s been more than twenty years since Sezioti took the throne, and while his brother Dangai still commands the Inner Legions, outside the Imperials there are many of the Trueblood who seek to expand their power.’

‘But war with the Kingdom?’ asked Hal. ‘It makes no sense.’

‘On the surface,’ said Jim. ‘But there are two things that make me itch.’ He held up one finger. ‘A common enemy defuses internal conflict, and while the Emperor and his brother may feel some debt to the Kingdom for events long past, we’ve had more than enough bloodshed along the border, especially in the Vale of Dreams, to overwhelm those happier reminiscences.’ He held up a second finger. ‘They smell weakness. The Kingdom has never been more vulnerable.’

Tal let out a long sigh. ‘The King.’

‘Yes, the King. Gregory is weak. And while his father Patrick was hardly that, he was imprudent. He let his well-known temper bring him to insult Kesh on more than one occasion. So we’ve lacked a prudent ruler for many years.

‘Edward is a fine administrator, but the West has been almost forgotten in a generation, and …’ He sat back.

‘What?’ asked Hal, now alarmed. ‘You don’t expect Kesh to attack Crydee, certainly?’

‘We must prepare for all eventualities,’ said Jim.

Hal was suddenly focused, all hint of intoxication gone. ‘The muster will be kept close to home and no companies sent east until Krondor is threatened. Should we be attacked, Yabon will answer our call for reinforcements and Crydee’s forces will be sent to Yabon. Kesh would be foolish to sail up from Elarial and attack Tulan or Carse.’

‘You’ve a good military mind there, young Henry,’ said Jim. ‘But logic in war is often knowing things your enemy does not.’

‘We must be prepared,’ said Phillip, frowning. He had reached his limit of understanding. He might be a fine soldier and a decent tactician but complex strategy was beyond his area of expertise.

‘What makes you think Kesh might strike in the West?’ asked Tal.

Choosing his words carefully, for only a handful of men in the Kingdom really understood his true role in the affairs of the Kingdom, Jim said, ‘I am led to believe there are large mobilizations of forces in the South, including garrisons in the Keshian Confederacy.’ The Confederacy was a large region of tribal lands, city states, and loose alliances dominated and controlled by Kesh for centuries, though they had never been fully pacified.

‘Can they draw forces from the garrisons in the Confederacy?’

‘Normally, no,’ answered Jim. An expression of concern crossed his face for a moment before it became unreadable once more.

‘The nations of the Confederacy are constantly in one of two conditions: open rebellion against the Empire, or planning the next rebellion. Those legions are vital for the stability of the southern third of the Empire. Without them, the Confederates would sweep north and occupy as much Imperial land as possible.’

Ty glanced at his father, then asked Jim, ‘Why? I mean, if the Empire pulls its forces out of the Confederacy, wouldn’t the people in the Confederacy just ... let them go away?’

Jim forced a smile. ‘Not much Keshian history in your education, eh?’ He turned serious again. ‘If you were to ride through that region, Ty, you’d find yourself in a miserable land.’

He put his hands together and formed a circle, thumbs pointing upward, an inch apart. ‘Imagine this is the Confederacy. Across the top of the circle lie two ranges of mountains forming the Girdle of Kesh: the western, longer half is called the Belt.’ He wiggled his right thumb. ‘The shorter, eastern half is the Clasp.’ He wiggled his left thumb. ‘There are two towns on the north of the Girdle, Lockpoint and Teléman. Neither is rightly a town, more like very large garrisons with civilians to support them. Their task is to keep murderous hordes of very angry Confederates from sweeping north through the only major pass, between the Belt and the Clasp.

‘To the east of what passes for arable land is the Drahali-Kapur desert. To the west the Dragon Mere swamplands, and south an arid, rolling plain leading to more mountains, swamps, and woodlands aptly named the Forest of the Lost, because no one who’s ever ventured in there has come back to tell us what’s in there. As for the plains, they’re hardly useful: thin topsoil and little water, except when it’s storm season and everything is under three feet of water for a month.

‘In short, the people who reside in the Confederacy would prefer to live just about anywhere else in the world but on their own land. But, and here you see the perverse nature of humankind in fullest flower, they’ll happily kill one another over who gets to squat on which miserable piece of land. There’s one town on a rocky peninsula called Brijané, home to the Brijaner sea raiders. The Imperial treasury pays them handsomely not to build ships to transport people north from the Confederacy. And they pretty much hate everyone else down there, especially the Ashunta horsemen.

‘But the one thing that keeps the mountain people from killing the flatlanders, the flatlanders from killing the swamp raiders and everyone from killing the desert-men is a universal hatred of the Empire. That’s what binds them together.’

Jim looked off into the distance for a moment, thinking, then said, ‘No, I cannot begin to imagine how Kesh could strip her southern garrisons for a war in the north. Yet …’

‘Doesn’t the King have agents in Kesh?’ Hal asked.

Jim glanced at Tal and then said, ‘It is rumoured so.’ He shrugged. ‘But information is scant and unreliable.’

‘Well, then,’ said Hal. ‘We’ll just have to be ready for whatever Kesh brings.’ He didn’t sound like a young man exhibiting false bravado, but rather a thoughtful future leader of men.

Jim studied him for a moment, then glanced around. ‘It’s getting late and I must get to bed soon, for there’s a full day of diplomatic nonsense I must endure before tomorrow’s gala.’ Everyone stood, and Jim said, ‘Hal, if I might request something.’

‘Sir?’

‘Do not return to the university tonight. With the hour late and stirrings of trouble in the air, I would sleep better knowing you are safe. You may be distant kin to his majesty, but you are still kin and I would feel a personal responsibility should anything happen to you while I was in this city.’

Tal said, ‘We have extra rooms for those rare occasions when a patron is not safe to go home. The bedding is fresh. Ty, show our two guests to their rooms.’

‘You can travel to the university in the morning,’ said Jim, ‘as you must look your best tomorrow evening.’ To Phillip, he said, ‘Feel free to return to your duke, tomorrow, Swordmaster. Until certain matters here in Roldem are resolved, I will personally undertake to look after young Lord Henry’s well-being. Rest assured, and please let his father know this is the case.’

‘I will, sir. Then goodnight, gentlemen,’ said Swordmaster Phillip.

Ty led the two guests upstairs. When they were out of earshot, Tal said, ‘What’s really going on down there, Jim?’

While not close, the two men knew each other well enough that Tal knew Jim was very high up in the King’s court, a much more important man than his rank indicated. He also knew Jim was in charge of the King’s intelligence service. And each knew the other had served the Conclave in the past.

‘I don’t know, Tal, and that’s the gods’ truth. What has me concerned is that all my reports from north of the Girdle are routine: everything in the Empire itself is calm. But all my agents south of the Girdle have gone silent.’

‘Silent?’

‘I haven’t had a report from anyone in the Confederacy in three months. The two men I’ve dispatched to see why have yet to return or report.’

‘Now I understand your worry.’

‘There’s something going on down there, and there are strange reports coming from the Imperial Court. There’s a faction of the Gallery of Lords and Masters that is almost outright calling for war against the Kingdoms.’

‘Kingdoms?’

‘Roldem as well as the Isles.’

‘Are they mad? Roldem’s fleet alongside the Isles would sweep every Imperial ship from the ocean. The Quegans would love an excuse to sack Durbin and Elarial in the West.’

‘They are not mad,’ said Jim, tapping his cheek absently as if goading himself to think. ‘But if it’s true this makes no sense.’

‘What else?’ asked Tal.

‘You don’t miss much, do you?’

‘My people are taught at a very early age to be observant, and the Conclave put me through some rigorous training.’ With a small smile he said, ‘Why do you think I get so few invitations to play cards?’ Then his features grew solemn once more. ‘You hid it well, but there’s something you didn’t tell young Lord Henry.’

‘The Prince is worried as to what might occur should Crydee be ordered to reinforce Krondor. It’s a small enough army – the smallest in the West – and there’s a lot of territory to protect.’

‘Protect?’ Tal’s gaze narrowed. ‘If the attack is on Krondor, you don’t expect a simultaneous assault on the Far Coast, surely?’

‘Not from Kesh.’

‘Then from whom?’

Jim shook his head. ‘Just suffice it to say the Prince is not sanguine about Crydee’s neighbours.’

For a moment, Tal was confused. ‘The Free Cities …?’ Then comprehension dawned. ‘The elves?’

‘The Star Elves, in particular. We’ve had a long and peaceful relationship with those in Elvandar, but these newcomers …’ Jim fell silent. After a long moment he went on, ‘I don’t know what to tell you. They’ve made no hostile act, yet they are aloof and we get reports now and again of people wandering near their borders disappearing, never to be seen again. They’ve come to some sort of understanding with the dwarves to their south, but as I understand it, friendship is hardly the word. They are an unknown quantity, and unknowns make me very nervous.’

‘What do you hear from Pug?’

‘Nothing,’ said Jim. ‘If the Conclave has heard rumours of war, they are not sharing them with me. Besides, Pug has always said he will not become involved in matters of national conflict again.’

Talwin was silent as he thought about this, then said, ‘He might if such a war would weaken us enough to be unable to withstand another assault … like the Dasati.’

Both men fell silent. An entire world, Kelewan, had been destroyed in a barely repulsed attack by powerful forces from another plane of reality. And for more than ten years all members of the Conclave, active or not, had been asked to keep their ears open for any news of demon activity.

Jim said, ‘Perhaps I should presume to remind him of that?’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed Tal, ‘you should. I wonder what Pug is up to these days?’

Pug looked around the cave. Magnus held his hand aloft, using magic to create a bright light on the palm of his hand, which he moved around the room like a lantern. ‘We’re too late,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Amirantha. ‘What happened here happened more than a year ago.’

Amirantha’s companion, the old warrior Brandos, knelt, complaining, ‘Ah. My knees aren’t what they once were.’ He peered at the stones around the broken remnants of a wooden table. ‘Fair tore this place apart, it did.’

Looking at the Demon Master, Pug asked, ‘What do you think happened?’

Amirantha, Warlock of the Satumbria, considered the question. He was garbed in plainer fashion than he had affected when Pug had first met him. He was still vain enough to trim his beard daily and make sure his flowing dark hair was combed, but his florid robes with their golden and silver threading lay in a clothes chest at the old castle on Sorcerer’s Isle that served as the headquarters for the Conclave of Shadows. Unlike the mummery he had employed to flummox local nobles and convince them to pay him gold to chase away the very demons he summoned, his work with the Conclave had involved real danger and travelling under harsh conditions. Now he wore simple tunics and trousers and rugged leather boots.

After thinking about the question for a moment, Amirantha said, ‘I think the object of our search conducted his last summoning here.’ He pointed to a distant corner and Magnus turned his hand in that direction, throwing light upon it.

The tall, white-haired magician, Pug’s sole surviving child, moved closer until they could see clearly what Amirantha had noticed. Outlined more darkly than the rock against which it lay was the form of a man, crouching. Brandos ran his hand over the surface of the cave wall. ‘It’s as if he was turned to ash and pounded into the rock itself.’

The old fighter had been with Amirantha for most of his life, having been a boy when the Warlock had taken him under his care. Now looking older than his mentor, he turned to face Pug and the others. ‘I’ve seen this before, but I can’t remember where.’

‘I do,’ said Amirantha. ‘Years ago, when you were a child, it happened at one of the very first summonings you were party to, remember?’ When it became clear that Brandos didn’t, he prompted, ‘The cat?’

‘Oh!’ responded Brandos as comprehension dawned. ‘Yes, the cat!’

Amirantha said, ‘When Brandos was a child and came to live with me, I thought having a boy along would make me look even more credible as I came to rid a town or village of a demon. After all, what sort of mountebank would lovingly care for a child?’

‘Your kind,’ said Brandos with a rueful smile.

‘The cat?’ prompted Pug.

‘Yes, the cat. It’s a long tale, but the part that applies here is that my friend, when he was a boy, managed to interrupt one of my summonings at the worst possible moment. He was annoying a cat we had around the house and it fled into my chamber … well, instead of the tractable creature I expected, one showed up I’d never seen before or since. A massive winged monster that spewed fire of an incredible heat.’

‘Nearly burnt the entire house down,’ added Brandos. Pug and Magnus could tell the story had been told enough times that it had become one of those family lore events that was treasured as much for the entertainment value as it had caused outrage and consternation at the time it had happened.

‘Unfortunately for the cat, but fortunately for me, the creature’s attention seem drawn to movement. I was motionless, in the midst of my summoning, while the cat was scampering, stopping only long enough to hiss at the demon.

‘The demon made short work of it, and I was able to banish it back to the demon realm, but not before, as Brandos said, a rather large fire had broken out in my chambers.

‘When we went back the next day to see what might be salvaged, the outline of the cat could clearly be seen against the wall, much as you see here.’

‘Another accident?’ asked Pug, his brow furrowing. ‘Or another attempt by those behind the Demon War to destroy anyone who might eventually oppose them?’

Looking around the cave, Amirantha said, ‘We can only speculate.’

Pug’s frustration was surfacing. Since the advent of demon incursions into Midkemia, and especially after the events several years earlier at the abandoned Keshian fortress above the Valley of Lost Men, he was balked at every turn as he attempted to understand what was threatening his world. Something unprecedented was occurring in the demon realm, which Pug and his companions referred to as the Fifth Circle, and while evidence of that upheaval and its potential danger to Midkemia was scant and infrequent, Pug knew that even though the Demon King Dahun had been destroyed attempting to enter this realm, they were still far from safe.

In fact, one topic of conversation revisited on a regular basis with the Warlock was what could cause a powerful demon lord to flee from that realm into this one; not coming at the head of an army as had happened in the past, to conquer and destroy, but sneaking in disguised as a human, seeking to find a safe place to hide.

To hide from what?

That was always the question they were left with.

With a last look around the cave, Pug said, ‘Magnus?’

Understanding his father’s wishes, the younger magician motioned for the others to stand close to him and a moment later they were all back in the large entrance hall on Sorcerer’s Island.

It was early spring and the weather was still cold and damp. ‘Have you ever considered rebuilding that lovely villa?’ Brandos asked lightly.

Pug shot him a sharp glance. The remnants of the sprawling estate that had housed his school of magic had been the scene of his worst defeat at the hands of those seeking to destroy the Conclave, and it had cost him the lives of his wife, son, and daughter-in-law, as well as over two dozen students. The charred timbers and stones still standing were being quickly overgrown with vines and wild grasses. In not too many more years it would be difficult for anyone chancing on the site to recognize it as the once-proud home of a thriving community.

Without further comment Pug turned and walked away to speak with Jason, the magician who acted as the castle’s reeve, the man who was responsible for the fortification and those living within it while Pug and Magnus were absent.

Brandos glanced at Magnus who shrugged slightly. If the white-haired magician understood his father’s reason for keeping the villa abandoned, he wasn’t sharing it. At first it had simply been a matter of expediency, in case enemies were spying on them, suggesting that the Conclave had been destroyed and that only a few refugees were left huddling for safety in the old castle on the bluffs overlooking the Bitter Sea. Which, Brandos conceded silently to himself, wasn’t that far from the truth.

But the Conclave had endured, even thrived, though it was now scattered across the entire span of the world, with pockets of research and teaching located in isolated spots, while many who worked for the organization did so in the hearts of power, in various courts and capitals.

Amirantha watched Magnus follow his father and turned to his old companion. ‘You still have a knack for it, don’t you?’

‘Apparently,’ said Brandos. He let out a long sigh. ‘I’ve seen it before and I know you have. He’s hanging on by sheer will and there’s no joy in him.’

Amirantha took a moment, then looked around. ‘Could there be any joy here?’

Both men knew the answer already. They had supped with others from the Conclave here many times, a warm fire in the hearth, chatting about this and that, but on none of those occasions had there been anything close to a sense of celebration. When a child was born, it was somewhere else. When the great holidays of Midwinter Day or Midsummer Day, the Planting Celebration, or the Harvest Festival came along they were largely ignored save perhaps for a minor remark.

Of all in the Conclave, there was only a handful who resided permanently here in the castle. Among those who stayed were Amirantha, Brandos, and Brandos’s wife Samantha. Jason, the castle’s caretaker, Rose, his wife and a magician in her own right; and a very young apprentice, Maloc. And of course Pug and Magnus. There were always one or two others coming and going but those eight comprised the whole of the household of the castle.

Brandos said, ‘We’ve seen a lot here, but there’s more to this than just a man having trouble moving on after the death of his wife and son.’

Amirantha motioned for Brandos to follow him up the stairs leading to the tower room put aside for him. They passed the door into Brandos and Samantha’s quarters and the old fighter stopped briefly to put away his sword and shield and change out of his shirt. Then he followed his adopted father up to the topmost room.

Brandos said, ‘We could go back to Gashen Tor. Samantha misses the women from the village.’ The village was called Talumba and it was situated two days east of the city of Maharta, now the capital of the kingdom of Muboya. For an idle moment Amirantha wondered how Kaspar of Olasko was faring; he was the First Minister to the Maharaja of Muboya and had returned to serve his lord and master when they had finished with the demon gate business five years earlier.

‘No,’ said Amirantha. ‘But take Samantha and go for a visit. I think it would do both of you some good.’

‘What about you?’ asked Brandos, scrutinizing his foster-father for any sign of distress or sadness. The mood throughout this place tended towards melancholy and the Warlock was already a man given to dark introspection if given half a chance.

‘Actually, Gulamendis has invited me to visit him at E’bar.’

Gulamendis was another Demon Master, one of the taredhel, or Star Elves, and he and Amirantha had become friends, or as friendly as one of those arrogant creatures could be with a human. Their affinity stemmed from a ravenous curiosity about all things demon, and Gulamendis has spent close to a year in residence here before returning to the city built in the Grey Tower Mountains by his people.

‘Well, say hello for me,’ said Brandos. ‘Now, how do we get to Gashen Tor? Do you have one of those orb things, or is it a long sea voyage?’

‘I’ll ask Jason if he has one to lend.’

‘He may say no,’ answered Brandos. ‘Seems they’re breaking down and none of the artificers, even of Tsurani descent up in LaMut, know how to fix them or make new ones.’

Amirantha frowned. ‘I would have thought after all these years Pug would have seen to that.’

A voice from the door said, ‘I know a great deal, Amirantha, but I don’t know everything.’

Brandos hadn’t heard the magician come up the stairs, and he stepped aside to let him into the room.

‘No disrespect intended, Pug.’

‘I know,’ said Pug. ‘I overheard a bit. So you’re going to visit the elves in E’bar?’

‘Overdue,’ said Amirantha. He motioned for Pug to take the chair by the small desk, while he sat on his bed. ‘We’re at something of a dead end. I’m not entirely sure what specifically you’re seeking, but each piece of information your agents turn up leads us to a dead end.’

‘Very dead, sometimes,’ said Brandos. Seeing his humour fall flat, he said, ‘I think I’ll go tell Samantha to pack up and we’ll talk about a visit home.’

‘Ask Magnus to take you and arrange a signal to fetch you back. You were right about the Tsurani orbs: we’re down to a scant few and need them for more pressing use.’

‘I understand. Thanks for lending us Magnus,’ said Brandos as he departed.

Amirantha watched him go. Then he looked over at the magician. ‘Pug, I don’t claim to know you well, but it has been over five years now. And I do know what a driven man looks like. I even share your sense of alarm over what we’ve discovered up to this point, but I detect an urgency in you that doesn’t seem entirely born out of what we know. What is it you’re not telling me?’

Pug’s face was immobile, though his eyes searched the Warlock’s face. ‘A time is coming, soon, when I will tell you things you will wish I had never told you.’ Then he got to his feet, turned away and hurried down the tower stairs.

Amirantha was left alone to reflect on this. He had a nasty feeling that what Pug had just said was almost certainly true.

• CHAPTER FOUR •
Journey

AMIRANTHA WAS ASTONISHED.

He had been unprepared for the magnificence of the Star Elves’ city, E’bar. Although less than three years had elapsed since it had been completed, the city was anything but unfinished or roughly hewn but showed grace and beauty far beyond even the most impressive human achievements in Rillanon, the Jewelled City, capital of the Kingdom of the Isles, or the Upper City in the city of Kesh, home of the Imperial Family and the Truebloods.

Here were few of the massive stone-and-wood constructions of humans; here, stone had been sculptured in a fashion far beyond any mortal mason’s ability. Amirantha roughly understood the concept: geomancers willed stone into a fluid state, then sculpted it. Human geomancers were rare, though some did exist, but their craft was crude compared to what Amirantha saw before him.

The entire wall around the city appeared seamless, as if crafted from a single stone of mountainous size. Gates to the north and south and smaller portals to the east and west appeared to have organically grown within the wall as it was formed, and the Warlock thought this might not have been far from the truth. Even the gates themselves were of stone, though how they were engineered to swing freely upon unseen hinges was beyond his ability to even guess at. Even the background tingle of magic he felt when Pug or Magnus used their powers was missing. There was a far more subtle sense of the otherworldly to this place, something he had experienced in a much more disturbing fashion when dealing with certain demons. That alone would have fascinated him, but it was merely one of a million details that strove to capture his thoughts.

Everywhere there was colour, subtle but vivid. Columns of pale sand and rose edged in white or silver rose to support graceful arches above streets. Even the streets were paved with alternating squares of bright ochre and grey, with light purple grouting in between. Window shades were of the finest silk, many-layered to block unwelcome gazes yet allow light to enter. And the gold! Everywhere gold glistened in the sunlight, decorating the poles from which flew bright banners and pennons. Gold adorned doors and windows and ran as trim along rooflines. It was astonishing.

‘I’m gawking, aren’t I?’ he asked his host.

Gulamendis, Demon Master of the taredhel, smiled. ‘More than one visitor to E’bar looks as you do now. You’ll get accustomed to it.’ Glancing around to see if he was being overheard, he added, ‘Truth to tell, we are a vain people. And I suspect my people look much that way when they visit Elvandar.’

‘Do many of you journey to pay homage to the Queen?’

‘More than the Lord Regent likes.’ He paused, awkward. ‘Come, let us refresh ourselves. You will pay a courtesy call on the Lord Regent later today, but before that we must speak of many things.’

The elf’s tone was almost conversational but Amirantha had spent enough time with Gulamendis to know that his host was troubled and that many things were best not discussed in the open. Amirantha had arrived at the eastern portal and had not been allowed to step into E’bar until Gulamendis arrived to escort him. The Warlock had the distinct feeling that had his host not put in an appearance, he might have found it difficult to depart in peace. The two Sentinels looked like seasoned, hardened fighters, not the sort of city watch or constable one tended to find on the gates of a human city.

In the distance a baby’s crying could be heard briefly until it was calmed by its mother. ‘I understand babies are a rarity among your kind,’ Amirantha said.

Gulamendis looked at him with one raised eyebrow. ‘Really. Who told you that?’

‘Perhaps I misunderstood.’

‘If you are thinking of the other races of the edhel, perhaps. But the taredhel are a fecund race. I know little of our distant kin, but we enjoy our children.’

Amirantha had the sense that he had stumbled across something significant but couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. He decided to wait until such a time as he could speak with Pug, who knew as much about the elves as any human living.

They reached Gulamendis’s quarters and the elf beckoned for his guest to enter.

As quarters went, the Warlock had lived in far worse, but somehow he had expected a little more, given the opulence and splendour he had seen elsewhere in this city. The walls were bare, with no decoration of any sort, and the only furniture was simple: a bed, table, chair which Gulamendis offered his guest while he sat on the bed, and a pair of chests. The one other thing that caught his eye was a small case of scrolls and books. Otherwise, it looked more a monk’s quarters than a scholar’s.

‘Where do you eat?’ asked Amirantha.

‘We have a large kitchen in the square. We all take turns helping, cooking, cleaning. Should I choose a mate, larger quarters will be found for me, and once children arrive, larger still.’ He smiled. ‘There’s little chance of that, I suspect.’

‘Really?’ The Warlock knew very little about the Star Elves, but he had a vague sense that the elf with whom he spoke was not well regarded.

‘I will say, though, these are better quarters than the last the Lord Regent allotted me.’

Amirantha frowned.

‘I was housed for weeks in an iron cage in the Lord Regent’s compound while my brother was exploring this world, as a hostage against his good behaviour.’

‘Sounds uncomfortable.’

With a small, bitter laugh, the Demon Master said, ‘It was. So, we invited you years ago, and now you appear. Why?’

‘To the point,’ agreed Amirantha. ‘Pug and I have been chasing every tale of demon or summoner since we witnessed—’ he paused as Gulamendis held up his hand, palm outward, cautioning him against specifics, ‘—what we witnessed. So far we have found little that is useful: empty huts, abandoned homes, deserted caves. Or we find signs of conflict and destruction. Not one demon summoner we had working for our …’ he glanced around, ‘… friends, has survived.’

At the choice of words, Gulamendis queried, ‘Survived?’

‘Someone, it appears, is hunting down Demon Masters and summoners,’ said Amirantha quietly. ‘And it appears a fair number of demons have come into the world and broken wards and killed their summoners.’

‘They’d be powerful,’ said Gulamendis thoughtfully.

‘But where are they?’

Gulamendis was silent for more than a minute as he pondered the question. Finally he said, ‘How many do you estimate?’

‘More than a dozen.’

‘Ah.’ He smiled as he looked at his human friend. ‘Now I see the reason for the visit. Does Pug know?’

‘He knows there are more than a dozen demons loose in this realm. He doesn’t know the significance of that fact.’

‘Demons hiding.’ Gulamendis appeared amused by the revelation. ‘It hardly bears contemplation, does it?’

The Warlock was forced to agree. ‘Nothing like this has occurred before.’

‘That we are aware of, you mean.’

Amirantha, Warlock of the Satumbria, let out a long sigh. ‘Because if this is true, one must ask, how many others are there we know nothing of, and—’

‘Why are they here?’ finished the elf.

Child studied the terrain below. It had been a week since she had devoured her mother and she had fed only three times since. Most of the energy consumed had gone to replenish her already-depleted strength, but she had gained a little size and power. She didn’t question how she knew what she knew: what she had inherited from those she ate, and what was from her own experience. She didn’t care. She had to survive. That was all she needed to know; everything else was academic.

A group of three small creatures huddled below an overhanging rock, much as she and her mother had a week before, waiting for dark apparently in the hope that they could find better shelter. She wondered why they weren’t concerned by night predators. She knew the night predators to be even more dangerous than those who hunted in the day.

This piece of knowledge wasn’t something she had inherited; this was from experience. There had been a bitter fight the night after she had consumed her mother. The night hunter had been upon her before she had even known she was under attack. Only a slight misjudgment on his part had saved her, for rather than snap her neck the hunter had bitten deep into her shoulder. She used the scant instant she had gained to reach up with her left hand and use her claws to good effect. She had forced him to release his bite, then spun while yanking his head back until it had been her fangs ripping out his throat.

She had gained a great deal of knowledge on how to hunt in these mountains from him. And her night vision was now exceptional. She had used her new abilities to good advantage, but even so, the amount of prey was scant. Now she looked down upon a possible feast.

It depended on how able these three were likely to be at protecting themselves. She had learned almost at forfeit of her life that there was a gulf between knowledge and experience. By consuming the Archivist’s knowledge, she knew a great deal more than any her age among the People should know, but as far as experience was concerned she still was a child. The Child, as she thought of herself.

But although she lacked experience, she possessed cunning. She was sure she could master all three of these pitiful fugitives if she planned … Planned? she thought. Until that moment her existence had been mostly in the moment, with some part of her consciousness knowing she needed to move east, to get away from the advancing darkness. She wished she could trap a flyer, for if she could consume one, she might gain the blessing of flight; her essence was still forming, and with flight she would be able to hunt better, move faster, and reconnoitre more efficiently. Unfortunately, flyers had been rare and when she had seen them they had been far too high to attract their attention. Besides, she had considered at last, any flyer bold enough to attack her directly would probably be both experienced and powerful.

Glancing around, she saw the shadows deepen, dark maroon and purple shades slipping into black, while the brilliance of the red, yellow, and orange rocks faded to grey before her eyes. There was something tickling at the edge of her mind, a pleasant feeling at witnessing this otherwise prosaic event. After a moment she connected it to a concept; it was nice to look at; it was … pretty? Yes, that was the concept. It made her feel better to look at something pretty.

She waited, and when the sun was low in the west the three fugitives came out from their hiding place. She instantly recognized the robes of the last to emerge: another Archivist. She smiled. Scampering above them for a dozen yards, she leapt upon the first in line, breaking his neck before he could react, then wheeled and ripped out the throat of the second.

The Archivist crouched, seeing the futility of running from a more powerful opponent, and backed away. What was he doing? she wondered. Then she laughed. ‘You think that if hunger has driven me to a frenzy, I may devour these two while you make your escape?’

The Archivist said, ‘Yes, that would be logical.’

She tapped the side of her head. ‘I know things, too. I have devoured one of your class.’

The Archivist stood, drawing himself up to his full height. He was about the size she had been days before; now she towered over him by two heads. ‘Why do you not attack?’

She moved towards him purposefully. ‘Tell me about the difference between knowledge and experience.’

‘Knowledge is abstracted,’ he answered, ‘learned from any number of sources. Experience is that which we encounter in our own right, as life brings it, and from which we process knowledge that can be gained no other way.’

‘Which is better?’

‘Knowledge,’ said the Archivist without hesitation. ‘Experience is limited, while knowledge can be gained from many other beings’ experiences.’

‘But knowledge without experience …’ she began.

He finished, ‘… limits how well that knowledge can be applied.’

‘What is missing?’

‘You need a teacher.’

She smiled. ‘Yes. If you teach me, I will let you live; more, I will hunt for you.’

Seeing the powerful young female before him, the Archivist knew there was only one answer that would enable him to live beyond the few seconds. ‘I will teach you. I am Belog.’

‘I am Child. Come, eat with me.’

Seeing nothing odd in it, the Archivist joined his new student in feasting on the two servants who had moments before been his companions. He considered that while he had not devoured a companion since his youth it was, after all, the way of the People.

No matter how civilized their King Dahun might have tried to make them, they were at heart the same as the Savage Ones or the Mad Ones. At their core they were all demons.

• CHAPTER FIVE •
Court

THE HERALDS BLEW THEIR TRUMPETS.

The entire court turned and bowed as the King of Roldem entered, escorting his wife to their twin thrones at the far end of the great hall of the palace.

The hall was bedecked in the royal colours, large banners of powder blue with golden trim, featuring the dolphin crest of the royal house. The King’s personal guard likewise wore tabards of the same colours, but the rest of the evening’s finery was a riot of different hues.

In years past the fashion of the court had gone through a phase Jim Dasher thought of as ‘drab’. Muted grey and black attire for the men and deep, dark colours for the women’s gowns, but this season those who decided such things had decreed that bright festive colours would be the choice. Jim felt a little odd in a brilliant green tunic and yellow leggings. He prayed that trousers would return to fashion soon; he disliked tights.

His black boots were ankle-high and the most valued item he wore; despite their fashionable appearance they were durable and versatile, just as useful for clambering over rooftops without slipping as for slogging through the sewers, since they could be cleaned with a simple wipe of a cloth.

Jim hadn’t clambered over a rooftop or slogged through a sewer for a few years, but some habits were hard to break. He glanced around the room.

Young Lord Henry stood next to Ty Hawkins, while Talwin Hawkins was in conversation with a minor Keshian noble. Jim made a note to ask Tal what the Keshian had wanted to speak of. He knew that war was almost certainly coming and he knew that every agent of Kesh in the Kingdom Sea region would be gathering every scrap of information out there, as were his own agents, some fifteen of which were currently on this island.

Jim kept his frustration buried: to the casual onlooker he would be another minor Kingdom noble come to the court of Roldem for personal or political gain, but one hardly worth more than a cursory examination despite his famous grandfather. At this point in his career, Jim knew he was known to his enemies, who were many, and appeared transparent to those who weren’t. This was as he wished it, for as long as the pretence was kept up, no harm would come to him when he appeared openly at court. It was when he vanished from sight and emerged among the shadows that murder would begin.

Jim moved among the crowd making his way slowly towards the throne. He could expect to be presented to the King in about an hour, some time just before the Champion of the Masters’ Court was presented.

He studied young Ty Hawkins, involved in an animated conversation with Henry conDoin. The King of the Isles’ distant cousin listened with a smile as his opponent of the previous day told a tale.

It was on young men such as these that the fate of the Kingdom of the Isles, and perhaps all of Triagia, would turn, Jim knew. Capable young men who were free of the corruption of politics and greed.

Ty was problematic, because his father was a Kingdom noble in name only. That fiction had been created by the Conclave to employ Tal as a weapon for the Conclave’s service, and it gave him entrance to certain venues in the Kingdom of the Isles, just as his rank as past Champion of the Masters’ Court gave it to him here in Roldem, but Talwin Hawkins was a grudging servant of the Conclave at best and no servant at all at worst. Still, keeping him at least as an ally would serve, if the son could be captured, thought Jim. And if the need arose, Jim had the power to make that false patent of nobility a real one. Not that Tal needed it, as he was becoming rich beyond the dreams of the mountain boy he had once been, but it might prove useful to turn his son into a Kingdom noble some day. In Roldem they would both have status as Champions of the Masters’ Court, but neither would achieve rank. And as Jim knew rank, as well as privilege, had its uses.

Now it was Henry’s turn to tell a tale. Jim had no doubt both stories were being inflated to bolster the young men’s standing; they stood like two young roosters with their chests puffed out, seeing who could crow loudest at daybreak. One day they’d be bitter rivals or like brothers, and only fate would determine which it would be.

Jim looked away from the throne and felt his heart sink. Making a beeline for him was the Kingdom of the Isles’ ambassador to Roldem, his excellency Lord John Ravenscar; and on his arm was none other than the Lady Franciezka Sorboz.

‘My lord,’ said the ambassador, fixing Jim with a sceptical look. ‘I was unaware you were in Roldem,’ he said. It was customary for Kingdom nobles to make themselves known to the ambassador upon arriving on the island.

‘Apologies, your excellency,’ said Jim. ‘The press of business caused me to be remiss in my duty.’

‘You know the Lady Franciezka, I believe,’ said the ambassador. The sight of the portly bureaucrat, resplendent in a maroon silk surcoat, white ruffled suit, and white leggings made Jim wish even more fervently for the return of men’s trousers to this court, for he looked like nothing more than a fat-bellied, spindly-legged turkey in those hose.

Franciezka, on the other hand, looked magnificent in whatever she wore, Jim knew from experience. She also looked magnificent wearing nothing at all, which Jim also knew from experience. They had been lovers on several occasions, and she had tried to kill him twice, for purely professional reasons. She was one of the King of Roldem’s deadliest agents and ran the equivalent of Jim’s intelligence service, the Secret Police of Roldem.

She had the face of a girl ten years younger, a fact that had enabled her to disguise herself as a child when needed; she could look the part of a girl of fifteen or less or a crone of eighty years. She had a slender body bordering on the boyish, except for a round backside which Jim had always had a weakness for, but he knew her body to be as strong as a rapier’s blade, deadly despite being slight.

Pale blonde hair which was almost white in the day’s sunlight framed delicate features. Large blue eyes turned upon him as she said, ‘Why, Lord James, I’m almost as aggrieved as the ambassador at your not letting me know you were in the city.’

She wore a brilliant yellow gown with green silk trim set with pearls of white and black, and a series of gold-threaded tassels hung at the hem, sweeping the floor as she moved. Like the other ladies’ gowns this evening, her décolletage was cut low, the bodice was lifted, and the waist cinched. Jim wondered how women breathed in these outfits. The skirt flared out slightly to the sides and behind, with a daring slit up the front to knee height.

Jim felt some pleasure in noting that the colour of their clothing was complementary.

With a smile, Jim said, ‘I find that surprising, my lady. I would have assumed someone you knew might have mentioned I was in town.’

‘Oh, you underestimate how hard you can be to find, at times, my lord,’ she said, batting her long fair lashes in an almost theatrical way that seemed to captivate Lord Ravenscar and annoy Jim in equal measure.

Jim found himself wondering what Franciezka was after. She was not one given to idle banter or social small talk unless it was part of a ploy. She was an important figure at the royal court of Roldem, but few knew her real role. She was a minor lady-in-waiting to the Princess Stephané, a tutor-cum-surrogate elder sister. Certainly, Queen Gertrude couldn’t have found a better instructor to show the younger woman how to spot men of bad intent from across the room. But this was the sort of event Franciezka was usually more than content to avoid.

That gave Jim pause for a moment to glance towards the thrones. Three sons and a daughter and all ripe for state marriage. The two older princes, Constantine and Albér, were in attendance, both wearing the uniforms of the Roldem navy, Constantine an admiral and his younger brother a captain. Grandprey wore the dress uniform of an army general, and it was considered by most that he was the most able commander among the three. Some day his brother would be king and Grandy, as he was known, would be his Lord Marshall, while Albér would command the fleet as Grand Admiral.

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