Книга - King of Ashes

King of Ashes
Raymond E. Feist


A new novel from internationally bestselling author Raymond E. Feist.The world of Garn once boasted five great kingdoms, until the King of Ithrace was defeated and every member of his family executed by Lodavico, the ruthless King of Sandura, a man with ambitions to rule the world.Ithrace's ruling family were the legendary Firemanes, and represented a great danger to the other kings. Now four great kingdoms remain, on the brink of war. But rumour has it that the newborn son of the last king of Ithrace survived, carried off during battle and sequestered by the Quelli Nacosti, a secret society whose members are trained to infiltrate and spy upon the rich and powerful throughout Garn. Terrified that this may be true, and that the child will grow to maturity with bloody revenge in his heart, the four kings have placed a huge bounty on the child's head.In the small village of Oncon, Declan is apprenticed to a master blacksmith, learning the secrets of producing the mythical king's steel. Oncon is situated in the Covenant, a neutral region lying between two warring kingdoms. Since the Covenant was declared, the region has existed in peace, until violence explodes as slavers descend upon the village to capture young men to press as soldiers for Sandura.Declan must escape, to take his priceless knowledge to Baron Daylon Dumarch, ruler of Marquensas, perhaps the only man who can defeat Lodavico of Sandura, who has now allied himself with the fanatical Church of the One, which is marching across the continent, imposing its extreme form of religion upon the population and burning unbelievers as they go.Meanwhile, on the island of Coaltachin, the secret domain of the Quelli Nacosti, three friends are being schooled in the deadly arts of espionage and assassination: Donte, son of one of the most powerful masters of the order; Hava, a serious girl with fighting abilities that can set any opponent on their back; and Hatu, a strange, conflicted lad in whom fury and calm war constantly, whose hair is a bright and fiery shade of red…









RAYMOND E. FEIST

KING OF ASHES

THE FIREMANE SAGA: BOOK ONE








HarperVoyager,an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © Raymond E. Feist 2018

Map © Jessica Feist 2018

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

A catalogue copy of 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.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007264858 (HB)

Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9780007290246

Version: 2018-03-08


This book is dedicated to the memory of Jonathan Matson.

He was perhaps the finest man I’ve ever known. His generosity, support, and affection went so far beyond any business relationship, he held me together more than once. He never judged; that was the heart of his wisdom, and the wisdom of his heart. His memory will endure and he is missed every day.








Table of Contents

Cover (#u8900bc85-39ca-52c3-b960-6518cf2b587f)

Title Page (#uc462f706-fff1-531c-bd7d-bdbac9e593e6)

Copyright (#ueb244c2c-a5a8-5e65-bdfa-6f8c07228ec2)

Dedication (#u77f2e8e3-7286-5703-8869-9a1eff730a7c)

Map (#u2529f497-9b4c-5f0a-a175-ac5e08ba7b72)

• Prologue •: A Murder of Crows and a King (#u82c0f672-ce01-5a35-83c5-12d4f2424b9d)

• Chapter One •: Passages and Departures (#u375825c3-b2f8-5d48-af69-30244eab24eb)



• Chapter Two •: A Task Completed (#u97e4d846-e49b-5f68-969a-a239b645e258)



• Chapter Three •: Dangerous Discovery (#u59d52106-a2d1-5b5d-b288-befa4fce7e27)



• Chapter Four •: New Considerations and an Old Friend (#uf5c83b4e-1e9d-5072-a23c-10a1648ecef5)



• Chapter Five •: A Parting and Trials (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Six •: Unequal Talents (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Seven •: An Incident on the Covenant Road (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Eight •: An Unexpected Change of Tide (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Nine •: A Hint of Things More Dire (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Ten •: In the Crimson Depths (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Eleven •: A Quick Instruction and Introduction (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Twelve •: Adrift and Alone (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Thirteen •: A Short Journey and a Strange Event (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Fourteen •: A Short Respite and Revelations (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Fifteen •: An Unexpected Visit and Rumours of War (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Sixteen •: Hints of Truth and Dark Designs (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Seventeen •: Unexpected Bounty and Sudden Danger (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Eighteen •: A Betrayal and Plot (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Nineteen •: A Change in the Wind (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Twenty •: Surprises and a Journey (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Twenty-One •: A Quiet Journey Interrupted (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Twenty-Two •: Different Ideas and Hasty Decisions (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Twenty-Three •: An Awakening and Alarm (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Twenty-Four •: An Arrival and a Sudden Change of Plans (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Twenty-Five •: Upheaval and Changes (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Twenty-Six •: A Meeting and Revelations (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Twenty-Seven •: Fate Wheels and Lives Change (#litres_trial_promo)



• Chapter Twenty-Eight •: Watching and Waiting (#litres_trial_promo)



• Epilogue •: Return (#litres_trial_promo)



Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)



By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




• PROLOGUE • (#u1e3bd974-83d7-50f2-8059-234f93219de4)

A Murder of Crows and a King (#u1e3bd974-83d7-50f2-8059-234f93219de4)


Angry dark clouds hurried across the sky, foretelling more rain. A fair match for today’s mood, conceded Daylon Dumarch. The battle had ended swiftly as the betrayal had gone according to plan. The five great kingdoms of garn would never be the same; now the four great kingdoms, Daylon amended silently.

He looked around and saw carrion eaters on the wing: the vultures, kites, and sea eagles were circling and settling in for the feast. To the north, a massive murder of crows had descended on the field of corpses. Rising flocks of angry birds measured the slow progress of the baggage boys loading the dead. The carrion eaters were efficient, conceded Daylon; few bodies would go to the grave without missing eyes, lips, or other soft features.

He turned to gaze at the sea. No matter what the weather, it drew Daylon; he felt dwarfed by its eternal nature, its indifference to the tasks of men. The thought soothed him and gave him much-needed perspective after the battle. Daylon indulged in a barely audible sigh, then considered the beach below.

The rocks beneath the bluffs of the Answearie Hills had provided as rich a meal for the crabs and seabirds as the banquet for the crows and kites on the hills above them. Hundreds of men had met their death on those rocks, pushed over the edge of the cliff by the unexpected attack on their flank by men they had counted as allies but moments before.

Daylon Dumarch felt old. The Baron of Marquensas was still at the height of his power, not yet forty years from his nativity day, but he was ancient in bitterness and regret.

Thousands of men had died needlessly so that two madmen could betray a good king. While others stood by and did nothing, a balance that had existed for nearly two hundred years had been overturned. Art, music, poetry, dance, and theatre would soon follow the army of Ithrace into oblivion.

Daylon did not know exactly what plans the four surviving monarchs of the great kingdoms had for the lofty towers and flower-bedecked open plazas of the city of Ithra, but he feared for the most civilized city in the world, the capital of the Kingdom of Flames. Of the five great kingdoms of Garn, Ithrace had always produced the most artistic genius. Authors of Ithrace had penned half of the books in Daylon’s library, and Ithra was a well-known spawning ground for talented young painters, musicians, playwrights, poets, and actors, despite also providing refuge for thieves, mountebanks, whores, and every other form of unsavoury humanity imaginable.

There had always been five great kingdoms, and now that flame was ash only four remained – Sandura, Metros, Zindaros, and Ilcomen – and no man could anticipate how history would judge what had occurred this day. Daylon realised his mind was racing; he was barely able to focus on the moment, let alone the long-term political consequences of the horror surrounding him. It was as his father had said to him years ago; there are times when all one can do is stand still and breathe.

Daylon resisted letting out a long sigh of regret. Somewhere up the hill from where he stood, Steveren Langene, king of Ithrace, known to all as Firemane, lifelong friend to any man of good heart, ally of Daylon and a host of others, was being bound in iron shackles and cuffs by men he’d once called comrades, to be marched up onto the makeshift platform his brother kings had ordered constructed for this farce.

Daylon turned his mind from the coming horrors and his revulsion at his own part in today’s treachery and searched for somewhere to wash the battle from his face. He found a supply wagon overturned, its horses dead in their traces, but somehow a water barrel had conspired to remain mostly upright. Using his belt knife he cut away the waxed canvas cover and stuck his head into the cool, clean water. He drank, and came up sputtering, wiping the day’s blood and dirt from his face. He stood staring at the water as it rippled and calmed. It was the only thing Daylon could see that wasn’t covered in death; all around him, the mud of the battlefield was awash in piss, shit, and blood, pieces of what had once been brave men, and the muck covered banners of fools.

HIS LIFE HAD BEEN SCARRED by battle and death. Married twice before he was thirty five, Daylon had deeply loved his first wife, but she died in childbirth in their third year of marriage. He didn’t care much for his current wife, but she had brought a strong alliance and a fair dowry, and despite being vapid and silly, she had a strong young body he enjoyed and she was already expecting his first child. The promise of an heir was the one bright hope in his life at present.

He forced his attention from dark thoughts and saw a familiar figure approaching. ‘My lord,’ said Rodrigo Bavangine, Baron of the Copper Hills, ‘you have survived.’

‘The day is young,’ replied Daylon, ‘and there’s still treachery in abundance. Keep hope. You may yet be able to pay court to my young widow.’

‘A black jest,’ said Rodrigo. ‘Too many good companions lie befouled in their own entrails, while men I would not piss on were they afire celebrate this day.’

‘’Tis ever thus, Rodrigo.’ Daylon studied his old friend. The Baron of the Copper Hills was a dark-haired man with startling blue eyes. At court he wore his hair long, oiled and curled, but now had it gathered up in a bright red head cloth designed to keep it under his helm in battle. He was pale of complexion, like most people from the foggy and cloud-shrouded land he ruled. Daylon had always found it odd that they had become close, as Daylon was a man of deep consideration and Rodrigo seemed to barely consider the consequences of his impulses, but he knew Rodrigo’s moods as well as he knew his own. He saw the man’s face and knew without words they were of like mind. Both men wondered if the battle would have swung the other way had they stood with Steveren rather than opposed him.

Rodrigo narrowed his pale eyes and moved closer to speak quietly, though there was no living man within a dozen paces. ‘I can tell you this one thing, Daylon: from this day forward I shall never take to my bed without the benefit of a strong drink or a young arse, most likely both, and sleep a night without haunting. This business will bring more destruction, not less as was promised.’

Daylon leaned against the frame of the wagon watching the carpenters finishing up the executioner’s platform and turned to look at his old friend.

Rodrigo recognised his expression and manner. ‘You are a man of ideals, Daylon, so you need justification. Therein lies the cause of your distress.’

‘I am a far simpler man, Rodrigo. I merely picked the side I knew would win.’

‘And I followed you.’

‘As did others,’ said Daylon, ‘but I ordered no oathman, nor asked friend nor ally, to serve at my whim. Any could have said no.’

Rodrigo smiled, and it was a bitter look he gave to his friend. ‘Aye, Daylon, and that’s the evil genius of it. It’s a gift you have. No man in your orbit would oppose your counsel. You are too versed in the games of power for me not to heed your wisdom, even to serve foul cause.’

‘You could have opposed me and served Steveren.’

‘And find myself with them?’ he said, indicating the rotting dead in the mud.

‘There is always a choice.’

‘A fool’s choice,’ Rodrigo said softly, ‘or a dreamer’s.’ Pointing to the workers at the top of the hill, finishing up the platform, he changed the subject. ‘What is going on up there?’

‘Our victorious monarchs require some theatre,’ said Daylon sourly.

‘I thought Lodavico closed all the theatres in Sandura?’

‘He did. After complaining that the plays were all making a jest of him. Which was occasionally true, but he lacks perspective, and a sense of humour.’ Daylon added, ‘And he’s completely incapable of seeing the bitter irony in this.’

‘This theatre is entirely too macabre for my taste.’ Rodrigo passed his hand in an arc around the battlefield littered with dead. ‘Killing men in the heat of battle is one thing. Hanging criminals or beheading them is another. I can even watch heretics burn without blinking much, but this killing of women and children …’

‘Lodavico Sentarzi fears retribution. No Langene left alive means the King of Sandura can sleep at night.’ Daylon shrugged. ‘Or so he supposes.’ He kept his eyes fixed on the makeshift stage at the top of the hill. The workers had finished their hasty construction of the broad stage: two steps above the mud, elevated just enough for those on the hillside to be able to see, sturdy enough to support the weight of several men. Two burly servants wrestled a chopping block up the steps while a few of Lodavico’s personal guards moved between the makeshift construction and the slowly gathering crowd.

‘This business of bashing babies against walls, ugly that … and killing those pretty young daughters and nieces … that wasn’t merely a waste, it was an iniquity,’ complained Rodrigo. ‘Those Firemane girls were breathtaking, with those long necks and slender bodies, and all that red hair—’

‘You think too much with your cock, Rodrigo.’ Daylon tried to sound light-hearted. ‘You’ve had more women and boys than any ten men I know, and yet you hunger for more.’

‘To each man his own appetites,’ conceded Rodrigo. ‘Mine easily turn to a pretty mouth and rounded arse.’ He sighed. ‘It’s no worse than King Hector’s love of wine or Baron Haythan’s lust for gambling.’ He studied his friend for a moment. ‘What whets your appetite, Daylon? I’ve never understood.’

‘I seek only not to despise the man I see in the mirror,’ said the Baron of Marquensas.

‘That’s far too abstract for my understanding. What really fires you?’

‘Little, it seems,’ Daylon replied. ‘As a young man I thought of our higher purpose, for didn’t the priests of the One God tell our fathers that the Faith brings peace to all men?’

Rodrigo looked at the nearby battlefield littered with the dead and said, ‘In a sense, life eventually brings peace.’

‘That may be the most philosophical thing I’ve ever heard you say.’ Daylon’s gaze followed Rodrigo’s and he muttered, ‘The One God’s priests promised many things.’

Rodrigo let out a long, almost theatrical sigh, save Daylon knew his friend was not the sort to indulge in false play; the man was tired to his bones. ‘When four of the five great kings declare a faith the one true faith, and all others heresy, I expect you can promise most anything.’

Daylon’s brow furrowed a little. ‘Are you suggesting the Church had a hand in this?’

Rodrigo said, ‘I suggest nothing, old friend. To do so would be to invite ruin.’ His expression held a warning. ‘In our grandfathers’ time, the One God’s church was but one among many. In our fathers’ time, it became a force. Now …’ He shook his head slightly. ‘By the time of our children, the other gods will have withered to a faint memory.’ He glanced around as if ensuring they were not overheard. ‘Or, if their priests are clever enough, they might contort their doctrine to become heralds of the One God and survive as shadows of their former selves. Some are saying thus now.’ He paused for a moment, then said, ‘Truly, Daylon. What moves you in this? You could have stayed home.’

Daylon nodded. ‘And had my name put on a list with those who openly supported Steveren.’ He paused, then said, ‘Truth?’

‘Always,’ replied his friend.

‘My grandfather and my father built a rich barony, and I have taken what they’ve left me and made it even more successful. I wish to leave my children with all of it, but also have them secure in their holdings.’

‘You are close to a king yourself, aren’t you?’

Daylon shared a rueful smile with his friend. ‘I’d rather have wealth and security for my children than any title.’

Satisfied no one was within earshot, Rodrigo let his hand come to rest on Daylon’s shoulder a moment. ‘Come. We should attend. This is not a good time to be counted among the missing, unless you happen to be dead already, which their majesties and Mazika might count a reasonable excuse. Anything else, not.’

Daylon inclined his head slightly in agreement and the two noblemen trudged the short walk up the muddy hillside as the rain resumed. ‘Next time you call me to battle, Daylon,’ said Rodrigo, ‘have the decency to do so on a dry morning, preferably in late spring or early summer so it’s not too hot. I have mud in my boots, rain down my tunic, rust on my armour, and my balls are growing moss. I haven’t seen a dry tunic in a week.’

Daylon made no comment as they reached the top of the hill where the execution was to be held. Common soldiers glanced over their shoulders and, seeing two nobles, gave way to let them pass until Rodrigo and Daylon stood in the forefront of the gathering men. The platform was finished and the prisoners were being marched out of the makeshift pens where they’d been kept overnight.

Steveren Langene, King of Ithrace, had been fed false reports and lies for a year, until he thought he was joining with allies to meet aggression from King Lodavico. Daylon was one of the last barons to be told of the plan, which had given him little time to consider his options. He and Rodrigo had less than a month to ready their forces and march to the appointed meeting place; most importantly, they were given no opportunity to warn Steveren and aid him effectively. Distance and travel time prevented Daylon or others sympathetic to the king of Ithrace from organizing on Steveren’s behalf. Even a message warning him might be discovered by Lodavico and earn Daylon a place on the executioner’s stage next to Steveren.

This morning, they had arisen to fix their order of battle, trumpets blowing and drums pounding, Steveren’s forces holding the leftmost position, awaiting Lodavico’s attack. The battle order had been given and suddenly King Steveren’s allies had turned on him. It had still been a bitter struggle and most of the day was gone, but in the end, betrayal had triumphed.

Daylon could see the prisoners being forced out of the pens on the other side of the platform. While Steveren’s army had been in the field, slogging through the mud of an unseasonably heavy summer storm, raiders had seized the entire royal family of Ithrace from their summer villa on the coast less than half a day’s ride away.

Cousins of blood and kin by marriage had already been put to the sword, or thrown off the cliffs onto the rocks below the villa – by all accounts more than forty men, women, and children. Even the babies were not spared. But the king’s immediate family had been granted an extra day’s existence to suffer this public humiliation. Kings Lodavico and Mazika were determined to show the world the end of the Firemane line.

Now that royalty was being marched at spear-point to their deaths.

The children came first, terror and bewilderment rendering them silent. They shuffled along with eyes wide, lips blue from the cold and limbs trembling, their red hair rendered a dull dark copper by the rain. Daylon counted the little ones, two boys and a girl. Their older siblings came after, followed by Queen Agana. Last was King Steveren. Whatever finery they had worn had been torn off, and they were all dressed in the poorest of robes, their exposed limbs and faces showing the bruises of the beatings they had endured.

King Steveren wore a yoke of hardwood, with iron cuffs at each end confining his wrists, and his legs were shackled so he shambled rather than walked. He was prodded up the steps to the platform while the army gathered. From the swelling bruises on his face and around his eyes, it was miraculous that he could walk without aid. Daylon saw the dried blood on his mouth and chin, and winced as he realised the king’s tongue had been cut so he could not speak to those gathered to watch him die.

A few soldiers shouted half-hearted jeers, but every man standing was tired, some wounded, and all wished for this to be over quickly so they might eat and rest. For most, the approaching sack of Ithra was why they had served today, and that would not begin until this matter was put paid to, so all wished for a hastened ending.

Daylon glanced at Rodrigo, who shook his head ever so slightly in resignation. There was no precedent for this butchery, and no one could reconcile what they were about to see with what they understood of the traditional order of things. History taught that a king did not kill a king, save on the field of battle; even barons were rarely executed, but usually ransomed for profit and turned to vassals.

For as long as living memory on the world of Garn, five great kingdoms had dominated the twin continents of North and South Tembria. Scattered among them were independent states ruled by the most powerful barons, men like Daylon and Rodrigo, free nobles allied with, but not subject to, those kings. Other, lesser nobility held grants of land and titles from the five great kingdoms.

Daylon locked eyes with Rodrigo, and in that instant knew that his friend understood as well as he that an era was ending. What had been a long period of prosperity and relative peace was over.

For two centuries, the five great kingdoms of North and South Tembria had been bound by the Covenant: the solution to centuries of warfare over control of the Narrows, the sea passage between the two continents. It was the choke-point at which two outcrops of land had created a passage so constricted that no more than half a dozen ships – three eastbound and three westbound – could navigate and pass safely at the same time. The need to reduce speed here and the overlooking rocks had made this the most prized location on Garn, for whoever controlled the straits controlled all east–west shipping across two continents; the alternative sea routes around the north or south of the twin continents were so difficult and time-consuming that they were considered to be close to impossible. Alternative land transport would take triple the time, and twice the cost.

The Covenant guaranteed right of passage for all. A circular boundary of Covenant lands had been drawn around the Narrows on both continents. No city could be built there, only small towns and villages were permitted to flourish, and all rulers guaranteed its neutrality. This mutual ceding of land by the five great kingdoms had created peace and fostered trade, the arts, and prosperity.

Until today, thought Daylon bitterly. The survivors of this madness might continue the fiction that the Covenant still existed, but Daylon knew it was over. The pact might appear to die slowly, but in reality it was already dead.

He studied the faces of the Ithraci royal family, the terror in the eyes of the children, the resignation and hopelessness in the faces of the women, and the defiance of their king. Steveren Langene, called Firemane for the bright red hair that was his line’s hallmark, was forced to his knees with a kick to the back of his legs as two soldiers pushed down hard on his wooden yoke.

Daylon wished he could be at home with his wife, dry and clean, fed and abed with her. The future security of his barony and his heirs had been his price, he bitterly conceded. The kings of Sandura and Zindaros had agreed to ratify his chosen heir without question should he perish without blood issue on the field or in the future. He had agreed, forestalling any claim on the freehold barony of Marquensas; he owed his people the hope of peace. Even with Steveren alive, without that assurance, the other four kings would each push forth their own claimant, for Marquensas was the most powerful and wealthy freehold barony on Garn. Without a clear line of succession war and destruction would be his dying legacy. So he had betrayed a man he loved like a brother to spare his people future ravages. As the priests of the One God would say, Daylon had made his pact with the Dark One; he had sold his soul.

It proved to be a black irony: upon the morning of his departure, his wife had informed him that she was with child. Too committed to withdraw from this butchery, Daylon had been sick in his soul from that moment.

Last to step upon the platform were Lodavico of Sandura and Mazika of Zindaros, their tabards and armour noticeably free of gore and mud. ‘I see two kings are missing,’ muttered Rodrigo.

Daylon nodded and as the gathering crowd of soldiers was unusually quiet for a public display such as this, he whispered, ‘Bucohan and Hector both claim fatigue and minor wounds keep them abed. They may be complicit in this, but they’re content to stay in their tents and let Lodavico and Mazika take all the credit for this charade. And it is in Lodavico’s nature to claim as much credit as possible; he confuses it with glory.’

‘No charade,’ whispered Rodrigo, ‘when the blood is real.’

As Daylon expected, it was Lodavico who stepped forward to speak. The king of Sandura was easily the most loathed noble in the five kingdoms, for his rule was harsh and arbitrary. He despised anything that he saw as being a threat to his dignity, not realising that he had none by nature or act. Daylon had called him a doleful monarch of a melancholy nature after their first meeting more than twenty years ago and nothing he had seen of the man since had altered that opinion. His red-trimmed black garb did little to lessen that perception, as well.

‘We are here to restore order, to deliver an oath breaker to his fate, and to end a threat to the sovereignty of our brother kingdoms.’ For a man who hated theatres, thought Daylon, Lodavico had a penchant for theatrics. His posturing and accent were overly broad, to the point of self-mockery, though the king of Sandura could never see it, and no one would dare apprise him of the fact. So men stood by and endured the histrionics, only to deride him privately later over drinks. At this moment, however, Daylon found little humour in Lodavico’s bad acting.

Since the plot to kill Steveren had been hatched, rumours that the king of Ithrace coveted the crowns of other nations had spread. There was no foundation for it; the most trivial of acts were characterized as evidence of his ambitions, and men anxious to plunder the riches of great kingdom needed little excuse for feigned belief and mock outrage. The sack of Ithrace could provide a noble or fighter with more wealth than a lifetime of skirmishes on the borders of the Wild Lands, the Burning Lands, or the Mountain Barriers.

A rebellion by malcontents within the Covenant lands had been staged. Another charade with real blood, thought Daylon. Word was then passed to Steveren that Lodavico was behind the incursion: the only truth in the string of lies. Steveren had answered duty’s call, as Lodavico and his allies knew he would, leading the core of his army into as vicious a betrayal as could be imagined. Nothing in Garn’s recorded history matched the scale of this treachery.

‘The poison tree bears poison fruit,’ continued Lodavico, pointing at the children. His face contorted in a mask of theatrical rage, eyes wide, brows arched, his head tilted as if listening for menace: the behaviour expected of a madman trying to convince his audience that such innocents were a threat to their existence. ‘All of this line must perish,’ finished Lodavico, slamming his right fist into his left palm for emphasis. A soldier stepped up behind the smallest child on the platform. Daylon tried to remember the boy’s name and failed before the soldier grabbed a handful of the child’s fire-red hair and yanked back his small head. A quick slice of a sharp dagger and the boy’s eyes rolled back up into his skull as blood gushed from his neck.

A weak cheer rose from the soldiers, and Daylon knew they just wanted this grisly spectacle to be over so they could rest, eat, then set about organizing for the march south to Ithra. He had no doubt several free companies had already departed, eager to be first to choose spoils; mercenary companies were free of political considerations and would race to be first to claim spoils. If there was any justice, Steveren had left behind a big enough garrison to inflict real pain on those adventurers. Let the early companies pay the price for their greed, and perhaps give some of the populace the opportunity to flee before the bulk of Lodavico’s forces descended on them. The only nations with fleets big enough to blockade a sea escape were Meteros and Zindaros. Zindaros’s navy had transported their army here, and Helosea had chosen to stay aloof from today’s butchery. Their navy was big enough that they could ignore Lodavico’s demands. The day might come when they’d regret their choice, but Daylon welcomed their decision. If some of Ithra’s citizens could find boats and reach the open sea, perhaps one day they might rebuild their nation …

Daylon shook off a rush of guilt and shame, to face the last blood that would he spilled today. What was done was done, and regret served no good purpose.

With swift precision, the executioner moved down the line, pulling back the heads of the children and then the women. Rodrigo asked, ‘Who’s missing?’

‘The two eldest sons,’ said Daylon. ‘Both fell in battle.’

Steveren Langene, the last king of Ithrace, watched in silent rage and torment as his family was slaughtered before his eyes. Daylon almost physically winced at the sight of a man he loved like a brother losing his ability to stand unaided. Two soldiers gripped the ends of Steveren’s restraining yoke, holding him upright on his knees as he began to collapse. The last to die was his wife of over thirty years, his queen, and the mother of his children. She fought when her hair was grabbed, not to avoid death but so that she could see her husband’s face as her life fled.

‘There’s no glory here,’ muttered Rodrigo.

‘Our four remaining kings wish to ensure there is no doubt that the line of the Firemanes is done.’

As soldiers dragged the dead off the platform, Lodavico felt the need to reiterate all the fabricated sins of the Firemanes, embellishing the lies with innuendo that even more perfidy and treachery might yet be uncovered. ‘Will this ever end?’ whispered Rodrigo.

Finally, they came to the king. Lodavico finished his speech and stepped aside as a soldier moved forward, a large two-hand sword in his grip. As others held Steveren’s yoke firmly, lowering it until he was on his knees, the soldier measured the distance from the wooden collar to the base of the king’s skull, then with a single circular swing he brought round the blade and cleanly sliced head from shoulders.

The crowd cheered, again with no real conviction. As if disappointed by the lack of enthusiasm, Lodavico motioned for the headsman to pick up the dead king’s head by its flame-red hair and then he shouted, ‘Behold the fate of a betrayer!’

Again came a weak response.

Lodavico looked at the hundreds of soldiers before him, as if trying to memorize their faces for a future accounting. His forehead creased as he scowled, his lower jaw protruding as if ready to challenge the entire army to a fight. The awkward moment was broken when Mazika Koralos, king of Zindaros, shouted, ‘Finish tending the dead and wounded, eat, and rest, for at dawn we march to Ithra!’ This brought a more enthusiastic cheer and the men began to leave.

Daylon turned away and saw an unspoken question in Rodrigo’s expression. Softly, almost through clenched teeth, Daylon said, ‘A king executing a king? On the field of battle is one thing, but this murder?’ He locked eyes with Rodrigo. ‘It is not done.’

‘You killed Genddor of Balgannon, after you took his castle.’ There was a hint of challenge in that statement.

‘He was no king,’ answered Daylon. ‘He was a usurper and pretender. And I killed him as he stood at bay in his great hall. Besides, Balgannon was no kingdom.’

‘No more,’ agreed Rodrigo, ‘since Ilcomen annexed it.’ He sighed. ‘It was hardly a real barony. Genddor’s father was nothing but a puffed-up warlord. You should have kept it for yourself.’ He looked around and saw the men moving away from the platform, so he nodded to Daylon that they too should depart.

Walking down the hillside, Daylon said, ‘Now comes the reward.’

Rodrigo said, ‘So, the riches of Ithrace are ours for the taking?’

Daylon put his hand on his old friend’s shoulder for a moment. ‘You can have my share, I will march my men home. I am tired of this.’

Daylon had been one of the few free barons who were truly independent and unallied. The rulers of Marquensas and Copper Hills had sworn to no king, but most of the remaining thirty barons had social or monetary obligations that effectively bound them to one of the great monarchs, at least until debts were repaid or obligations discharged.

‘Your oathmen won’t object?’ asked Rodrigo.

‘My oathmen are free to travel with Their Majesties,’ Daylon replied dryly. ‘I have no plans to campaign again soon, so should they wish to wager blood against gold, so be it. My castellans will come with me without complaint. I provide for them well enough.’

‘You may feel free to choose, my friend,’ said Rodrigo, ‘but from Lodavico’s mood, your departure may be seen as insult. He might not care that mercenaries and other lowborn left without his leave … you are hardly anonymous.’

‘He’s going to be too busy fighting over Ithrace to notice I’m not there.’ He shrugged as if it was of no concern. ‘And if he does notice, he will not dare make an open issue of it, lest he offend the other free barons.’

Rodrigo forced a smile. ‘You are so well loved, then, my friend?’

Daylon returned his faint smile. ‘No, but should my freehold and lands be taken by Lodavico, what is your first thought, Rodrigo?’

‘Who’s next?’ he conceded. Rodrigo paused, stopping where he would leave Daylon to make his way back to his own encampment. ‘You’ve thought this through.’

‘I have. All that I have done I did to ensure my family and people’s survival. Lodavico is covetous, and more than a little mad, but he’s not stupid.’ Daylon gestured towards the carnage around them. ‘A stupid man cannot scheme to end a rival kingdom in a single day. Lodavico planned this for a long time and in great detail, and he paid no small sum of gold to make it happen.

‘So, would he turn on me out of spite?’ Daylon shrugged and let out a small sigh of fatigue. ‘He knows that every free baron, and their oathmen, would think as we do; and while alone none of us are a threat, united we could end his rule.’

Rodrigo nodded in agreement. ‘More than a few of Lodavico’s oathmen would seize the opportunity to change their allegiance if all the free barons rose at once: he does not treat them gently. Release from his yoke would be worth the risk.’

‘The day will almost certainly come, my friend, when Lodavico has earned enough ire to force an alliance of enemies, but that day is still years away. Too many rivalries have been exploited, too much distrust seeded among those who need to unite against Sandura, and too many willing to support him out of fear, or hope of benefit.’

Daylon took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then with a wry smile he said, ‘Yes, that day will come, but not today.’

Rodrigo was thoughtful for a moment, and then dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. ‘Well, return home to that young wife of yours. If I don’t go on to Ithra, I’ll have rebellion to deal with: my castellans haven’t been paid for a while and I need my share of the booty to cover wages and leave us a little besides.’

‘Scavenge well, my friend,’ said Daylon with a faint smile. The friends gripped each other by the right hand and touched chests. ‘But a word of warning,’ Daylon spoke quietly in Rodrigo’s ear. ‘A wise man prepares for the next war after his last battle, not when it is already sweeping across his land.’ He locked gazes with his friend. ‘As I said, that war is coming, not soon, but eventually. The balance of power has shifted.’ He waved back towards the hill where Lodavico had stood minutes before. ‘Sandura has the advantage for the moment, but with things now as they are, another may choose to seize it. One day someone will seek to become the new fifth king. Be ready for that day.’

‘Do I hear ambition?’

‘I seek no enlargement of my own holdings, but I’d topple another ruler rather than lose what’s mine. You need to think on this, old friend. Prepare not for the little wars, which will plague us soon, but for another such as this’ – Daylon nodded towards the bloody field – ‘where crowns are the prize.’ He leaned even closer. ‘Perhaps it will take five years, or ten, or longer, but certainly there will be that war. Lodavico is mad to be the high king.’ He lightly poked his finger against Rodrigo’s chest. ‘In your heart you know his ambition as well as I do.’ Glancing around to ensure they were unheard, he continued. ‘But Lodavico will eventually overplay his hand, and that’s when we need to be prepared.’

Rodrigo shook his head. ‘Bleak advice.’ Then he sighed and said, ‘But well considered.’ With a wave he walked away, and then paused as if a thought had struck him. He turned back to look at Daylon. ‘Wasn’t there a new baby?’

‘I don’t take your meaning.’ Daylon’s brow furrowed.

Rodrigo looked into Daylon’s eyes for a long moment. ‘I thought I’d heard word that the Firemane queen had delivered a late autumn child.’

‘The queen had a child late, yes …’ said Daylon. He let out a long sigh. ‘Most likely it died during the taking of the villa. They threw babies from the cliffs to the rocks when the household was slaughtered. Perhaps he was one.’

Rodrigo shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’ He turned away again and left without further word.

Daylon lingered. ‘A baby,’ he muttered, amused for the first time in days. Tales of a surviving Firemane baby would prevent Lodavico from sleeping well for the rest of his days, even if the whispers were false. He briefly considered tossing coin to a rumour-monger to fuel such gossip. Nothing else in this evil business was worthy of mirth. He looked skywards, attempting to ignore the circling flocks of carrion eaters and enjoy what he could of the lowering sun and blue sky on the western horizon. ‘Well, at least the world didn’t end,’ he muttered to himself.

Of all of the nobles present, Daylon was among the very few who could be considered scholarly. He had studied the legends surrounding the oldest houses and knew of one myth in particular that predicted that a rampant chaos would be unleashed upon the world should the Firemane line end. Having witnessed no thundering hordes of demons racing towards the battlefield, Daylon moved towards his pavilion wondering if Steveren had indeed been the last of his line …

He passed by huge mounds of dead bodies awaiting burial. Exhausted soldiers laboured over the digging of mass graves, while priests of the One God said their prayers over the corpses. Daylon resisted an urge to curse in the name of the old gods; he had no desire to be denounced and burned at the stake.

Lost in thought, he barely realised he had reached his pavilion when he noticed two men standing quietly before the tent flap. Reinhardt, captain of Daylon’s household guard, wore the tabard of House Dumarch: a tough veteran, he had earned his position through years of loyal service.

The man next to him was also familiar to Daylon. He was a broad-shouldered, thick-bodied man, strong and keen-eyed, but one who had also started to show faint signs of ageing. His dark eyes were underlined with shadow and they possessed wrinkles at the edges that were evidence of a hard life. His brown hair was turning steel grey and was receding. His walk betrayed a stiffness in one hip, most likely the result of a wound taken in a fight years before. Covered in grime, soot, and dried blood, the man bowed slightly, barely more than a nod, but enough to satisfy Daylon’s need for deference.

‘Edvalt,’ said Daylon in greeting.

‘It is the day, my lord,’ said Edvalt.

Daylon released a tired sigh and said, ‘Must we do this now?’

‘It is the day, my lord,’ Edvalt repeated with emphasis.

‘Ten years? Has it really been ten years?’

‘At the noonday sun, ten years exactly,’ said Edvalt.

‘It’s midway to sundown; you tarried?’

Edvalt found nothing humorous in the remark. ‘I was busy staying alive at noon, my lord. King Steveren mounted a counter-attack on your rear: they overran the luggage and my smithy.’ He looked the ruler of Marquensas in the eye and asked, ‘Your pledge, my lord?’

Daylon bristled at the implication that he might not honour his pledge but reined in his urge to strike the man. He was angry and fatigued, and he also knew part of his frustration was caused by losing Edvalt’s services.

Captured in a border dispute, Edvalt had been spared the slave collar only because Daylon had noticed the quality of his enemy’s weapons. He had quickly identified Edvalt as the weapon-smith and offered him a choice: enslavement for life, or ten years of skilful service in exchange for his freedom. Daylon had gambled that the smith needed the promise of freedom to do his best work for his new master.

Daylon let out a long, measured breath and took control of his temper. ‘Yes, I remember.’

‘Ten years of faithful service in exchange for my freedom,’ said Edvalt, his tone even, his expression revealing a resolution Daylon knew all too well.

Daylon put his hand on Edvalt’s shoulder. ‘I know,’ he said with a tone of resignation. ‘It’s a bargain I regret,’ said the Baron of Marquensas. ‘Had I fully understood your gifts, I would have offered you your freedom that day in exchange for a pledge never to leave my service.’

‘Hardly freedom,’ said Edvalt.

Daylon was frustrated. He had hated every moment of this journey, and losing Edvalt to a promise made after another bloody confrontation was almost more than he could bear. ‘I need you, Edvalt, as certain as the rising sun at dawn. There’s more war coming, for Lodavico has turned the world upside down, and you are the finest smith I have ever known. And more, you’re a good man. Stay and I’ll make you wealthy.’

Edvalt paused for a moment, as if taken slightly off guard by Daylon’s request. He looked out over the field of carnage around them and said, ‘I thank you for the compliment, my lord, but my most fervent wish is that I never have to behold a sight such as this again.’ He looked Baron Dumarch in the eye and said, ‘It is time.’

Fatigue, frustration, and anger threatened to boil inside Daylon. He could simply ignore his pledge and keep Edvalt in service, but he knew that to do so would be to lose his skill forever. He waited a long moment, then finally let his better nature take control.

‘As of this moment, you’re a free man, Edvalt Tasman.’ He turned to Reinhardt. ‘Find a scribe and have him write a free passage for Edvalt—’

‘And for Mila,’ interrupted the smith.

‘Who?’ asked Daylon.

‘My woman, Mila.’

Daylon assumed he referred to one of the many camp followers, or a local girl from the city, but saw an opportunity. ‘Have you wed her without leave?’

Edvalt stiffened. As a bound man he should have sought permission to marry. He hesitated, then said, ‘Not before a priest. We pledged to each other. We have a daughter.’

‘Your woman is of no concern to me,’ said Daylon, ‘but your daughter is, by law, my property. She was born in bondage.’

The slight shift in Edvalt’s posture and expression were signs that both Daylon and Reinhardt recognised instantly. They showed that the smith was ready to fight with his bare hands against sword if need be.

Daylon mustered all the wisdom he had left and waved away Edvalt’s rising anger. He let out a long sigh and said, ‘I’ll not take your child from you, Edvalt. But in exchange you must give me your pledge.’

Edvalt’s eyes narrowed as he said, ‘To what end, my lord?’

‘I’ll answer that question in a moment, but first, where will you go?’

Without a moment’s hesitation, Edvalt said, ‘The Narrows. I’ll find a village in need of a smith and begin my new life in the Covenant lands. I can forge ploughshares, carve coulters, shoe horses and mules. If I must, I will repair a blade or forge a new one …’ He shrugged. ‘But should I never make another weapon, I’ll be content.’

Daylon weighed his answer. The finest weapon-smith he had ever known would not, at least, seek service with a rival lord. The Narrows was free of armed conflict, for the time being, so Edvalt would find little demand for weapons there.

‘Very well,’ said the Baron of Marquensas, ‘then we have no issue, but for the pledge: if you find an apprentice who trains to be your equal, you will send him to me.’

‘I’ll not put another in bondage,’ answered Edvalt.

Annoyed by the answer, Daylon snapped, ‘I would not take a freeman into service against his will. You were a captive in war, and it was my right to put you to death or sell you as a slave. I did neither.’ Both men knew his largesse was solely due to Edvalt’s talent, and not any generosity of spirit on Daylon’s part. ‘I will ask him to serve freely, and reward him greatly if he agrees.’

But the weapon-smith seized the moment. ‘Should I find such a lad, I will send him to you first,’ agreed Edvalt. ‘If he willingly takes your service, that is his choice, but should he wish to make his own way in the world, that is also his right?’

Daylon nodded. ‘Agreed. Then we are done. Take your woman and child and travel safely.’ He nodded to Reinhardt. ‘See that they are given safe conduct.’ As an afterthought, he said, ‘Find him a serviceable wagon or cart, as well, so he might carry his tools with him, and give him half a weight of gold.’

The captain nodded and said, ‘As you command, my lord.’ He signalled to Edvalt to follow him.

Taken aback by Daylon’s unexpected generosity, Edvalt muttered, ‘I thank my lord,’ and the two men departed.

Daylon stood alone at the entrance of his pavilion watching the finest sword maker he had ever encountered walk away. He knew the day approached when he would need many fine weapons. He was just grateful it was not today. He turned and pulled aside the canvas flap.

Stepping inside his tent, Daylon found the clean clothing set out for him by his body man, Balven. He was constantly amused by the fact that the only person he truly trusted in this life was his bastard half-brother. Balven had come to their father’s castle as a boy, to be a companion for the young heir. When their father died, Daylon had kept Balven close at hand as his body servant, but in truth he was a more trusted adviser than any of Daylon’s official advisers.

Balven waited beside a wooden bucket of fresh water and a heavy towel. A proper bath would have to wait until he reached home, but he could at least remove the worst of the mess from his body.

As Balven began to strip off Daylon’s armour, the Baron of Marquensas wondered again about the Firemane baby. What if there was a child out there, destined to plague the sleep of the four remaining kings?

Balven was the younger brother by two years, but he had been with Daylon since the age of six and could read his moods well. Daylon’s mother had done all she could to put a wedge between the half-brothers, but all that she had succeeded in doing was bringing them closer. Daylon had possessed a rebellious nature as a child, and he dared not reveal it to their father, so his poor mother had borne the brunt of it. As a result, the two men were far closer than master and servant.

Balven was an average-looking man of middle height, with close-cropped brown hair and dark eyes; his appearance was unremarkable, but he resembled Daylon in small ways, the set of his jaw, his brow and nose, and how he carried himself. Balven studied his brother’s face as he soaped his body. ‘You are troubled?’ he asked softly. He had anticipated his master’s changeable mood and had a girl waiting in the corner of the tent rather than in Daylon’s bed, as he knew that his brother’s disposition could swing in either direction after a battle. The girl’s brown eyes were fixed upon the Baron of Marquensas, silently awaiting his order.

Daylon considered her for a moment, then shook his head. He felt tired deep in his bones. Balven dismissed her with a tiny motion of his head. She nodded once and silently left.

Daylon watched her depart with no hint of desire. He wished only for a hot meal and a long sleep after today’s bloody work. He endured the cold water and harsh soap; the discomfort was worth the loss of muck and blood. ‘I miss a hot tub,’ he said to Balven as he towelled himself dry.

His bastard half-brother nodded in agreement. ‘I miss home.’

Daylon grunted assent. He also longed for the warm sun on the shores of Marquensas, where his castle overlooked an orchard that ran across the hills and down to the coast of the Western Sea. He missed the rich orange blossom scent on the spring breeze from the ocean and the sheer beauty of his holdfast. He missed his wife’s lithe body and the promise of children. As he donned the robe Balven held for him, Daylon said, ‘Mostly I miss the peace. The sounds of war still ring in my ears.’

‘They echo in mine, as well, my lord,’ agreed Balven. ‘But at least our world didn’t end this day,’ he added in a lighter tone.

Daylon laughed. One of the many things he shared with his half-brother was a love of their father’s library. Balven knew of the legendary Firemane line and the supposed destruction attached to its end. They had almost had an argument before Daylon agreed to participate in Steveren’s betrayal; Balven had contested their joining Lodavico and the others. As was his usual tactic, Balven had argued against the course Daylon had almost certainly already chosen, to explore any failings of logic that the baron might have overlooked; neither man placed much faith in auguries, omens, and prophecies, but after ample wine, the discussion had factored them into the decision, or rather ignoring the legend had, as part of Balven’s last argument on the matter.

‘Food?’

‘I’ll fetch your meal straightaway, my lord.’

Within a few minutes Balven placed a hot plate of beef and vegetables, with some edible bread and a sliver of cheese, next to a full bottle of wine and goblet. He set the small table and departed without instruction. He knew that his half-brother’s mood called for solitude.

Daylon ate alone, his silence broken only by the faint sounds of knackers, scavengers, and body robbers in the distance. Then he fell heavily into bed.

DAYLON HAD A DAGGER IN his hand before he was fully conscious. He listened. It was quiet, though occasionally he made out the shout of a distant sentry or the faint sound of looters arguing over spoils. He heard a rustle in the corner and sat up, blade ready. Had the camp girl returned without bidding? As the fog of sleep lifted, he decided that a camp girl would not lurk in the corner but would have probably slipped into his bed.

Then Daylon heard a strange sound. He took up his night lamp and opened its shutter to illuminate the tent’s interior. In the corner where the girl had waited lay a bundle of cloth, and he could see it moving.

He approached it warily, as he would not be the first noble of Garn to be gifted with a venomous serpent or rabid animal. Then he recognised the noise and knew that the cloth held something far more lethal.

The Baron of Marquensas crouched and pulled aside the covers to see a tiny face looking up at him. He held the light close and saw large blue eyes in a little round face and a forehead crowned with wispy hair, silver-white in the lamplight. In that moment, Daylon was certain that this baby was the last of the Firemanes, as certain as he was of his own name. He guessed that the child’s fine silver-white hair would turn a brilliant copper when it was two or three years old, but around the baby’s neck a woven copper wire had been placed, and from it hung a gold ring set with a single ruby – the signet ring of Ithrace, the king’s ring.

Who had put this child in his tent? How had that person passed his sentries, or stolen past Balven, who slept before his threshold? He gently picked up the child to examine it in the light of his night lamp and saw it was a boy. The child looked into his eyes and Daylon was even more certain that this was the Firemane baby.

Crouching on his heels as the baby watched him silently, Daylon Dumarch, Baron of Marquensas, muttered, ‘Gods old and new, why me?’

ALONG THE SHORE, AWAY FROM the battle site, a man waited by a cluster of rocks. Daylon could see him clearly in the early morning sunlight as they rode slowly towards him.

The man wore a covering over his nose and mouth, leaving only his eyes exposed; the only clue to his identity was the age lines at their corners. Other than that, he appeared to be a common soldier without badge or tabard, but he was a member of the unseen army of Coaltachin, the legendary Invisible Nation.

Coaltachin’s rulers had never affixed their names or their seals to the Covenant, and this exclusion had made them a nation apart, yet they had honoured the pact since its inception. Few nobles and fewer commoners understood the genius of Coaltachin’s security, and their success was due to their Quelli Nascosti, meaning ‘The Hidden’. Coaltachin had the finest spies, infiltrators, saboteurs, and assassins in the world. On the street they were known as sicari, ‘the dagger men’.

The Invisible Nation was publicly loathed and privately employed by every ruler with the means to pay them. They were also universally feared, for legend claimed they could walk through walls, kill with their breath, and become undetectable at will, or at least that was the myth surrounding them. In reality, they were the most effective assassins, spies, and provocateurs on Garn.

The true strength of Coaltachin lay in the extent of its network. It had placed agents everywhere, from the tables of nobility to the gutter gangs of the most dangerous cities across the world. Few knew exactly where the Invisible Nation lay among the thousands of islands off the eastern shore of South Tembria. Only a few, trusted, eastern traders could navigate the route to Coaltachin. All anyone else knew was that it might lie somewhere between South Tembria and Enast.

Daylon had been certain that the sicari would be at hand during a battle of this scope. A betrayal so majestic was far beyond the skills of men like Lodavico Sentarzi or Mazika Koralos. It had taken Balven a full day and a night to find someone to carry word and relay the message to arrange this meeting at dawn on the second day after the bloodshed, a time during which Daylon had been left to look after the baby. Balven found a goat with a kid among the livestock, made a makeshift nursing rag, and tore up strips of linen to keep the child clean. Daylon, who had never touched a baby in his life, managed to keep the boy hidden from view. He thanked the gods that the child seemed to want to sleep most of the time.

He did not know exactly what to expect from this meeting and spared a little time to wonder who this man might be. Before the battle he might have served in Daylon’s army or even Steveren’s, as a porter, baggage cart driver, cook, or vendor among the camp followers, faceless in a sea of faces. Daylon was certain that this man, or others of his order, had infiltrated the Ithraci army, to shout contradictory or confusing orders to paralyse Steveren Langene’s forces as he tried to organize a defence against the sudden betrayal.

Daylon smiled ruefully. Perhaps he also overestimated his own power and security, particularly now as he stood next to his brother and faced a deadly killer.

The bulk of Daylon’s army was already on the road home; only his castellans remained to protect their master, laid low by a stomach ague that kept him abed. It was unlikely that anyone would call at his pavilion since most of the combined armies had already departed for Ithra, but the excuse kept the baby from prying eyes while they waited for a reply from the man who now awaited them. Word had come after sunset and Daylon had spent a restless night in anticipation of the dawn.

Daylon rode carefully through the rocks along the shore, the ever-present roar of the breakers masking the clatter of his horse’s hooves as he made his way to the meeting point. Behind him came Balven, carrying the Firemane baby.

When they reached the man, Daylon held up his hand and asked, ‘Do you know me?’

‘I do,’ said the false soldier.

‘I have a charge for you. Will you accept my gold?’

‘Name your charge,’ replied the man.

‘This baby must travel with you to your homeland. He is to be cared for as if he were a child of your master’s household and be given a name, though I do not wish to know it. Only send word should the child perish; a message must reach me, saying, The colt went lame and had to be put down. If nothing unfortunate occurs, there will be no reason for words between us ever again.

‘For this charge I will pay you five weights of gold each year until the boy becomes a man.’ That day was seventeen years away.

Daylon gestured towards his half-brother. ‘This is my man, Balven. He can be known by the mark near his heart, earned in a hunting accident.’ Balven moved the tiny baby to his right arm and with his left hand pulled aside the collar of his tunic to show the man his scar. ‘He is the only man on Garn I trust completely. Seventeen years from this day, he will be at the main gates of Marquenet. The child must be brought to the city and given over to him.

‘Should Balven meet an untimely end, I will choose another to take up his charge and send word to you. I will name his replacement using these words: The caretaker has passed, his heir is …

‘Your master may treat the child as he pleases but the boy is not to be harmed or abused. He must be educated, as he is of noble birth, and trained to protect himself. The gold shall cease to be paid after his manhood day, and it is then you will bring him to the city gates to meet with Balven.’

The assassin considered the deal and finally said, ‘Ten weights a year.’

Daylon looked at the dark eyes above the black mask, then finally said, ‘Seven and we are done.’

‘Seven,’ agreed the assassin.

‘Can you reach your homeland without the baby being seen?’

‘I will require eight weights for the journey, if we must remain undetected.’

‘Done,’ said Daylon. He reached into a small bag hanging from his horse’s saddle and counted out small bars of gold, each as long as an average man’s hand and as wide and deep as a man’s thumb. Each one could feed a village for a year. ‘Here are eight, and this year’s seven: fifteen in all. Seven more will be sent each year, on this day. Send word where to deliver the gold to my barony.’

The agent of the Quelli Nascosti took the gold, then went to Balven’s side and took the baby. Balven gave his master one long look, then handed the child over.

Daylon watched the man ride away until all he could see was the rising sun burning off the morning’s fog, and all he could hear was the sound of gulls on the wing and the crashing of waves on the rocks. Turning his horse around, he motioned for Balven to walk beside him.

The body man looked up at his half-brother and said, ‘Am I incorrect in assuming that might have been the most impulsive thing you’ve ever done?’

Daylon shrugged. Then he chuckled. ‘Probably.’

‘If Lodavico catches any hint of your business this morning, he’ll turn his army around and march straight on to Marquenet to hang you from the first tree he finds.’

‘He might try that anyway. I will have to answer for my decision to forgo the plundering of Ithra, as the king of Sandura may well infer my disapproval.’ Daylon chuckled as they travelled back towards the path leading to the top of the plateau. ‘Even Lodavico isn’t quite that impulsive. No, he’ll harbour his grudge over my going home today. I’m free to despise the king of Sandura, just so long as I do so in private.’

Wondering at his recent impulsiveness, Daylon cursed himself for not keeping his army at home, leaving the fate of Ithrace to fall on other shoulders, and the blood of a friend from his hands.

Balven saw the expression on Daylon’s face and knew what he was thinking, but it was Daylon who put the thought into words. ‘Perhaps I should have killed the child.’

Balven said, ‘While that might have been the most expedient solution, you could never bring yourself to kill a helpless baby. Killing the Firemane child was never a choice, my lord.’

Daylon knew his bastard brother was right. He would never have been able to see or hear his own child and not think of the one dead at his hand, especially that of a friend betrayed. Daylon nodded. ‘You are correct, as you often are.’

Balven chuckled. ‘Had our father left me to die …’

‘I’d never have found anyone to trust in my household,’ finished the Baron of Marquensas. ‘You might be a bastard, hut we share blood.’

‘How many brothers and sisters do you think we are still ignorant of?’ asked Balven.

Daylon gave a cynical laugh. ‘The only man I’ve met who rivals Father’s appetite for pretty young women is Rodrigo.’

‘And Father had no taste for pretty boys.’

Daylon nodded. ‘He had a few, I suspect.’ He stared off into the distance, towards the sea, as they started upon the path to the battlefield above.

Balven said, ‘What troubles you, my lord?’

Daylon took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he urged his horse upwards. ‘It might be years yet, but this matter is far from over.’

Balven nodded and said, ‘This day may prove useful. Many do not suspect the Firemane baby may be out there in the world. A few do, but we know he is. Entrusting his care to the Lords of the Unseen was an … unexpected move, but it may prove to be a great advantage.’

Daylon lost some of the tension in his features. ‘You always anticipate the advantage in any situation.’

‘Worry not, my lord. Turn your mind to more pleasant prospects and let me worry for you.’

Daylon said, ‘That’s one of the reasons I keep you around, brother.’ The notion that this baby would some day prove useful comforted him, but the idea of another baby, soon to be in his home, made him smile widely.




• CHAPTER ONE • (#u1e3bd974-83d7-50f2-8059-234f93219de4)

Passages and Departures (#u1e3bd974-83d7-50f2-8059-234f93219de4)


His name was Hatushaly, though the other boys and girls called him ‘Hatu’.

He was by nature a youngster prone to anger, often barely able to control it and quick to erupt, but at this moment, Hatu was trying very hard not to laugh.

His two closest friends flanked him as they lay on a heavy awning of bright green and white striped canvas extending from the rooftop of an open-front shop, hidden from the view of those below. They were trying hard not to be detected.

Hatu’s anger was usually forgotten in Hava’s or Donte’s company. For reasons he would never understand, they had become his friends despite his constant rage and furious outbursts, and both had conspired to make his life even more complicated. When he was alone, Hatu became introspective and angry, but when he was with them, the dark thoughts that threatened to overwhelm him were forgotten.

Donte, Hava, and Hatu had been given a task: to observe the comings and goings in the market. Donte had insisted on adding a ridiculous commentary to the scene that had nothing to do with their lesson but threatened to expose their position to the merchant in the shop below as his companions struggled not to burst into laughter. One of Donte’s many talents was a wry wit, but he often lacked any sense of appropriate timing, which earned him his fair share of reprimands, disciplinary duty, and beatings.

Hatushaly tried to ignore his friend’s commentary, while Hava simply closed her eyes and lay with her forehead against her left forearm, both trying not to hear Donte. Hatu could do so with more ease than Hava. The market square was busy: fisher folk, farmers, traders, and travellers crowded every corner of the town. Harbourside was actually a part of the city of Corbara, the main port on the island of Coaltachin. The Kingdom of Night centred on the large island but also spread across dozens of smaller isles, home to many fishing villages, farming communities, small fortresses, and the moorings for a huge fleet of trade and warships.

The three youngsters were taking advantage of the excursion: the instructors rarely sent them away for a day. Hatu, Donte, and Hava were students at one of the many nameless schools in Coaltachin, on Morasel, a little island that was home to a small fishing village on the coast and a farming hamlet inland. All who lived there laboured under the firm command of Master Facaria.

Hava was a girl of intense moods, both light and dark, who performed few tasks without thought and determination. Her dark hair usually hung to her shoulders, but today she had bound it in a simple black scarf to keep it out of her face. She wasn’t what most men might call pretty, but Hatu liked her appearance. Her face was narrow and she always seemed to be squinting, even when inside, though her vision was superb, as she proved every time she shot a bow. Her mouth was slightly turned down at the edges, but he thought she had a wonderful smile. He’d known her all his life. She was agile and strong, and as Hatu had started to change from boy to man, he had also begun to find her lithe body more attractive and disturbing. He’d seen Hava naked many times, for the students often swam or bathed together in the stream behind the school, but now he sometimes found the sight of her troubling, even more so than that of the other girls. Right now she was struggling not to laugh, which made it difficult for Hatu not to laugh.

Donte seemed always to be smiling or laughing. Like Hava, he had dark hair, but his locks were much darker, bordering on black. He was broad-shouldered and stronger than any boy in the school, and faster than all but Hatu and Hava. When Donte decided to become friends with someone, they didn’t have much say in the matter. There was a quiet madness in his approach to life, a willingness to put himself in harm’s way for the thrill of it. No matter how dark the moment, Donte could always contrive a joke, often a completely inappropriate one, to bring sudden laughter, even if his joke itself wasn’t particularly funny. Hatu worried about him, but Donte seemed to move through life without a single care or concern. He was diligent enough in his lessons that his careless manner caused him no serious difficulties. While Hatu considered the future, Donte lived for the moment, seeking only immediate gratification, be it a stiff drink or a pretty girl. Yet Donte was still Hatu’s closest friend among the boys at the school.

‘Look,’ said Hava, pulling them out of their joke. She thrust her chin towards the main street from the docks to the market. ‘Far side, four men.’

Hatu spotted the men, sailors by the look of them, but of a fashion new to him. Coaltachin sailors favoured baggy trousers of light weave, their linen shirts worn loosely to protect them against the heat. Coaltachin people tended to tan or have dark skin, with brown and black hair, but these men were fair-skinned and burned red-bronze by the sun. Two of them had light brown hair, one was blond, and the last was red-haired.

‘Kin of yours?’ asked Hava.

Hatu sighed. ‘That joke was old years ago.’

Only the students who had been raised alongside Hatu knew what his normal hair colour was. He dyed it regularly and had been forced on a few occasions to rub dirt or grease into the roots until he could wash and dye it again. Hatu stood out among the rest of the students. The islands to the east of the twin continents had for centuries been home to a people known as the Igara. They tended to range in height, but most possessed skin easily bronzed by the sun and hair that was typically coloured black to medium brown. A few were blond, but Hatu was one of the two people he knew to have red tresses. Hava’s dark auburn hair only truly looked red after hours in the hot sun – sun bleaching was common with the fishermen and farmers if they didn’t wear hats – but Hatu’s was a unique copper red with golden highlights. ‘Look at that low forehead; more like your kin,’ he said weakly, which caused Hava to chuckle slightly, almost a sound of pity, and Donte to shake his head dismissively.

‘Ya,’ said Donte. ‘It’s not bright enough. Hatu’s is more like a flaming copper. That man’s is … dark carrot, if such a colour exists.’

Hava chuckled again. ‘Why don’t you just shave it off?’

Hatu shook his head. ‘If you think a flame-haired boy stands out, how about a bald one? If I need to run and blend in with a crowd, dirty brown hair is best.’

‘So until he can learn to grow a new head of brown hair in under a minute, he’ll have to dye it,’ added Donte. ‘Besides, what would happen if he’s doing a job and gets caught with a razor?’

Hava nodded. ‘No weapons.’

‘No weapons,’ repeated Hatu. As they approached adulthood, the students had been taught that when violence erupted, they stood a better chance with the authorities if they tossed their weapons aside rather than be captured armed. Loose clothing sewn with rags, to rip away splattered blood, and a host of other tricks had been drilled into the future agents of the Invisible Nation.

All of their training aimed to make the youngsters as useful as possible to their nation. They pledged not to a king, despite their nation’s name, but to a ruling council, a system that had existed for centuries in this region.

While the preceptors bore responsibility for educating the boys and girls, the masters were the final authority in Coaltachin. Each hierarchy within the gang culture of the island had a captain, crews, gangs, and regimes, but the person at the top of the order was simply called ‘master’. Above any single master was the Council, made up of the seven most powerful masters in Coaltachin, and heading the Council was Master Zusara, the single most powerful man in the nation, as close to a king as it was possible to be.

‘I’m hungry,’ muttered Donte.

‘You’re always hungry,’ replied Hava and Hatu in unison, which provoked another burst of barely contained laughter as they struggled to remain hidden.

The forays into the various cities, towns, and villages of Coaltachin were part of the students’ education, but Donte always treated them as an excuse for a holiday, much to the consternation of both his master and his instructor. He began to construct a miniature lance from a windswept tree branch on top of the awning where they lay, using his dagger to whittle it into something he could use to impale a sausage sizzling on a grill below. Muttering, he said, ‘Wish I had a proper spear.’

Hatu shook his head while Hava grinned and chided their friend. ‘We’re supposed to be observing discreetly. Strutting around the market with a spear is hardly inconspicuous.’

The merchant below was busy selling his wares to people hurrying to their own places of work, and to servants from nearby homes seeking the spiced delicacies for their master’s breakfast. If any of the customers noticed that three youngsters were causing the brightly coloured awning of waxed cloth to sag a little deeper than normal, no one spoke of it.

When his opportunity finally came, and no customer looked on, Donte thrust his lance and successfully impaled a stout link on the grill. He quickly pulled it up while the merchant had his back to the fire.

‘You’re going to get us all a beating,’ whispered Hatu.

Donte tried to remove the hot sausage from the makeshift harpoon and burned his fingers in the process, while his companions continued to stifle their laughter.

A small tearing sound caused Hatu to look down in alarm, and he whispered, ‘The awning!’

The students scrambled back to the tiled roof above the awning as quickly as they could, but as they moved, the tear widened and the cloth began to give. None of them could see through the canopy yet, but an angry shout from below made it clear that the merchant had noticed that his striped awning now sagged heavily with a widening tear at its front.

All three youngsters reached the peak of the roof without pause, then quickly scrambled down to the eaves at the back of the house. Like all of the buildings surrounding the market square, the house was a merchant’s dwelling and place of business. There was a good-sized yard below them with a wagon in it and a gate opening onto the alley beyond. Donte glanced one way and then the other, and then signed for Hava and Hatu to follow him as he tiptoed along the edge of the roof. When he reached the alley at the side of the house, he knelt and jumped, and was followed by his two companions. Donte looked back towards the busy market before he motioned for them to follow him to the trade alley behind the yard.

They moved swiftly but didn’t sprint, as they had been taught that running drew too much attention. Donte turned a corner only to find them confronted by a large, broad-shouldered man with a heavy black beard and blue knit cap. He held a long truncheon in his right hand and his arms were crossed.

‘Been stealing sausages?’ he said.

Before any of the students could reply, the man stopped them with a dark look, and with a nod indicated that they were to follow him back into the market. ‘Lose the sausage,’ he instructed Donte, who immediately tossed the warm, savoury treat to the ground. They followed the burly man, a gang captain named Hilsbek, who had been put in charge of Facaria’s pupils while the island master was in a meeting. This wasn’t unusual, as the youngsters spent as much time in the field as in the classroom or training yard.

‘The sausage?’ repeated Hilsbek.

‘I got hungry,’ said Donte, trying not to smile.

A quick cuff to the ear told Donte that this wasn’t amusing to the gang leader. The blow was hard enough to get the student’s attention without damaging him. Donte’s eyes glistened from the pain, but he didn’t let tears come. His face and stance shifted to a position Hatu and Hava knew all too well. Donte would usually have challenged anyone who struck him like that. He’d even risk fighting a crew captain if he thought he could win, but would not defy anyone of a rank higher than that.

Donte was the grandson of Master Kugal, one of the seven masters on the Council, which granted him some additional status, though it was never openly commented upon. The students were supposed to be treated equally, but in practice, their privilege was often dictated by the amount of power held by their close relatives.

Though rank was not official, the pecking order among students had been well established by the time they could leave their mothers. Hava was unusually gifted, among the best archers, runners, and hand-to-hand fighters, both boys and girls, which earned her more respect than was normal for a farmer’s child. Hatu was an orphan, an anomaly without connections, but he was treated with greater care than might be expected.

‘What was your duty?’ asked Hilsbek, his eyes narrowing as he looked from face to guilty face.

Hava and Hatu glanced at each other as Donte, with as impassive a tone as he dared, replied, ‘To watch the market for anything unusual.’

Hilsbek nodded. ‘You were on that roof for over three hours—’

‘And I got hungry,’ added Donte, which earned him another cuffing, one hard enough to leave a red mark on his cheek and tears in his eyes.

Hilsbek glared at the youngster, as if daring him to utter another word.

Donte fell silent.

Hilsbek remained quiet for a while, then spoke in an even tone. ‘What did you see?’

Hava said, ‘A busy market.’

Donte hesitated, as if anticipating another slap, then added, ‘Nothing unusual.’

Hilsbek looked at Hatushaly next. After a pause, the youngster said, ‘There was one group of men trying to appear … normal. They came from the docks and moved a little too fast, as if they were in a hurry but trying not to be noticed. They wore simple robes with deep hoods. One wore boots, the rest sandals. They moved to the north and I couldn’t see them leave.’

Hilsbek looked at Hatu. ‘Well enough. If you were to see such a group while on duty, what would you do?’

Hatu said, ‘What I was told to do. If I was told to report at once, then I’d leave and report. If told to wait until relieved, I’d—’

Hilsbek interrupted. ‘Enough.’

Pointing at Hatu, he said to the others, ‘He knows how to see. You looked, but you didn’t see. Learn how to see.’

Hilsbek regarded the three youngsters for a moment, then he said, ‘You are only months away from being placed …’ He fell silent again and shook his head. ‘If you left training today, you would find a trade, but soon …’ A third silence fell.

Finally Hilsbek said, ‘Find another roof. Watch from there until sundown. See if you can find more men trying to appear normal. Meet at the safe house after sunset.’

As the students started to move away, Hilsbek slapped Donte on the back of his head. ‘I don’t care who your grandfather is, boy. Do something stupid like that when you’re working, and at some point you’ll get yourself and your companions killed.’

Donte grudgingly held his peace as they walked away, but once out of hearing range, he said, ‘I’ll settle with him some day.’

Hatu shook his head in silent disbelief, while Hava laughed openly. ‘Your grandfather will not always be around to get you out of trouble. We all make mistakes, we all get beaten.’

Hatu nodded in agreement.

‘You make a mistake, you just get sent to your grandfather,’ Hava continued.

‘Ha!’ laughed Donte. ‘The preceptors and the other masters are afraid of my grandfather, so he beats me harder than any of them. My grandfather is afraid of no one.’ After a moment, he added, ‘Well, other than my grandmother.’

Hava laughed, but Hatu said, ‘Do you ever take anything seriously? You know what Hilsbek was saying, don’t you?’

‘What?’ asked Donte as they began to look around for a new observation post.

‘The day is coming when we’ll know too much,’ whispered Hatu harshly.

‘Too much?’ asked Hava.

Hatu’s expression held exasperation. ‘To let us live,’ he whispered. ‘Once we know all of the secrets …’

Hava’s eyes widened. Hatu nodded; it was about time she understood. ‘We need to be more careful,’ he added in low tones.

‘Life’s too short to be careful,’ Donte responded with annoyance as they reached the centre of the market. He halted and looked around. ‘Where?’

After a quiet consideration, Hatu said, ‘Over there, I think.’

He didn’t point – another lesson learned early – just raised his chin in the direction of a large building on the far side of the market. It wasn’t situated as advantageously as their last post but offered a good view of anyone arriving from the docks.

‘How’s your ear?’ Hatu asked Donte as they moved quickly through the crowd.

‘Hurts,’ was all Donte said.

Hava shook her head and furrowed her brow as she said, ‘One day you’re going to say something that will get you killed.’

‘Maybe,’ said Donte as he led his companions into the alley beside their new vantage point. He took a quick look around and with a nod of his head indicated that Hatu should be the first to climb. Donte formed a stirrup with his hands and his friend hopped into it without hesitation. Thrown upwards, Hatu caught the eave of the roof and pulled himself onto the roof with ease. He turned and lay flat, letting his arms dangle over the edge.

Donte lifted Hava so she could grip Hatu’s arms and when she reached the roof, she lay next to him. Donte leapt and caught his companions’ hands, and together they pulled him upwards.

Settling in, Donte said, ‘Two hours to sunset.’

‘Try to stay awake,’ chided Hatu.

Hava chuckled as they started to scan the crowd below for anything unusual.

The port was the heart of the Coaltachin nation, and yet at the same time it wasn’t. To those who lived in the Kingdom of Night, and their trusted associates, it was called Corbara: the capital city of a sprawling set of tiny islands, populated by a people whose main export was assassination, espionage, and crime. Its residents were expert at detecting which newcomer should be respected and which should be misled. By tradition and habit no one used the name of the city in front of strangers in the port. Corbara was only ever called ‘here’, ‘home’, or ‘this city’. Some travellers had passed through the port more than once and still had no idea where they had been. Such was the culture of Coaltachin.

This combination of secrecy and commerce forged as strong a brotherhood as there was among any tribe on Garn. The lowest peasant in Coaltachin felt akin to the highest of the masters, and while few natives acknowledged it, the outsiders who had dealings with the island nation were forced to navigate the insular, chauvinistic nature of its people with sensitivity. Anyone not of Coaltachin was at best a necessary nuisance, and at worst a potential enemy. This attitude towards strangers, even friendly visitors, was so ingrained that it was never spoken of, simply learned from childhood.

The three youngsters watching the market and harbour were already part of the nation’s elite. The sons of masters and preceptors, like Donte, were automatically selected for the schools, as were the children with exceptional potential, like Hava. She had been a combative child, and her early willingness to stand against much larger and stronger children had caught the attention of the local master, Facaria. The others knew nothing about Hatu’s past, hut his admittance to the academy marked him as exceptional, and so the fact he came from outland stock was ignored by those who had been raised alongside him.

The students were training to become soldiers, but soldiers unlike those of any other nation. The forces of Coaltachin included squadrons of ships, often disguised, but ready to repel the rare incursions by seafarers who didn’t understand whose waters they entered. Some of the larger islands held defensive garrisons with small units of archers, pikemen, and swordsmen. The true militia of Coaltachin was invisible, a thing of reputation and rumour myth and lethal ability.

In the old tongue, Quelli Nascosti meant ‘The Hidden’, and it was possible that some day the very best among these students would count themselves among their ranks. As the grandson of a powerful master, and son of a deceased master, Donte would almost certainly advance.

Hava was among the finest students in combat and weapons training, and possessed rare athletic skills.

Hatushaly’s advantage was unique. He knew he was receiving special treatment: he had heard of no other outland child at his or any other school. The mystery was one of the sources of his constant smouldering anger, as was the uncertainty over his future.

THAT EVENING, TWENTY-THREE STUDENTS SAT in small groups at the back of a cluttered warehouse. Most of the youngsters were known to the three friends; several were from other villages, here because their masters had been called to an important meeting. As they made their way from the door to the rear of the warehouse, where food waited, Hatu saw a familiar face watching them walk past. Hava saw his expression change and quietly asked, ‘What?’

Hatushaly lifted his chin towards the youngster who stared in their direction. ‘Raj,’ he said in a venomous tone.

Hearing that name, Donte turned. Across the room, near to where the students’ travel bags were stored, squatted three young men, eating silently. Raj’s lopsided smile was easily recognisable. The boy had a strange face: delicate features and deep brown eyes that were overshadowed by a heavy brow, giving him an unbalanced appearance.

Donte sighed and said, ‘Do not start anything, do you hear me?’ He gripped Hatu’s tunic and said, ‘I know Raj’s look; he’s ready to start something. He knows he can goad you, so just leave it alone.’

Hatu forced himself to look away, and Donte added, ‘We’re already in trouble with Hilsbek, and if you start a fight with Raj …’ He made no further comment, simply put his hand on Hatu’s shoulder and steered him to the waiting food.

After a few steps, Hatu shrugged Donte’s hand away and said, ‘I’m not going to start anything …’ He glanced back at Raj and saw that the boy was still staring at the three of them.

‘What is it between you two, anyway?’ Hava asked.

Hatu remained silent as they reached the table where food had been laid out on wooden plates. When they had settled into an unoccupied corner of the room, he said, ‘I don’t know, it started …’

‘Years ago,’ supplied Donte. ‘Do you even remember what that first fight was about?’

‘He called me a name,’ said Hatu, ‘I think …’

Hava’s brow furrowed. ‘You think?’

‘It was before you came to school,’ said Donte. He took a bite from his platter. The food was plain, and as usual cold, but they ate gratefully, for over the years they had trained for periods of privation, and going without food was a normal part of their lives, even if only for short periods of time in training.

It was quiet in the warehouse. Students rarely spoke while eating. From an early age, they had been taught to focus on things most people took for granted, like food, water, and rest, to conserve and build their strength. These drills and lessons had been hard ones: two days without food was not life-threatening, but to a child it felt like an eternity of starvation. Many mornings had broken on severe stomach aches as the youngsters learned which foods were safe to eat and when. Water was always close at hand, for while going without food for days was possible, severe dehydration would kill sooner, and incapacitate even faster. Rest was precious, for the rigours of life under their masters would often require long periods of sleepless exertion.

Hatu looked at the small square of wood that served as his plate and ate his food with his fingers: cold lumps of sticky rice in a congealed broth, a slice of a roll, and a small portion of bitter greens. He would finish every bite.

After a moment of silence, Hava asked, ‘Before I came? How old were you when it happened?’

‘Seven, or eight,’ said Hatu quietly.

Donte shrugged. ‘I’ve lost count of the fights they’ve had.’

‘Seven,’ said Hatu, keeping his voice low, though both his friends could sense his rising tension. He glanced at Donte. ‘Eight?’

‘More,’ said Donte. ‘I lost count at about eight.’

Hava shook her head in disbelief. ‘Ten, eleven? So at least once a year you and Raj just decide to fight?’

‘Sometimes you just don’t like someone,’ said Donte. ‘For no reason. It takes most people a while to dislike Hatu, but Raj hated him from the first moment they met.’

‘I don’t care what his reason is, or even if he has one,’ said Hatu, clearly on edge. ‘He’s a piece of shit to everyone. I just fight back.’

‘True,’ said Donte, turning to Hava. ‘You and I are the only two people on Garn who truly like Hatu, but nobody likes Raj. He just bullies people into pretending they like him.’

‘I know that,’ replied Hava. ‘I just wanted to know what started the whole thing.’

‘Can’t remember,’ replied Donte. He smiled, then purloined the greens from Hava’s plate, a theft she allowed without protest. She couldn’t abide the bitter leaves and would always eat them last, and only then if one of the gang captains or a master was watching. They made her sick but that didn’t matter to those supervising the students’ meal.

Donte, on the other hand, would eat almost anything. He had won many bets for eating all manner of disgusting things, including some large insects that were still alive.

Hatu didn’t care much for food one way or another. He enjoyed some tastes, but he didn’t seek them out to satisfy a craving. As far as he knew, food was necessary for life and beyond that he took little pleasure in it.

While he ate in silence, Hatu’s thoughts turned inwards, and his frustration began to grow. He found Donte’s antics amusing at times, especially in Hava’s company, but on other occasions the big lad’s disregard for authority caused problems.

Raj’s presence did not help calm the situation. Hatu could feel the boy’s gaze upon him, and it took all of his self-control not to turn and meet it. He felt his anger building as he tried to push his mind away from their previous encounters, and from his annoyance that Donte had pulled him away from this fight; more annoyed that Donte was right to do so rather than anything else.

If Hatu dwelled on this intervention, he could easily start to resent his friend, and knowing this unsettled him, for among the male students, Donte was his closest friend and one of the few for whom he’d risk his life. Hatu hadn’t fully accepted the lesson that he might one day have to choose to complete a mission over saving a friend. When asked to envision it, he had little difficulty forsaking most of the other students but he could never reach the place in his imagination that permitted abandoning Hava and Donte to a lonely death. But there were moments where his friend’s antics got on Hatu’s nerves so much that he felt like killing Donte himself. He knew he was letting his deep seething anger rise up and forced himself to practise a calming exercise silently while he ate.

He finished his food and put down his plate. The orders had been simple: silence until everyone had finished eating and then they were to wait for instructions.

He looked around the room, avoiding Raj, and saw only a few faces he recognised in the scattering of strangers. Hava was now leaning against the back wall with her eyes closed. Hatu admired her profile and felt a stirring. He pushed aside the sudden emotion and felt an unexpected rush of foolishness and then anger at himself. He saw Donte also scanning the room for someone to cajole, bully, or bribe for extra food, so he was oblivious to what Hatu thought must have been an obvious display of his reaction to Hava. Donte could usually read Hatu’s moods easily.

Hatu settled back against a crate, finding scant comfort. He tried to calm his mind and failed; instead his impatience grew. The students were often kept waiting; Hatu suspected it was designed to stem their restlessness. When they were little, students would often act up, unable to abide the silence. Hatu quickly realised that repeat perpetrators of such behaviour disappeared from the school.

Thinking of the school made Hatu recall his earliest memory. It was a painful one, a sudden startling sting that quickly faded. It was a memory that had been repeated many times since the first birch had struck the back of his hand, a sharp memory of correction rather than punishment.

He remembered his first experience vividly: he had reached for a carp, golden in the afternoon sun, swimming just below the surface of a pond, and had fallen into the pool when one of the matrons had been distracted.

Perhaps the odd combination of sensations, the metallic burn of water in his nose, his sudden blurry vision, and his heavy coughing, was why he remembered that moment so vividly, but he’d only been a toddler and had cried until the sharp sting of the birch wand had shocked him into silence. He recalled every second: standing there dripping wet, shivering with the sudden cold, and struggling to understand what had happened.

Hatu shifted slightly while those around him finished eating. As usual old emotions rose with the memory, a mixture of anger and fear. He could even feel an echo of that first flare of shock and it reverberated within him.

The experience had marked Hatu: from that moment to this, he’d had a deep need to know what was expected of him, to understand all aspects of any situation he faced. He was content to rise or fall on his own ability, but when he failed due to lack of information, Hatu flew into a rage – often at himself for not acquiring the knowledge, or at others for not providing it. Unreliable information was what he hated most.

He was told he had been a difficult baby, prone to tantrums and fits of violence, and even now his constant frustration often put him at odds with the demand of the clan for obedience and silence. Hatu had learned to stay silent when there was need; to keep the building rage inside, away from others. He held his anger deep, rarely allowing it to reach the surface, but for most of the time, he was on edge.

No matter what caused his anger to rise, it always felt the same: a burning, seething tension that formed as a tight knot in the centre of his body. Only after many lessons, and many beatings, had he learned to control it. But it was always there, a burning just below the surface of his skin, like a fire that would not he quenched. The thrashings he received for fighting had taught Hatu to keep his retaliation in check, though from time to time the instinct bubbled to the surface. It had been months since his last brawl, sparked by a casual remark from a student at the end of a particularly gruelling day of training, when his temper got the better of him.

A sharp poke in the ribs brought Hatu out of his reverie. He glanced at Hava, who had come to sit beside him and now regarded him with a half-smile, an expression very familiar to Hatu. He had been so lost in thought he hadn’t noticed her come over.

‘What?’ he snapped, keeping his voice down lest he draw unwanted attention.

‘You’re doing it again,’ she whispered.

‘What?’

‘That thing where you … go inside your head and get angry.’

‘I do not—’ he began.

‘No!’ she cut him off, raising her voice slightly. ‘You do it. You know you do. I’ve seen you, many times, go back and remember something and get angry over it, all over again, for nothing! Now, stop it!’ she hissed.

Hatu sat back, blinking. He wasn’t introspective by nature, despite clinging to certain memories, and a part of him knew she was right, but his anger flared towards Hava, erupting alongside his annoyance with Donte and loathing of Raj. He glared at her with full force.

‘Fine,’ she whispered. ‘Be annoyed with me if you must be angry with someone, but seething over things that happened so long ago is going to get you killed some day if you don’t—’

He grabbed her wrist and hissed, ‘Stop! Now!’

Her eyes widened, and she yanked her arm away, standing up. Hatu followed her a second later. As they locked eyes, they both knew Hatu was just moments away from losing control.

Donte finally took note of their confrontation. He hurried back to stand next to them as they faced each other in silence. ‘What is going on?’ he whispered, conscious of other eyes being drawn to the trio.

Hatu could barely speak, he was so close to losing his temper. Finally, he managed to swallow his anger and whisper back, ‘Nothing.’

‘It doesn’t look like nothing,’ Donte hissed. ‘You want to get us all punished?’

Hava held Hatu’s gaze, then she turned to Donte to reply. Her words were cut off by a shout: ‘Attention!’ All eyes turned to the gang captain, Hilsbek. Hatu, Donte, and Hava quickly squatted where they stood so as not to be noticed while the others sat. Next to Hilsbek was a man Hatu, Hava, and Donte recognised: Bodai was one of the most important masters, a member of the Council. He looked around the room and spied Hatu in the corner. He pointed and motioned for the boy to stand up. As Hatu did so, Hilsbek shouted, ‘Go and get your bag. Meet us outside!’

Hatu hurried to the pile of ragged bags in the corner of the warehouse and quickly dug out his pack. It looked much like the others and contained a change of clothing, a few coins sewn into a seam, some cleverly disguised tools, and a flat tin can of hair dye. It was an oily dye, and dirt clung to it, but it was a necessity. Unlike the women and men who sought to restore their youth or change their appearance for vanity, Hatu needed only a little to turn his eye-catching red-gold locks to a dingy brown.

He hurried towards the door and suddenly found himself falling forward. He rolled, avoiding injury, though he would sport bruises on his shoulder and hip soon, and came to his feet to see Raj scurrying back, his half-mocking, half-defiant smile daring Hatu to react while those around diverted their attention, not wishing to be even remotely associated with a confrontation.

The anger that had been simmering inside Hatu now boiled over. He took one step towards Raj, then felt arms encircle him from behind as Donte lifted and pulled him back.

At the same moment, Hava stepped past Hatu and with wicked speed spun and delivered a punishing wheel kick to the side of Raj’s head before he could react as he tried to stand to face Hatu. Raj flew sideways, slamming against a crate, his eyes rolling up into his head before he slumped to the floor.

Donte held Hatu for a second as Hava turned and with one step had her nose almost to his. ‘Are you stupid?’ She spoke loudly, not caring who overheard. ‘You were just summoned by a master and you’re trying to fight Raj?’

Donte released Hatu, who had ceased struggling. The sudden intervention of his friends had somehow drained Hatu’s rage. Hava leaned over and picked up his bag and handed it to him. ‘Go!’ she commanded, obviously angered by what she saw as her friend’s intransigence in letting Raj goad him.

Hatu looked around and saw that every student in the warehouse was watching them. A few were looking around to see if anyone in authority was present, for their schooling had taught them all that, as unfair as it was, entire groups were often punished for the misdeeds of one. The fact that the crew boss was outside with Master Bodai had some of them settling back with expressions of relief.

He stumbled towards the door and realised he had said nothing to his friends. He looked over his shoulder and saw Hava and Donte watching him. Hatu nodded his head in farewell.

This was not the first time a student had been singled out to accompany a master or a preceptor on a mission. Hatu had travelled with both, but it was the first time he had been ordered to accompany one alone. On such assignments, he usually travelled with a small group of students.

Outside the warehouse, Hilsbek narrowed his gaze at the boy, as if he was about to say something, but before he could speak, Master Bodai turned and said, ‘I know you, don’t I?’

Hatu shrugged. ‘Yes, master, I have seen you before—’

‘Call me “brother”, for I am a holy man and you are now my beggar boy.’

Hatu instantly fell into his role. ‘I have seen you before, brother, when you came to visit Master Facaria. But we have never spoken—’ Bodai held up his hand, indicating Hatu should say nothing more. He nodded at Hilsbek.

Hilsbek wished them a safe journey and then returned to the warehouse. For an instant, Hatu wondered if Raj’s condition would be noticed, but immediately returned his attention to Master Bodai.

Bodai nodded. ‘Then we know each other by reputation.’ He motioned for Hatu to follow. ‘We take ship soon, and will have ample time to go over details, but for now, tell me what you have heard.’

Hatu was so taken aback by the question he paused for a moment and had to step quickly to catch up. Bodai was old enough to have lost some hair, and had what was known as a ‘high forehead’, but what remained of it was streaked white and grey, and hung to his collar. Hatu guessed he was in his sixties, though he walked with a lively step for a man of his age, and had a sense of strength about his movement that marked him as a dangerous opponent despite his advancing years. Experience and core strength might well overcome a younger, stronger enemy.

Hatu said, ‘I know only what other students have said, brother.’ He looked concerned as he struggled to say the right thing. ‘You explain things. To prepare them for … whatever it is they need to do. Some of them like you.’

Bodai smiled slightly, his tanned face creased like wrinkled leather around his blue eyes, broken nose, and jutting chin. ‘Some of them like me?’ he asked. ‘What of the others?’

Hatu hesitated, and Bodai said, ‘They think I talk too much?’

Hatu nodded once.

Bodai halted and laughed. ‘Perhaps I do. But I’d rather bore you to death than be killed because of your ignorance.’

Hatu was surprised that he found the response both amusing and reassuring. He appreciated the master’s mirth, and the man’s attitude appealed to Hatu’s hunger to understand everything. There was no such thing as too much information; his desire to learn lay at the root of his constant frustration and anger.

Bodai paused, narrowing his gaze. ‘This amuses you?’

‘No, brother, it pleases me.’

‘Well, then,’ Bodai responded with a playful slap to the back of Hatu’s head, ‘as it is my mission in life to please you, boy, we have begun well.’

‘Yes, brother.’

‘I shall call you … Venley. How many languages do you speak, Venley?’

‘Eleven,’ said Hatu, ‘but only five fluently.’

‘Name the five.’

‘Our tongue,’ he began.

Bodai frowned as he resumed walking. ‘Of course you do. Don’t waste my time with the obvious. So, you speak four tongues that are not native to you. What are they?’

‘Westernese—’

‘Which dialect?’ interrupted Bodai as they turned a corner and moved into a busy boulevard that led to the docks.

‘Ilcomen.’

‘Good. It won’t take long for you to master the different patois, if needed. Others?’

They crossed a small street and approached the market where Hatu and his companions had spent the day. Hatu said, ‘I speak the trading language of Matasan, as if I were a native of the island of Katalawa.’ Bodai nodded as if this was good. ‘And I also speak Ithraci.’

‘Who taught you Ithraci?’

‘A language preceptor, brother. It was by Master Facaria’s order, he insisted I learn.’ Hatu shrugged. ‘It’s a dead kingdom, so I never understood the point.’

‘Not quite dead,’ muttered Bodai. ‘And the last?’

‘Sandurani, as if I were born there.’

‘Good, because Sandura is where we need to be.’

Hatu thought on that as they crossed the market and headed towards the docks. ‘So we’re a priest and beggar boy of the One?’

‘Not quite,’ said Bodai. ‘I’m a monk, not a priest. I’ll explain the rest of it when we reach the city of Sandura’s main harbour.’

The expression on Hatu’s face revealed his impatience. He wanted to understand now, not later.

‘You will be busy until then,’ said Bodai as they reached the docks and moved towards a ship readying for departure.

Hatu let out a sigh of resignation; he was to be a sailor again. It was his third assignment aboard a ship, and although he didn’t hate the work, he could have named a dozen things he’d rather have done with his time. He knew it was likely he’d draw the night watch, for the students were often kept apart from most of the crew.

Seeing that Hatu understood, Bodai smiled. ‘Come then, let us be off,’ he said as they reached the gangplank of the ship. It was a wide-bodied trading vessel, a wallower in rough seas, Hatu guessed. He hoped he didn’t have to experience that high in the rigging at night. Resigned to the coming trials, he followed Brother Bodai up the gangplank.




• CHAPTER TWO • (#ulink_9d3c9599-ff44-526b-85da-2c3b6ddffaec)

A Task Completed (#ulink_9d3c9599-ff44-526b-85da-2c3b6ddffaec)


The smithy was windowless. It was entered via a long hall that followed an outside wall and turned a corner before emptying into the forge through a curtain. On the opposite wall, massive doors covered with hardened leather sealed out light; the glow of the furnace was the only illumination.

Horseshoes, bridles, stirrup irons, plough blades: all manner of common tools could be fashioned as the sun streamed through the massive doors, but the forging of swords was always performed in the dark, for the smith had to see the truth hidden within the colour of the metal.

Journeyman Declan had been given responsibility for overseeing the forge for the first time, and had been smelting iron into steel for three days. He knelt to examine the slag at the bottom of the furnace before returning to the huge bellows that hung from the ceiling. Declan and Jusan, the apprentice who at present napped in the corner, had been tending the bellows day and night. Declan pumped them slowly, watching the glowing embers rise on hot air into the hood above the fire, then looked back at the slag to study the colours of the flaming metal.

The journeyman smith stared into the furnace, looking for unwelcome changes in the hue. The red, orange, and white flames spoke to Declan, telling him if the iron was becoming the steel he desired. He added layer upon layer of iron sand and charcoal, paying constant attention to the heat, and within the glowing heart of the slag, something miraculous formed: jewel steel.

It was the steel from which the greatest swords were fashioned, and a material that few men could produce.

Intelligent and talented, Declan had a rare skill. He was a handsome youth nearing his twenty-second birthday but had achieved the rank of journeyman at eighteen, five years sooner than most. And he was now attempting his masterpiece a dozen years earlier than was normal for any master smith. It was unheard of for one so young, but Declan’s master, Edvalt Tasman, felt he was ready for the challenge.

The young man’s lanky frame hid the strength usually apparent in the bull shoulders and barrel chests of most smiths. Declan’s exceptional strength showed only in his forearms, wrists, and hands, which were more muscular than his otherwise slender build. He had green eyes and fair eyebrows, and his head was covered with a thick thatch of red-blond hair.

Jusan, a well-built youth of fifteen years, snored loudly in the corner. Declan turned to him and called, ‘Hey!’

The boy awoke instantly and blinked for a moment before he quickly came to stand behind the journeyman smith. Peering over Declan’s shoulder, Jusan said, ‘Is it time?’

‘Just watch and learn,’ said Declan.

Jusan watched closely as Declan used a long iron hook to pull the clay out of the furnace. Waist high and six feet on each side, the furnace had taken a day and a half to construct, and flaming coals spilled out as Declan pulled the slag out, inspected it, and put it back in the coals. ‘Just a moment longer …’ Declan muttered.

Jusan smiled at his teacher and nodded. He had a wide face and large brown eyes, and often reminded Declan of an owl as the smoke made him blink furiously. The boy was also starting to grow out of his gangly stage and his strength was approaching that of a man. He watched with interest as the mass of steel collected at the base of the furnace was revealed. Declan silently studied the pile of cooling steel, then turned to Jusan with a smile. Declan nodded once. ‘Go fetch Edvalt.’

The master smith arrived shortly after and knelt to inspect the smouldering blue-grey mass. He leaned forward until the heat threatened to singe his eyebrows and then sat back on his heels wearing a satisfied expression. A single nod indicated to Declan that he had passed the first stage of his goal: creating the steel.

Declan used large tongs to pull the slag from the bottom of the furnace and hurried to the larger of the two anvils in the smithy. While the steel was cooling, he quickly hammered it into an almost perfect cube, then moved it to the anvil where the work would be finished.

Jusan grabbed a bucket and poured water over it. Steam rolled off the hot metal as Declan retrieved a length of heavy paper and slid it under the metal, quickly wrapping the slag. For a moment the three smiths halted and prayed silently to the ancient god of the forge, Hagama.

When Edvalt’s father was a boy, smiths had performed a ritual with the prayer, but the One God’s priests had named many smiths heretics and burned them since then, and now the words were never uttered aloud.

Jusan handed Declan a pot of clay, and he applied a thick layer to all sides of the steel cube while Edvalt turned it. When it had cooled enough for the clay to be sticky but not hardened, Jusan passed the young journeyman a large jar of ashes, which Declan layered over the cube as Edvalt continued to rotate it. The ashes, clay, and paper would keep the air from the metal as the next step commenced, for the balance between air, heat, and carbon dust was vital for the final step in fashioning the steel.

Declan nodded to Jusan. ‘Bellows,’ he said quietly.

Jusan stepped away while the other two smiths picked up their hammers. Edvalt handed the tongs to Declan while Jusan pumped the bellows to encourage the fire back to its hottest point.

Declan thrust the block into the flames and watched as the paper caught and the clay quickly hardened around the steel. He waited for the perfect moment, then returned the glowing mass to the anvil.

The steel they produced was called ‘jewel steel’, or ‘precious steel’, in the secret language of the smiths. It was a mixture of iron sand and carbon dust that produced a steel of remarkable strength and durability. This part of the process was not a secret – any competent smith could create respectable steel – but the forging of jewel steel required an artistry that few smiths possessed. Edvalt was one of those few, and Declan was determined to become his equal.

‘Jusan, tongs,’ Declan instructed.

Jusan hurried to take the tongs from Declan, who glanced at Edvalt and then brought his hammer down on the cube, causing steel, clay, and paper to erupt in a burst of brilliant sparks. Declan slammed his hammer with the precise tempo of a bass drummer as Jusan deftly turned the long ash-covered metal bar with the tongs. Declan alternated blows in perfect counterpoint: crash, turn, crash, turn; the timing was critical, for this was steel for a sword of rare quality, worth the price of a hundred lesser weapons.

Edvalt watched Declan’s every move. This was the sixth time the young journeyman had participated in the creation of such a weapon, but the first time Edvalt had given Declan responsibility for every step. From judging materials to the final polish, Declan alone would determine the success or failure of his first jewel-steel sword. If successful, it would be his masterpiece, and the weapon that would elevate him from the rank of journeyman to the rank of master smith. If he made one mistake, the forging would begin again from the very start.

‘Good,’ muttered Edvalt, the only encouragement he would give Declan in his decision-making. Baron Bartholomy, the future owner of this blade, had given Edvalt ample time to fashion the weapon, and if Declan made any misstep, the old smith had enough time to fashion another.

Edvalt and Declan shared a bond closer than that of father and son. Fathers and their sons often disagreed, but masters and journeymen had one purpose: to ensure that the knowledge never died. Declan was the son Edvalt had never had; his daughter was now grown and married, and except for a stillborn son, there had been no other offspring.

They pounded and folded the steel, until Declan indicated with a nod that Jusan needed to insert the lengthened blank into the furnace. With one long stride, the young apprentice thrust the blade deep into the coals and began to turn it.

Declan watched every glimmer and spark on the hot metal, then put his hand on Jusan’s shoulder. ‘Now,’ he whispered, as if speaking loudly might imperil the process.

The young apprentice returned the blank to the anvil. Again their hammers landed powerful blows, and the heavy lump of red-hot metal slowly lengthened into a long flat blank of steel.

Declan said, ‘Tongs,’ and Jusan gave him the long handles.

As Edvalt took a step back to watch, Declan flipped the steel over at an angle and struck hard, then he folded the still-glowing metal over on itself, beating the oblong into a square. Edvalt could fold steel in half the time, but Declan’s speed would come with practice. All that mattered now was the quality of the steel.

This was crucial in the creation of the great blades. Declan would double this steel a dozen times; hours of deft hammering and heating lay ahead of him, but with each fold the process continued until hundreds of layers of metal would be created. When he was finished, this blade would hold at least five thousand, each strengthening the sword.

When Declan was satisfied with the square, he plunged it back into the forge, and Jusan pulled down the remaining clay walls of the steel furnace. No one outside the smithy would witness the manner of this sword’s construction, from how the clay was moulded into the furnace, every piece crushed to dust, to preparing the coal bed and stoking the ashes, and how the bellows would be repositioned above the open forge when they were finally finished: the special steel required for the commission was one of the most closely guarded secrets in all of Garn. Even Jusan was allowed to see only part of the process; most of the finishing work had been done by Edvalt alone or with Declan as he mastered the craft.

Jusan would be Edvalt’s last apprentice and Declan’s first, and one day he too would move on and establish his own forge somewhere. Good smiths were always in demand, and often among the most important commoners in the world, particularly those who forged weapons for the barons. Smiths and millers could also rise in position, accruing wealth enough to challenge the barons. They might never command armies, or live in castles, but they could live a life of decadence only dreamed of by other commoners.

Declan was driven by two desires: to forge his masterpiece and to make no mistake that would reflect badly on his master. He was an orphaned child, the son of a murdered tavern wench and a nameless father, who had been taken in by Edvalt and his wife, Mila. His master was as close to a father as Declan would ever know. The smith was a taciturn man who rarely showed emotion, but he had always tempered his stern nature with kindness, and Declan had a fierce desire to please him.

The young journeyman pulled the blade close to his face for the briefest instant, a habit he had learned from Edvalt as a means of testing the metal’s readiness for the next step. Declan judged the combination of colours in the metal and the level of heat rising from the steel. The young smith pushed the blade back into the coals.

Declan nodded, and Edvalt looked at Jusan and said, ‘You did well, too. Depart. Eat and rest.’

The younger apprentice needed no urging as he was hungry and tired, and he exited through the smaller door to the hall outside. Jusan knew that his lesson was over; the secrets now passed between master and journeyman might be his to learn one day, but it was not to be today.

Declan was to be shown the final step for the first time: the secret key to mastering the art of creating the blade.

‘Bellows?’ asked Declan.

Edvalt nodded agreement and put down his hammer to seize the massive arms of the bellows.

Suspended by thick chains, each wooden arm was the length of a cart trace and as thick as a man’s forearm, the large bellows bag fashioned from toughened leather. The old smith threw his considerable strength into pulling the arms apart, and the intake of air was like a giant’s gasp; then he pushed hard, sending a fountain of embers upwards into the copper and iron hood above the forge that kept them from igniting thatched roofs in the village.

Declan studied the hue of the blank and found the perfect spot within the embers. Then, without a word, Edvalt released the bellows, stooped to pick up a shuttle of coals, and deftly sprinkled them at the edge of the fire. Declan put down the hammer, picked up an iron, and, as Edvalt watched, began placing the new coals into the furnace, selecting spots where the new fuel would not lower the heat under the metal.

Then within seconds, Declan moved to the bellows. As he worked, the heat washed over master and journeyman in waves, but they ignored the discomfort, their attention focused completely. ‘Perfect,’ Edvalt muttered.

Years of patient training only manifested when the steel reached the proper temperature. Declan suddenly dropped the bellows handles and ducked underneath them. Seizing a pair of heavy tongs, he grabbed the near-flaming metal as Edvalt released the coal shuttle and reached for his heavy hammer. Declan grabbed another hammer and, without any instruction, struck down. As soon as his hammer cleared the steel, Edvalt’s smashed into the now-malleable metal.

Perspiration poured from their brows, backs, and arms, yet the men continued to hammer in a rhythmic pattern born only from years of working together; the steel flattened out. ‘Now we make magic,’ said Edvalt in the single most poetic statement Declan had ever heard from the smith. He had assisted Edvalt before in making this sort of rare blade, but until now had never been permitted to witness the final step.

Edvalt went to a tool chest and lifted out a modest wooden box. Declan had noticed it on the first day of his apprenticeship and had often wondered about its contents, but he had never voiced that curiosity.

Edvalt opened the box and inside it Declan saw fine grains of something that looked like salt, glowing red-orange in the forge’s light.

‘Sand from the Burning Lands,’ said the master smith. ‘You need to learn to do this alone, so come and stand where I am. This is the last secret of our craft that I can teach you.’

Declan moved to the other side of the forge, the tongs and hammer ready. ‘Flatten,’ Edvalt commanded, and Declan started to beat the red-hot metal, making it thinner on every blow.

‘Be ready,’ said the old smith as he placed the box next to Declan. ‘When I say now, you must do three things very quickly: first, judge the colour of the steel. Then take a handful of sand from this box and sprinkle it down the very centre of the blade. When the sand sparkles like stars in the heavens, you must then fold the steel one last time.’

Perspiration flowed in sheets down Declan’s face and chest, from both the heat and the concentration. He studied the metal, moving the blade around as he struck, then just as he judged it ready to fold, he heard Edvalt say, ‘Now!’

Declan put his hammer down and pulled the blade towards him as he grabbed a handful of fine sand; he felt the weight of it, measuring the amount he needed, and sprinkled the sand onto the flaming metal.

Smoke and flame erupted. Sand sparkled and flared into tiny bright pinpoints of white, and some stuck to the surface. ‘More along the right edge!’ instructed Edvalt at exactly the same moment Declan decided he needed more on that side. The young journeyman felt exhilarated: he was creating the soul of the sword.

‘Now! Edges only!’ said Edvalt, and suddenly Declan understood the secret: the sand hardened the steel with each blow. The slightly softer, more resilient centre prevented the sword from shattering, while the extra sand at the edge created a harder steel that could be honed razor sharp.

He knew!

Without hesitation or a second thought, Declan started to beat the steel until it began to look like the weapon the baron had commissioned: a stout sword of moderate length, long enough to reach over a horse’s neck, to use against men on foot without being a hindrance in the saddle. When he reached the end of the blade, he took it back to the furnace and inserted the tip into the coals. Declan tried not to show any excitement as he neared the end of his task, but he was almost light-headed with the anticipation of reaching this milestone. He forced himself to calm. When the colour deepened in the butt end of the blade, he pulled it from the coals, returned to the anvil, and deftly flipped the blade around so he could shape the blank, where the tongs had gripped, into a proper tang. Quickly he hammered the steel into submission.

Then it was done.

Declan looked at Edvalt. The smith held a bucket of water ready. Most smiths would plunge the rough blade straight into the water, quenching the heat and setting the steel’s hardness fast, but Edvalt preferred to hold his blade out as his apprentice poured water from the large wooden bucket across the metal. He claimed it was easier for him to judge the cooling process, to watch the colour of the blade change as the steam exploded on contact. Declan didn’t care what other smiths did; he knew the quality of his master’s work and was determined to be his equal.

This time it was the student who held the blade and the teacher who quenched it. When the blade had cooled enough, Edvalt gave his journeyman a quick nod of approval.

Declan used a heavy cloth and gripped the still-hot blade. He selected a guard and slipped it over the tang, ramming it down hard into a hole at the end of the anvil cut specifically for this purpose. Guards did occasionally break and need to be replaced, but Declan believed his sword would serve years without the slightest problem.

He retrieved a roll of thin bull hide, cut an inch wide, and quickly wrapped the tang to form the grip. When that was finished, he held the blade for a moment, testing its balance. He could hardly believe how perfect it felt. Hefting the sword, he glanced at his master.

Both men felt tears welling at the beauty of what they had created, and words between them were not necessary.

Edvalt moved to the large smithy doors and unlatched them, sliding them aside. Brilliant afternoon sunlight blinded both men for a moment; then a relatively cool wave of air refreshed them. It was a hot summer day, but the air inside the smithy when forging a sword was hotter still.

Declan asked, ‘Pommel?’

Edvalt shook his head. ‘If his lordship wished some fancy stone or metal, he failed to mention such. I will offer him the choice when he arrives.’

Declan tossed the blade hilt first and Edvalt deftly caught it. Declan went to the well and hauled up a bucket, unhooked it, and carried it back. Edvalt tucked the blade under his arm and took the bucket between large muscular hands, lifted it to his lips, and drank heavily, then allowed his student to follow suit.

Edvalt held up the sword and inspected it in the sunlight. He looked down its length and finally tossed it back to Declan.

The young man caught it and wielded it as a swordsman might. The sword was bluish-grey and needed to be ground to an edge with a fine finishing stone, then polished, first with foundation polish, then fine polish, then at last silk cloth. In another few days the blade would be ready and gleam a brilliant silver-grey in the sun. He glanced at his master, who looked on expectantly, and finally Declan handed it back and said, ‘I find no flaw.’

‘Because there is none,’ said Edvalt, and with an unexpected show of affection, he reached out with his free hand to give Declan’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘It is a fitting masterpiece. You did well.’

‘I was taught well,’ said Declan, emotions threatening to rise up.

Glancing around against being overheard, even by someone as trusted as his wife or apprentice, Edvalt spoke softly, just above a whisper. ‘The sand comes from the north side of an island. From the port city of Abala, on the edge of the Burning Lands, you ride a day eastwards along the shore until you come to bluffs. Follow the beach until you come to a jutting headland, and look up. You will see above you three massive trees, like dark sisters of cursed legend. Look due south, and if the day is clear, you will see the island. A strong man can swim there in an hour; do not rent a boat lest someone divine your purpose. Gather what you need from the deep sand above the high-water line; this box has served me for ten years. You know how much is needed for the blade, and in all your years here I have made but five such. One box should last you a lifetime.

‘Once safely hidden from curious eyes, sift the sand, many times, taking out all impurities, then boil it to a slurry and filter that. Cover the sand as you let the slurry dry, protected from impurities – even dust – then sift it again. That sand will be salt white, without blemish, and it is what sets this blade apart from other blades, even those made with jewel steel. This is what gives the blade a sharpness none can match. No other sand will do this. This sand is a perfect mix, put there by the old gods for smiths, for this secret goes back before the coming of the One God.’ He paused, then concluded: ‘You now possess the secret of king’s steel.’

Declan was astonished. Until this moment he had believed king’s steel was a legend, spoken of by smiths to amaze their apprentices, for it had been said in ancient times skills in armour and arms surpassed what was known today, that through war and time arts had been lost.

‘Five such blades have I made.’

‘But you never named the steel—’ began Declan.

Gripping his former apprentice’s shoulder, Edvalt stopped him. ‘And you must never give its name, until you have an apprentice you prize as highly as I prize you. Then you may share it, but with none other. Few smiths know it is not legend, and fewer still would recognise it.’ He smiled. ‘Most would judge it jewel steel, accomplishment enough by their lights, but those few who would see it for what it is … they would hold silent with that name as well.

‘This is the most valued secret of our craft and only a handful of us know it. Now you are the newest to that secret. Guard it with your life. For it is what will some day earn you a fortune. Teach it to your son, or another you love as a son.’

Declan nodded, fearful to speak lest his voice crack. Edvalt had been a father to him, though for his entire life the subject was never openly spoken upon by either man. Moisture gathered in his eyes and he nodded again.

Edvalt returned the nod, swallowing hard. Then he smiled slightly. ‘If Baron Bartholomy pays the agreed-upon price, I shall never again worry about the future, even if you do not buy this smithy from me.

‘One more caution: should you be approached to make such a weapon, do not even admit you possess the skill until you have a sworn oath that such a thing’ – he indicated the sword Declan held – ‘will never be spoken of to another; you are sharing in this secret with Baron Bartholomy because he is the buyer.’ Edvalt paused, looking deep into Declan’s eyes. ‘This is your masterpiece. Not even your apprentice must know of the difference between jewel steel and king’s steel until you name him master of the craft. You may never have such, so do not let your fear of the secret being lost cause you to give this gift to a lesser smith. There will always be a few.’ He put his hand on Declan’s shoulder, his eyes glistening; softly he added, ‘I was ready to take this to my grave, save that you appeared.’ He swallowed hard and returned to his brisk manner. ‘Aye, and should you have cause to even admit to another master your knowledge, it is done thus.

‘When asked, “This is a rare blade. It’s a jewel of a thing.” Then if you do not trust to answer or the other smith does not know of such a thing as king’s steel, you give thanks for the generous appraisal. But if the man is a master like yourself and you need to speak of this, the answer is, “Thank you; I think it a jewel fit for a king.” Then you will know you speak to your equal.’

Edvalt stopped speaking. After a moment, as if anticipating something remarkable in his life, he looked around slowly. Declan followed the sweep of his vision and saw what Edvalt saw.

The smithy was located at the west end of the village of Oncon. Their location kept them downwind most of the time from the other inhabitants, so the smoke, soot, and noise was less bothersome. That was a happy accident of terrain and weather; the location of the smithy had been chosen because of the ample supply of water from the well and easy access to the road above.

Edvalt continued to look into the distance, and Declan tried to guess what Edvalt was seeing. Declan recalled little of his life before coming here at roughly live years old. Still, he paused and took in what Edvalt was watching, because something about this moment seemed vital to the smith.

The ancient village of Oncon lay on Covenant lands near the kingdom of Ilcomen and was typical of many of the Covenant communities. So close to the border, it fared poorly in bounty from travellers; most continued on eastwards to the village of Bashe, or westwards to Ilagan, the first town of Ilcomen. It was an unfortunate traveller who timed his journey such that he needed to spend the night at Oncon’s excuse for an inn; there were no rooms and guests would sleep on the floor, even under the tables. The town survived on trade with local farms, mostly sheep destined for Ilagan’s spring fair, and there were enough fish from the sea to feed everyone. No one was rich in Oncon, but no one starved.

The local area, called the Narrows, was a bottleneck between the Western and Eastern Realms, and the fast route for travelling between North and South Tembria. It had changed over the years, slowly at first, but lately things seemed to be getting more dangerous. The Covenant was still being observed for the most part, but rumours of troubles in the east heading their way had caused Edvalt to caution the rest of the villagers to keep alert to strangers and be ready in case of trouble.

Declan occasionally wondered about that larger world away from his home village. He could see the occasional ship pass by if he was outside the smithy, and sometimes wondered where it was from.

This village, in the small area known as the Covenant, bridging North and South Tembria, was Declan’s world. The rest of Garn consisted of five smaller continents. The two closest, Alastor and Enast, were populated by barbarians and warlords, some self-proclaimed kings, gathered in city-states and holdfasts, but they were considered unworthy of mention by civilized men. Only traders and outlaws risked travelling there. Or that was what he had been told as a boy by those who stopped to have horses shod, or their wheel band or yoke repaired, and took a moment to speak to a curious boy. One man had actually claimed to have travelled to Alastor, where he met men who had been to the other side of the world.

All that was known of the other three continents was their names; their locations were often contested by mapmakers, and they were reputed to be home to monsters, malignant spirits, practitioners of the darkest magic, and a multitude of horrors and wonders. Declan had always doubted those claims. He had met enough travellers and overheard enough boasting at the little inn in Oncon to know stories grew with time and ale.

But he only knew Oncon.

Declan thought it wasn’t a bad place to live. He enjoyed the weather, for the seasons along the shores of the Narrows were clement: summers warm, winters mild. There was always ample food and ale. The sea breeze picked up, as it did this time of day, and Declan drank in its cool freshness; he realised he was tired to his bones and parched.

Taking a drink from the bucket, Declan looked up to see Edvalt watching him. Just loud enough to be heard, the old smith softly asked, ‘What do you see, boy?’

Declan smiled. ‘Home.’

Edvalt nodded. ‘Aye, and not a bad one as such things go.’ He put his hand on Declan’s shoulder. ‘When you came here, you travelled with a family that wasn’t your own. They apprenticed you to me in exchange for repairing their wagon …’ His voice fell away. ‘It took only one glance to see their story was true, for you were a large boy, with eager eyes, and their children were all small, frightened things.’ He chuckled. ‘Mila was so angry that I’d taken in a lad who would be no help to us for years, for you were so young. Yet from the start you sought to earn your keep, struggling to haul the big coal scuttle, or bravely holding the fractious horses while I shod them.

‘But you won her over, lad.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You’re the best I’ve trained, Declan, and if I had a son of my own, I would want him to be like you. Should you wish to start out on your own, I understand, but if you’ve a mind to agree, I would be pleased for you to take this forge as your own.’

‘You’ve a lot of good years left, Edvalt, and I don’t know if … I don’t know.’ Declan hesitated. He wasn’t entirely sure how Edvalt’s offer made him feel. ‘I’ve been of a mind to set out and find my own way, settle down with a good woman, start my own family.’

‘Not a bad choice. Think on it. For today I pronounce you a master smith and my equal.’

‘Never that, master.’

Edvalt’s eyes showed his feelings, but being a man of few words, he could only put his hand on the young man’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly before he turned and headed into his home.

Declan remained alone for a while, as fatigue and emotion threatened to overwhelm him. Then after a few minutes, he followed Edvalt into the house.




• CHAPTER THREE • (#ulink_1144623c-1860-526c-a1a0-48c9f4244ac2)

Dangerous Discovery (#ulink_1144623c-1860-526c-a1a0-48c9f4244ac2)


Dockworkers hauled the ship into its berth in the north dock of the city of Sandura. Seven men pulled on a thick hawser, while two youngsters quickly arranged the wooden fenders between its hull and the dock, so that the tidal motion of the sea wouldn’t damage the ship as it rubbed against the stone. It had arrived in port on the morning tide, but by the time a harbour boat with a hawser had rowed out and tossed lines to the crew in the prow, it was nearing noon.

Hatu finished reefing the sails and slid down a rope to the railing, jumped over it, and made for the sailors’ deck, where his go-bag was stored. The deck crew made fast everything that needed to be tied down, while Hatu and the rest of the aloft crew headed belowdecks.

As Hatu wended his way through the clutter of sailors to his hammock, he saw many of the men removing leather neck thongs and untying small objects from their belt loops. He recognised them as various icons of Othan, goddess of the sea and weather, and realised the crew were hiding them in various spots on the sailors’ deck. Hatu understood that meant they were now somewhere the Church of the One held sway and to be seen with any item associated with an old god could land a man on top of a heretic’s pyre.

On reaching the main deck, Hatu spied Master Bodai. Seeing the boy, he motioned for him to come stand at his side. When the youngster reached the man playing the part of a mendicant friar, Bodai said, ‘We wait.’ He leaned on a shoulder-high walking stick, almost a battle staff but not as conspicuous, though Hatu was certain Master Bodai could employ it as such with lethal effect should the occasion warrant.

It took Hatu a moment to realise that the play had begun; as one of the most important masters in Coaltachin, Bodai would usually be first off the ship, but here, as an impoverished monk, he would be among the last passengers to leave.

When the passenger before them had departed, Bodai put his hand on Hatu’s shoulder. ‘Be ready,’ he instructed.

Hatu nodded. He had questions but knew they would keep until a more private moment; until then, he would simply follow instructions and Brother Bodai’s lead. Hatu fell into step behind Bodai, moving last onto the gangplank, keeping his head down, and attempting to look the part of an inconsequential servant.

On the dock, they were just steps away from the gangplank when two men approached, a soldier with the yellow and red badge of Sandura on his tunic, and another wearing a large black badge with a solid white circle at its centre: the sign of the One.

It was the servant of the Church of the One who spoke. ‘Who are you, traveller?’

‘Brother Chasper, late of Turana, an island of Lanobly.’

‘Brother?’ he replied. ‘You wear no vestment or badge.’

The newly named Chasper smiled broadly and said, ‘I am a mendicant friar of the Order of the Harbinger. This is my beggar boy, Venley.’

A look of confusion crossed the soldier’s face and the officer of the Church looked annoyed. ‘We expected an episkopos of your order and his retinue …’ He left the sentence unfinished and made a general circular motion encompassing the itinerant monk.

‘The episkopos hasn’t arrived?’ said Bodai, feigning alarm. ‘I was supposed to join him, to then carry news …’ He gave a sigh that Hatu, now named Venley, thought a hit too theatrical.

It worked, however, as the church official waved them towards the city and said, ‘Go down the main boulevard, across the small plaza, and take the northern street on the other side, two crossings, then west again until you see the burned-out building that was once your order’s temple.’ He almost spat the last word, for all buildings of the One were called churches. The followers of Tathan had been among the first to modify their doctrine to integrate themselves into the Church of the One, claiming the god of purity had been only a prophet, the Harbinger of the One. Many in the church viewed the followers of Tathan as only slightly better than heretics.

Bodai nodded, bowed slightly, and then pushed Hatu’s shoulder in the direction the man had indicated.

When they were safely away, Bodai said, ‘Interesting, don’t you think?’

Hatu glanced at his master and waited for a moment to see if the question had been rhetorical or if the old man actually sought his opinion. Finally, he nodded agreement.

‘What do you judge from that?’ asked Bodai.

Hatu thought about that question for a moment, then said, ‘They’re looking for someone, or they’re worried about strangers, perhaps both. The manner in which they questioned you, brother, makes me think that the Church of the One is concerned about something, and that the king is supporting them.’ He shrugged.

Bodai nodded once. ‘Look around, what do you see?’

Hatu did a quick survey of the long street. When they neared the plaza, he said, ‘It’s a beautiful day.’

‘Yes, it is,’ agreed Bodai. ‘The weather here is often overcast and dark, cloudy, or raining, but today, sunshine. What else?’

As they entered the small plaza, Hatushaly looked around, taking a moment to appraise their surroundings, then said, ‘This is far from a happy place.’ Rather than busy market stalls, which he would have expected to see in any city he visited, only a few people moved around a small, well-kept, but otherwise unremarkable fountain in the centre of the plaza.

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Bodai as he paused before the water, reached in, and made a show of rubbing his face and neck.

Hatu followed his example and leaned over the water to freshen up before he replied, ‘No one lingers here. There are no sellers, despite this being a wonderful market, so someone – the king?’ he speculated. ‘Or someone important has decided to keep this plaza free of merchants.’ Hatu splashed a little water on his own face, glancing around as he wiped it with his hands. ‘They don’t want people gathering here. There are three armed men in identical garb: the city guard? For a place this size, with so few people, there are too many soldiers. They watch. People passing near to them avert their eyes. We saw the same behaviour on the streets from the docks.’

‘Enough,’ whispered Bodai, shaking his hands as if ridding them of excess water. ‘Come along.’

Hatu followed the counterfeit monk through the streets as instructed by the church official. They found the site of the former Temple of Tathan, now a skeleton of burned timbers and an altar charred black. Rain and wind had scoured the abandoned building of ash and cinders, and they could walk across the stone floor without turning their sandalled feet black.

‘Some time ago,’ said Bodai softly, ‘the king of this dolorous nation embraced the Church of the One. All other gods and goddesses were pronounced lesser and demonic beings, and in their enthusiasm to rid the city of the evil places of worship, the king’s soldiers got a little carried away. They failed to remember that this order had contrived a narrative, a wonderful story that named Tathan the Pure a prophetic being, a heavenly messenger who proclaimed the coming of the One.’

The false monk knocked on a still-upright timber with his staff. ‘Hmmm, with some good craftsmen, this place might be restored sooner than I thought.’ As if musing to himself, he muttered, ‘Scrape off this char, see how much good timber is left …’

After studying the burned timber, Bodai came out of his reverie. ‘Now, as I was saying, this king was the first monarch of stature to elevate the Church of the One above all others, and by seizing this opportunity Lodavico Sentarzi, ruler of Sandura’ – he lowered his voice – ‘known widely as “the King of Sorrows”, not only gained a new title, “His Most Holy Majesty”, which he seems to find most agreeable, but gave the Church of the One an official base from which to operate, a home, as it were. Word reached us some months ago that the ancient city of Sandura’ – he gestured to their surroundings – ‘was now being called “the Holy City”, which also seems to please Lodavico.

‘You will learn that some places are often very important,’ Bodai continued. He found a relatively clean piece of masonry, a support for an interior wall now missing, and sat. He motioned for Hatu to sit at his side. ‘The obvious places are defensible positions along routes others wish to take or occupy, or advantageous sites from which to launch assaults. Being near a good water supply and fertile land, a tidy harbour, or other natural features often persuaded people to choose a place to build a city, or rather they did in ages past; we do not see a lot of cities being built now, do we?’

Hatu could see it was a rhetorical question and so said nothing, merely nodding his understanding and agreement.

‘Other important places are symbolic: sites where great battles were undertaken, so we remember the victors’ heroics or lament the loss of the vanquished. Or the holy places.’ He motioned out of the burned doorway, and Hatu looked up at the high plateau barely visible above the rooftop of the building across the street. ‘Up there,’ continued Bodai, ‘the Church is constructing their most holy place: a cathedral, the grandest of their churches and the seat of an episkopos. Only this cathedral will be the home of many episkopos, their entire ruling council.’ He sighed theatrically, sounding, in Hatu’s opinion, far too amused, and said, ‘And they’re building it right next to His Most Holy Majesty’s palace.’

Hatu looked confused. ‘But—’

‘That compromises the defensible position of Lodavico’s castle, I know.’ Bodai waved his hand around, indicating the entire city. ‘His castle is now a citadel given how much his capital has grown since his forefathers built the fortress. Should an army knock at its gates, the addition of the cathedral will hardly matter. He will have already lost the war.’ He smiled at Hatu. ‘But it’s good to see that you pay attention when your preceptors speak about military history. Unlike that rock-headed friend of yours.’

Hatu tried not to smile, for he knew Bodai was speaking of Donte. Being the grandson of one of the seven masters on the Council had often saved Donte from receiving the more severe punishments he deserved. Any other student would have been sent away for several of his infractions, and certainly for the number of rules Hatu’s friend had broken over the years.

As a boy, Donte had been merely fractious, but as he grew older, his behaviour turned to a near-constant defiance. Hatu judged that within a few years Donte could be a crew captain, or perhaps a gang captain, or even dead, but he doubted his friend would rise to his father’s and grandfather’s status. He might have a chance if he learned to curb his impulses, but Hatu doubted Donte would ever become a master.

Students who were sent away from the schools when they were little, returned to their parents, were apprenticed to crafts in the town, or sent to work on farms or in fishing villages. But after a certain age, when certain secrets had been learned … Hatu didn’t care to think about it but had made the assumption that those students were discreetly murdered.

That was the curse of the chosen: to be selected to train as a sicari and potentially become a member of the Quelli Nascosti, the secret army of Coaltachin, meant that after a certain point you would know too much to be allowed to leave. Hatu sensed that he, Hava, and Donte were close to that point. While certain intricacies about the inner workings of the army were still kept from students of their age and experience, Hatu had observed enough to extrapolate how the Coaltachin nation might be organized, and little of what he had been told of late had come as a surprise, which had bolstered his confidence. Remembering the conversation he shared with his friends after being scolded by the gang boss Hilsbek, Hatu realised that they had perhaps already passed that point. Hatu was uncertain, for he had little more than speculation to go on. There was an old saying about what happened within powerful families when someone like a Donte failed to rise: ‘Those who know don’t talk, and those who talk don’t know.’

For the deepest secret of the Kingdom of Night was that, beyond its islands, it represented the largest, most extensive criminal empire on Garn. Coaltachin was not a kingdom, as there was no king, but it was ruled by a council of seven masters, each of whom controlled a ‘family’. Within these families were the regimes who directed many gangs across many cities.

Council titles usually passed from family member to family member – unless a family was displaced by another, more powerful family, often at the cost of bloodshed and the creation of factions; this organization had been formed to settle such disputes and, most important of all, to protect an ancient way of life. Master Zusara was the final arbiter for issues that the Council was unable to settle, and while masters might contest with one another, all united against outsiders.

Criminal activity provided the island nation with the bulk of its wealth, but the agents sent around the world to work on behalf of distant rulers, or affluent merchants, provided the most vital commodities: they uncovered critical economic and political intelligence before anyone else; they produced significant riches, for the services of the island nation did not come cheaply; but their most important commodity of all was information, and their most potent weapon was fear. Those above who were crew bosses and regime bosses were sicari. Not only the best fighters, they had to be smart enough to command criminals and maintain effective control over their gangs.

Above the sicari were the nocusara. The term meant ‘invisible’, ‘hidden’, or ‘unseen’ and was reserved for only the most skilled sicari, those who achieved the highest level of training and trust. They were the legendary ghost warriors: the assassins, spies, and agents of the Kingdom of Night who could enter any building, no matter how well guarded, and take the life of any ruler. They were the agents who diverted information and gained some nobles power over their rivals. Most of their reputation was due to clever planning, theatrical tricks, and selecting agents who were suited and trained for specific tasks. While not supernatural beings, the nocusara were among the finest-trained assassins and warriors on Garn, the very best of the sicari.

The Kingdom of Night relied on its reputation, well earned by the Quelli Nascosti and their sicari, but for the most part it was a nation of thugs, bandits, confidence tricksters, thieves, and smugglers. Practically none of the significant criminal activity across the eastern half of North Tembria or the northeast quadrant of South Tembria, or even in the Ten Thousand Islands, was undertaken without Coaltachin’s notice or participation. And none of it occurred without their tacit approval.

As was his nature, Hatu had countless questions, but painful experience had taught him to keep them to himself unless an opportunity for him to ask without repercussions presented itself. Master Bodai’s playful reference to Donte’s behaviour was not permission to press forward with unwelcome questions, and might even have been a test of some sort; the masters and preceptors often lured students into logic or behaviour traps to judge, correct, or punish as the situation warranted.

Bodai said, ‘We shall wait here, though I think not for too long. A day or two more; perhaps one or two beyond that.’ He looked around and said, ‘But tonight we shall act like dutiful members of a questionable sect under the fastest-rising power in this world. And also we need to eat.’ He looked at Hatu. ‘Bowl?’

Hatu pulled open his go-bag and withdrew a simple wooden bowl, slightly flatter and wider than a soup bowl. He had used it for his meals, but it now became his beggar’s bowl.

‘We shall begin the mummery in earnest tomorrow.’ Bodai threw some small coins into the bowl. ‘There is a larger square three streets west of here, the second largest in this city, and at the northwest corner you’ll find an alehouse. It is not one of ours, but we have agents there. Should anything befall me, that is where you must go and ask for a man called Luke. Do you know what to say to him?’

Hatu nodded once. ‘I’m travelling from an island to the east.’

Bodai smiled. That was the correct code to identify someone from Coaltachin in need of assistance.

‘Do not go there for any other reason, unless you are in dire need.’ Sitting back, ignoring the soot on the wall behind him, Bodai slapped both hands on his knees. ‘To the south of there, across the mouth of the most northwestern street and three doors down, is a bakery. There, you will haggle for a bit with the owner for a loaf of bread – he makes an excellent one with rosemary and a hint of garlic – and as you return, you’ll pass a cheese vendor. Buy something not too far gone, with only a bit of mould, and finally get a skin of wine. Manage that on the coins I gave you.’

Hatu glanced at the sky and saw it was barely past noon. ‘How long should I linger, brother?’

‘As long as it takes to overhear gossip, discover interesting rumours, or ascertain anything of value. Now go!’

Hatu gripped his beggar bowl and said, ‘Yes, brother,’ and was off.

HATUSHALY WANDERED WITH PURPOSE, CHANGING his walking pace and never lingering overly long in one spot. The market was a fair size; he could weave his way completely through it in slightly over an hour. He moved neither too fast nor too slowly, careful not to attract attention, and knew better than to approach any merchant’s stall too closely. A beggar boy near to their wares would instantly draw scrutiny from any experienced merchant, for the grab-and-dash was a constant threat they endured. The more valuable goods were always placed near the back of the booths; some merchants organized their tables into open squares, so you had to enter the stall to fully inspect the merchandise, while smaller stalls with a single table front challenged a thief to reach to the back of the booth to steal the better-quality goods, an action sure to bring a club or blade crashing down on all but the quickest miscreants before they could escape.

Hatu also made a quick surveillance of the area of the city between the plaza with its market and the main road that ran up the hill to the citadel where the cathedral was under construction. From the northeast corner of the square, the road wended its way upwards, doubling back and rising rapidly from the northern edge of the plaza; it was fenced or walled until it reached the edge of the grounds abutting the old castle. The main road was busy, and from what he had learned, the establishments closest to the old castle were likely to be the oldest and most successful, for their proprietors could quickly retreat into the castle if the city were attacked, while those below were more likely to be sacked.

Hatu’s first impression of this city was reinforced by the mood and manner of the people in the market. Too many watchmen patrolled the area, and when he passed one of them Hatu did his best to imitate a local going about his business, but if it was safe, he watched the crowd. He looked for vantage points where he could pause for a few minutes and observe. There was no hint of joy in the noise surrounding him. In most open markets you would hear the occasional laugh, or the sound of music if entertainers were earning coins, but here in Sandura the population seemed suspicious, as if constantly under watch, and by now Hatu was of the opinion that they were.

Finishing up his last task, finding an inexpensive but palatable wine, he began his journey back to Bodai, constantly observing as much as possible. For once he was pleased Donte was not with him. Subtlety was not among his friend’s good qualities; he seemed to have a need to call attention to himself at the worst possible moments. It was as if Donte couldn’t stand quiet. Hatu wondered how he would do once he left the school; he didn’t seem to fit the role of sicari. Perhaps Donte would do well in the more traditional, if modest, army of the Coaltachin nation. Or perhaps he would rise to be a regime captain, responsible for running multiple crews in one or more cities.

Hatu would have welcomed Hava’s company. She had an almost perfect set of abilities and a even-tempered nature that would serve a mission like this well. Her presence both calmed and excited him, and lately his feelings towards her were becoming more complicated. She had been his friend and confidante for almost a lifetime, but she confused him. He didn’t know if she understood him or simply accepted him. In an environment where everyone had tried to either change him or find his flaws, she had taken him just as he was.

He’d been with girls before: the town girls were more than pleased to have sex with the students, for the chance to become the wife of a captain, or even a master, was perhaps their only opportunity to rise in station above their parents. Hatu never heard of it happening, but the daydream lived on. But his feelings for Hava were more complicated than simple desire. He struggled to put a name to them, though familiarity and comfort were there. He felt a growing desire, but students were not permitted to have sex with each other. Such attachments were forbidden, and should a talented girl like Hava become pregnant, the boy involved would be given a death sentence.

Hatu pushed Hava out of his mind as he realised he was becoming distracted. He paused to look around and take stock of what he had missed, then returned to the task at hand. Circling back through the market to where he’d started, having found nothing noteworthy to report, he finally reached the burned-out temple, where he found Brother Chasper dozing. However, as he neared, Hatu saw it was a ruse; Master Bodai had been watching the passing traffic closely. Without looking up, he asked, ‘Anything?’

Hatu shook his head. ‘Nothing unusual: normal market commerce, people arguing, others speaking of family, business, gossip.’ He shrugged.

‘Ah,’ said the older man, making a show of awakening. ‘Good, I am hungry.’

‘Shall I find wood for a fire?’ asked Hatu.

Shaking his head, Bodai said, ‘Cold camp tonight. Besides, nothing we have needs cooking.’

Hatu had the merchant wrap the bread and cheese in stiff paper that rustled loudly as he unfolded it into a makeshift platter. Without a word, Bodai took the small slice of cheese and broke it in half, tore off a large hunk of bread, and began eating.

The meal passed with little conversation, as Bodai was intent on studying those who passed on the road as the late afternoon wore on to evening. Hatu drank sparingly of the wine. He honestly couldn’t tell if it was good or not, as drinking wine and other spirits was still new to him, and he had a slight dread of becoming intoxicated. He hated the feeling of being out of control.

As they finished their scant meal, Bodai said, ‘How do you feel about some after-dark prowling?’

Hatu smiled. The old man wasn’t asking if he was willing but informing him of what he would be doing. ‘That should depend on where you’re sending me.’

Without a word, Bodai looked above the building across the street and Hatu realised he was about to be sent to investigate the new cathedral next to the palace, and its surroundings, perhaps inside the citadel itself should he find a way in. He took a breath to calm himself and began mentally retracing his steps through the city leading to the road up to the old castle. Now he wished he had paid a little more attention to the route.

EARLIER IN THE DAY, HATU had chanced a quick journey up the road leading to the plateau above the city. For this evening’s foray, he hurried past a row of businesses preparing to shut down for the night and quickly entered a shop near the top of the winding road leading up to the palace, one that was about to close. He wanted to avoid attracting the attention of the guards at the end of the road, denying them a glimpse of anyone unusually close to their post.

Hatu nodded to the vendor of fine cloth and glanced around for a moment as the merchant narrowed his gaze at the scruffy-looking lad; then, with a smile, Hatu darted back through the door, hugging the wall and insinuating himself between this building and the next. He crouched and glanced around, hoping his movement hadn’t been seen in the failing light.

The bored-looking guards showed no sign of having spotted him, as they chatted about something across the distance between them – one stationed on each side of the gate – their subject unintelligible to Hatu. He studied closely what he had only glanced at for a few seconds earlier in the day.

A gate and a cleared area of ground lay before the entrance to the citadel. The ancient stone walls sat a good distance from the edge of the plateau. Hatu had been taught some military history and theory, so he assumed there was a reason for that clearing but had no idea what it was. He imagined that it might be transformed into a road leading to the cathedral, but he knew nothing about engineering, so how that could be achieved was a question he would have to ponder another time, should such curiosity return to visit him.

He had difficulty understanding the differences between temples, churches, and cathedrals, all of which seemed interchangeable in his mind; they were all places people went to worship. Their size, if anything, seemed to have significance. Hatu had seen a few temples in out-of-the-way places, a couple of which had still been in use, and for the most part they were modest buildings, perhaps as large as a decent inn. A few had even been small enough to be called shrines, with just a roof and a single bench. Churches were not much bigger but tended to be far gaudier, from what he could remember. The cathedral on the plateau, however, seemed to be a massive undertaking.

One point of its construction struck Hatu as odd: a tower had been built that seemed to look down into the old marshalling yard on the east side of the palace. He felt an itch of annoyance that some key information was evading him and pushed it aside to concentrate on the task at hand: to get past the guards at the gate. Slipping past them would be impossible. The gate was closed for the night, and had a door in it that only one person at a time could pass through.

Hatu looked back along the narrow passage between the two buildings and saw a crate nestled against the side of the next building. He could easily use it to jump to the roof.

He had run rooftops before, though he had no love for it, especially alone and in the dark. The crate seemed providential, as he had no companions to boost or catch him. He wasn’t completely certain, but he thought he could clear the gaps between the buildings to reach the last roof before the gate.

The tricky part of roof jumping was the landing. To aim for the peak of the roof was ideal, as it would be braced and solid. Stories were told in school about students crashing through thin thatch with no support, old flimsy tiles, or even thin sheets of wood. But the problem with aiming for the peak was that it was a narrow target, often mere inches wide, and missing it, losing your balance, and rolling off the eaves was as bad an outcome as crashing through the roof.

A successful landing on any roof could be noisy, so it had been drilled into him only to try that if he was running for his life. Some stone tiles were tricky, as well. Nailed shingles were best. He had studied the rooftops earlier in the day as a matter of habit and those along this street seemed to be heavy tiles or wooden shingles, so he thought he had a good chance to reach the cathedral this way.

He hurried to the crate, saw it was sturdy wood, and easily gained the top of the first roof. There were four more houses and he crouched low, timed his first jump, and landed as silently as he could, very close to the peak. While it sounded a little too loud to him, Hatu realised anyone not standing directly below where he’d landed was unlikely to have noticed the noise.

Hatu reached the edge of the penultimate roof and judged the distance to the last. He realised it was only slightly further than takeoff to landing in a yard game he had played when he was younger; he reconsidered his run and jump, took two steps back, and executed a simple hop, squat, and jump, and landed with both feet squarely on the peak of the final roof with barely a sound.

Feeling uncharacte‌ristically smug for a moment, Hatu tiptoed quickly along the peak and reached the end of the roof. In times past, a wall might have existed along the edge of the plateau, long since torn down as the city erected more distant outer walls. Nothing remained but some irregular mounds, probably foundation stones covered by centuries of earth, rising and falling at irregular intervals.

The remaining wall lay across the road, complete with a massive gate and guards. The building Hatu stood upon constituted a barrier blocking access to the citadel.

He judged the width of the wall that almost abutted the building, to see where he might land safely, but those points were too far away to make any reasonable attempt at jumping down.

He reversed his position and lowered himself to hang from the eaves, then dropped, remaining as silent as possible. He bent his knees when he landed and continued into a low crouch, turning to look at the guards by the gate.

Hatu had landed where the corner of the building almost met the gate wall. A small child might have been able to slip through the gap, but not a grown man. He assumed that the remaining gate was for local security, not military defence, for an invading army would have had to fight its way through the entire city to reach this position, and levelling the house behind him would most certainly take less time than battering down that old gate with a ram.

He looked at the rear of the building, suddenly concerned about how he was going to get back to Bodai, and realised that a pile of refuse and broken masonry had created a makeshift wall between where he stood near the edge of the building and the edge of the plateau. Hatu tried to inspect it as best he could in the dim light of the gate lamps and soon hoped that he did not have to depart in a hurry. Then he spied a sturdy-looking small crate, or more correctly a large wooden box. He gingerly moved towards it, as he had no idea what he might be stepping on among the debris, and his role as a beggar boy demanded he wear poor footwear. He was relieved to find the box met his requirements; it was sturdy enough that he could stand on it and boost himself back onto the roof when he needed to take his leave.

Hatu removed it as quietly as he could, hoisted it over his head, and slowly returned to the edge of the building, keeping the closest guard in sight through the narrow gap as best he could. He was far enough away from the corner of the gate wall that as long as the guard didn’t completely turn around Hatu would remain unseen. All he needed to do was not make any noise, Hatu reminded himself. The guard looked half-asleep and Hatu could hear him muttering with his companion on the other side of the gate, though he still couldn’t make out the words.

Hatu reached the wall and set the crate down. Moving back a step, he judged that if he got a decent start he could hop on the crate and reach the eaves; then he’d be able to pull himself up to the roof. He let out a breath of relief, though he still wondered how quietly he could accomplish the feat. Then again, he considered, if he was in a hurry, stealth was probably not required.

He glanced around, considering how best to get nearer to the cathedral. He’d already risked tripping over debris and building materials, so he thought staying as far away from the building as he could and seeking a clear route to it was best. He made his way slowly to the verge of the plateau, painfully aware that the rooftops below, hidden in the darkness, were far enough down to ensure his rapid demise should he slip. The light from the castle walls, cast by torches set about ten feet apart, provided little illumination, and the half-built cathedral looked like some ill-defined monster crouching in the darkness. It was cool and damp, as the ocean air brought in enough mist to make seeing more difficult than usual. Good for escaping detection, but terrible for finding one’s way.

Hatu wondered what possible reason Bodai had for sending him up here, unless he was trying to get his student caught, for Hatushaly saw no opportunity to observe the citadel at this point and the cathedral appeared empty. He supposed the old master wanted him to crawl around the half-finished building in case secret rooms or strange additions were being built, but how he was supposed to recognise them was a mystery to Hatu. He knew nothing of construction, never having apprenticed in any of the building trades, save occasionally helping to repair a hut in a village, and beyond personal instruments of combat, large weaponry was as much of a mystery to him as masonry and scaffolding. He could have tripped over an unassembled ballista and had no idea what it was. And one empty room looked much like another, rarely revealing any special purpose.

A large pallet of masonry, a table, and a huge box of tools and supplies lay between Hatu and the completed entrance to the cathedral. Below the table, which was empty, sat a long box containing papers that Hatu assumed were plans for the cathedral. For a moment he considered inspecting them as best he could in the faint light from the street below, though he doubted he would learn much. Never having worked around this scale of building, he’d never studied plans before. He considered taking them, then decided it was better to leave them undisturbed. Hatu was wondering about the safest way to creep into the building site when he heard a voice call out faintly.

Hatu ducked behind the tall stack of facing stones – marble or granite slabs, he couldn’t be sure which – and heard the voice grow louder as someone approached. It was calling out a name. He chanced a quick glance and saw one man approaching from the keep and another exiting the cathedral to greet him. When they met, he could make out what was being said, but Hatu didn’t recognise the language. It was naggingly familiar, a few words here and there were almost recognisable, but he was not able to grasp what was said.

Again, Hatu glanced around the corner of the stone blocks and saw the two men pause and continue their conversation before the half-constructed entrance to the cathedral. One carried a partially shuttered lantern, emitting just enough light to let them step safely through the clutter of rock and debris, but not easily spied from any distance.

Hatu shivered as he realised that the style of one of the two men – dark clothing, head covering, and soft footwear – looked familiar. He looked like a sicari!

His companion seemed to be wearing something akin to the fashion of the church official he and Bodai had met at the docks.

Hatu remained motionless and hoped he did nothing to betray his presence. If there were sicari here, he would be dead the moment they discovered him.

The two men entered the cathedral, and when they had disappeared into the darkness Hatu crouched low and forced himself to be calm. He concentrated on slowing his breathing, which in turn slowed his heart, which had for a few moments felt as if it were about to burst through his chest. As he relaxed, he recognised just how close he had come to panic. Without his training, he most likely would have been dead now.

Hatu considered his options. He could return at once and inform Bodai of what he had seen, but he knew that the old master would ask many questions for which he had no answers, and he would, in all likelihood, be ordered to return. He realised he had only one option.

Hatu continued trying to stay composed. He had no idea if the two men were already deep within the structure or just inside the entrance, so he ruled out following them directly through the dark, half-finished doorway and instead moved quickly and silently to crouch behind a segment of unfinished wall on the right side of the door. He heard the voices fading and the faint tread of boots on the stone floor as the two men walked deeper into the cathedral.

Hatu took a step to his left and peered in at the corner of the cathedral doorway. When it was completed, Hatu imagined the frame would be hung with some massive wooden thing, at least twenty feet across, given the size of the opening. The faint light from the men’s lanterns was moving further away, indicating that the two men were moving deeper inside the massive building.

He quickly tossed aside following them through the door. Since he had no idea what sort of obstacles, what potential cover, or how many other people might lie in the gloom inside, it was too risky.

He moved quickly to the left corner of the cathedral and peered around it. The connecting wall was still a low course of stones just high enough for Hatu to hide behind. He ducked and began to walk just outside the wall on a parallel course to what he judged to be the one taken by the two men from the doorway.

Hatu tried to ignore the fact that any mistake on his part would likely result in his death. The main purpose of his training, like that of all students of Coaltachin, was not to be detected. He focused on employing every trick and skill he had learned so far.

Duck-walking, as it was called, was difficult even for a gifted youngster like Hatu; his thighs and hips were protesting painfully when he heard the voices again from within the shadows and paused gratefully. He straightened slowly and glanced over his shoulder, memorizing the way, in case he found himself leaving this location in a hurry. There was just enough light that he could see darker shapes in the gloom, with an occasional reflection from a source in the city below.

Hatu knew there were tools and stones piled by the corner he had just passed, so if he had to flee and not run face-first into them, he might survive. If he could get clear of this cathedral, reach the crate he had placed near the gate across the main road, and reach the first roof … Hatu left the thought unfinished. Dwelling on too many things at once caused mistakes, like doing something stupid that was not conducive to calm observation and invisibility.

He could still hear the faint voices of the men some distance away. The darkness was a blessing and a curse. He could barely see where to put his feet, but it sheltered him from scrutiny. Hatu turned his head slightly, trying to detect the direction from which the voices originated.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he pulled himself atop the low stone course. Hatu assumed that more stones were added each day, and he silently thanked whatever deities were listening that he wasn’t trying this the following week. He lowered himself gingerly to the floor inside the cathedral, then stopped to listen again.

Large stone pillars that would eventually support the ceiling rose from the stone floor, and from their size Hatu guessed the roof was going to be very high up and very heavy. Each pillar was three feet thick, wide enough for him to hide behind if he was careful.

He moved as cautiously as possible, hoping the occasional noise from the street below the citadel and the early night rustling of nocturnal animals and birds would mask whatever sounds he might make: dislodging a forgotten tool, hunk of stone, or loose lump of dried mortar. It made his movements seem impossibly slow, but Hatu knew he was making steady progress towards the two mysterious men.

The voices grew more distinct as he neared them, and he could now make out a third voice. He positioned himself behind a pillar and listened for a moment, then he crouched down and looked around the stonework. Hatu saw figures faintly outlined in the glow from a brazier. Four men knelt around the fire, speaking quietly with the two men Hatu had followed.

The brazier was one typically used for cooking and heating, a small earthenware dish hard-fired to withstand the heat of the coals and designed to give off little light; on Coaltachin it was called a hibachi. It helped Hatu detect movement but provided no great detail; from where he watched, it appeared that the four men wore black, or at least very dark, clothing, but he could barely make out shapes, let alone identification marks.

He judged the usefulness of lingering here: despite feeling a nagging familiarity towards the language, he could not understand what was being said, and he could hear only half of the conversation because the men kept their voices low.

Then Hatu heard a word he recognised. It was immediately repeated by one of the men he had followed, but his inflection made it a question. Hatu’s heart skipped and he forced himself to calm in order to focus on what was being said. Squatting as low as he could, he peered further around the corner, and suddenly understood what he was hearing.

He pulled back around the corner and flattened himself against the stonework, panic threatening to rise inside as his heart began to pound. He forced himself to stillness, keeping his breathing slow, rather than deep, a calming practice he’d learned early. Once he fully had control of himself, he peered around the corner of the pillar. His training had taught him that if anyone looked his way they wouldn’t be staring at the floor. He would then freeze and hope it was dark enough to hide. If it wasn’t dark enough, he’d know it only moments later.

Then one of the kneeling men stood and walked to a low course of stones waiting to be hoisted up onto the growing wall and opened a shuttered lantern.

Hatu froze, his cheek hard against the cold floor, fighting every instinct he had not to pull out of sight. He had been taught to hide behind as much cover as possible, but every fibre of his being wanted to bolt and run as fast as he could. He knew movement in low light drew the eye, while an odd shape in the gloom was less likely to garner attention. From the perspective of those in the room, should someone glance his way, his head would seem nothing more than an odd-shaped stone, but any movement would give him away. He forced himself to believe in the sense of this mantra, and slowly he realised he was safe; none of the men were looking his way. Then he slowly and silently let out his breath and continued to watch them.

The man holding the lantern returned to the group and removed a folded paper from within a leather packet. He handed it to one of the two men Hatu had followed. Hatu felt the hair on his neck rise a second time. The four men around the brazier were also dressed like sicari, the armed assassins and spies of Coaltachin, but with slight differences, which were numerous enough to make Hatu certain they were not from his home nation.

Again the men spoke, and the man with the document pointed to it in response and repeated the phrase containing words that Hatu recognised.

Hatu stayed motionless, to remain part of a murky landscape. He knew that he had to leave as soon as possible and report to the false monk waiting for him.

The man holding the paper returned it to the packet and closed the shutter on the lamp. Hatu seized the moment to move and hide once again behind the pillar. He knew that even a small change of illumination would force the eyes of those in the room to adjust and cause a brief moment of darkness; he had a very good chance to remain unseen. But he also knew that any change in light would not keep him from being heard should he make any sound.

Back to the stone, he forced his protesting knees to push him upright, and when he was standing, his back to the sheltering pillar, he settled his mind for a moment, took control of his breathing, then stepped deeper into the darkness.

He retraced his steps as slowly and with as much control as he could muster. As he moved further from the gathered men, each new yard fuelled his desire to simply leap over the low wall and run; only discipline gained from lifelong lessons prevented him from giving in to the impulse. When Hatu reached the wall near the unfinished doorway, he eased himself over and down, landing lightly on the balls of his feet.

He tried to stay clear of any line of sight from within through the huge door opening but moved quickly, one step shy of a run, until he saw the crate he had left next to the building. He risked three fast steps and a jump onto the box, grabbed the eaves of the roof, and pulled himself up. If the guards at the gate noticed any noise, Hatu would be off across the roofs of the next three buildings before they had the chance to climb up and investigate.

Hatu reached the edge of the final roof, and with no sign of pursuit, he sat. His heart felt as if it might pound out of his chest and he could barely breathe. He took some time to steady himself and, when he was ready, lowered himself to the ground and rounded the corner into the street that would return him to the market and the burned-out temple beyond. The beggar boy walked at a good pace, fast enough to look like someone with purpose: the sort of behaviour that often kept petty thieves, pickpockets, and thugs from approaching, that hinted they would do well to seek easier prey. Even a ragged beggar boy might have something worth stealing. It was early enough in the night that people still moved through the streets and the evicted drunks hadn’t yet started wandering.

It felt as if it took hours for Hatu to find his way back to Master Bodai, but he knew it was more like minutes. Even with people on the streets, in most cities a lone figure at this time of night was likely to draw the attention of the town watch, and this city seemed under even more scrutiny than most, so he had taken his time and paused often to ensure he wasn’t seen.

When Hatu passed through the burned-out door he found the false monk stirring something in a pot above a small fire. Bodai took one look at Hatu’s face, ignored the heat, and used his stirring stick to overturn the clay pot and extinguish the fire. ‘What?’ he asked calmly.

Hatu hunkered down. ‘I gained entrance to the citadel grounds and, before seeking a way in, set off to inspect the cathedral as you instructed. I spied two men making their way into the unfinished building.

‘They spoke a tongue I did not recognise at first. One was dressed like that church soldier at the docks, an officer or an official, but he met with five other men in hiding, dressed like sicari.’

Bodai held up his hand, and Hatu ceased speaking.

‘Like sicari?’

‘I could not see much, but there were differences.’

‘Describe them.’

Hatu paused, collecting his thoughts. ‘Their head covers were not like the ones our men wear. They looked more like turbans’ – he made a wrapping motion around his own head – ‘not the big ones like the traders from—’

‘Enough,’ interrupted Bodai. ‘What else?’

‘I could see little, but one opened a shuttered lantern briefly and I could see that their clothing was looser than that of our sicari, with a wide belt and an over-vest, I think; it was very dark. And by then I could understand some of what they said.’

Bodai tilted his head, much as a dog might when listening. ‘Go on.’

‘They spoke our tongue, master. But with an accent unlike any I’ve heard before. It was thick and alien to my ear.’

‘Describe it.’

Hatu said, ‘At first I could not make it out, for they …’ He paused, then continued, ‘seem to swallow the sounds rather than speak them as we do.’ Bodai nodded. ‘They held the sound “o” in the hack of their throat, so it wasn’t made clear.’

Bodai said, ‘Did they shorten their words?’

Hatu’s eyes widened. ‘Yes, that is it! That is why I had trouble until my ear became used to the sound. They spoke as if they had rocks in their cheeks!’

Bodai let out a slow sigh. He nodded slightly, then began gathering his scant goods and putting them in his travel bag, and asked, ‘What else?’

Hatu continued, ‘They spoke of meetings, messages, and much of the meaning was hidden, but they knew of what they spoke. They said only one word I understood clearly; they repeated it twice, and that was the word I recognised first.’

‘What did they say?’

‘Your name, “Bodai”. They took out what must have been a map, as each man was given a gate to watch, and one stationed at the docks. The man from the church said he’d send others to go with the five sicari, and other men would be sent for.’

‘We go now,’ said Bodai, standing up.

Hatu grabbed his go-bag and followed Bodai out of the building. They moved towards the docks but turned to the east at the small plaza. ‘There is a place we must visit before we are found,’ said Bodai as they walked quickly. ‘For if they do not see us try to leave tomorrow, they will begin searching the city in earnest.’ He looked around as they reached an empty corner and lowered his voice. ‘But should ill befall me, or we get separated, you must get back to Coaltachin. You know how to seek a ship?’

Hatu said, ‘Yes, seeking an island to the east.’

Bodai nodded once in affirmation. ‘Seek out Zusara, and tell him what you told me.’ Hatu nodded, despite the fact that the prospect of meeting the most powerful master in Coaltachin alone only added to his worry.

‘The men you took for sicari, they are from Azhante. Speak that name back to me.’

‘Azhante,’ repeated Hatu.

‘Now, do not speak that name to anyone but Master Zusara or me; not even to another master. Do you understand?’

Hatushaly said, ‘Yes, master.’

He glanced down at Hatu, then motioned for him to follow.

Seeing no one around, Bodai asked, ‘What else did you see?’

A sudden memory struck Hatu. ‘Badges, I think. They wore small badges shaped differently from any I’ve seen. I only remember them because of how they flashed in the lantern light.’

Bodai nodded. ‘Black lacquered badges, which is why they caught light. It keeps infiltrators from—’ He stopped and, looking at Hatu, said, ‘Never mind. You should know only what you need to know, and you know a bit more than that already.’

The two moved with the purpose of people on their way to a destination, perhaps a bit late, hence their quickened pace. Hatu stayed one step behind Bodai as a beggar boy would, showing respect for a holy man.

Glancing continuously from side to side, Bodai quietly asked, ‘Where are those men from?’

‘Azhante,’ replied Hatu. Being questioned so soon about that name informed Hatu that Bodai considered it to be critical.

Reaching a corner, they turned, and Bodai stopped before the first door on the right, opposite a backwash inlet from the harbour, covered in drifting refuse, dead fish, and other flotsam. Bodai struck the door once, waited, then struck once more, waited again, then struck three times.

The door opened to reveal a pair of armed men, weapons drawn. Bodai said, ‘We need to travel to an island in the east.’ The men stepped aside and put away their blades, and Bodai and Hatu entered.

A lantern rested on a table in a sparsely furnished room. Two chairs had been positioned against one wall, and the cold fireplace on the back wall lay next to a door with a dark curtain. ‘A ship leaves on the morning tide,’ said one of the two men.

‘Getting to the docks might prove a problem,’ said Bodai. ‘Apparently both the king and the Church are looking for us. Someone must have realised who I was after we left the docks this morning.’

The man who had spoken looked at his silent companion and said, ‘Never easy, is it?’

The second man shook his head.

The first man brought over the two chairs and said, ‘Sit. We need to find some lads, then we’ll move you. We’ll come up with a plan before morning. Hungry?’

Hatu nodded and Bodai said, ‘I was about to eat when we had to bolt.’ He sat and let out a quiet sigh of relief.

‘I’ll get you something from the back. Bread’s fresh and we have cold meat and cheese.’

‘A feast,’ said Bodai lightly.

Hatu realised that he now held his entire body taut, as if he had clenched his fist and the feeling had spread from his head to his toes. He took a slow breath and tried to relax. He failed.

Bodai glanced at him and nodded once, as if he understood. Then he said, ‘We wait.’

AS A FREIGHTER MADE READY to depart the harbour, the sailors on deck saw a colourful procession making its way towards the boarding plank. A gaudy palanquin carried by six large slaves and followed by half a dozen retainers, all heavily armed, reached the gangplank and was lowered. Its gauze curtain was pulled aside to reveal an obese man with a massive black beard and flowing oiled locks to his shoulders; he descended the carriage as a young man in fine robes placed a step before him.

As Hatu extended his hand to help his master from the litter, Bodai spoke through the enormous false beard. ‘When attempting to evade those who seek you, it’s often wise to look exactly like someone they do not have to seek.’

Hatu was exhausted from the fear of being discovered, and from spending the night having his skin dyed to make him look like a southern islander, but the sight of Bodai wrapped in an entire roll of linen to double his weight, wearing the outlandish dress his agents had found for him, was still amusing.

He followed Bodai up the gangway as their retinue of hastily gathered agents departed, to scatter quickly throughout the city. Hatu found the theatre absurd but looked forward to describing the humorous event to Hava and Donte some day, assuming he lived long enough to see them again.




• CHAPTER FOUR • (#ulink_61a34b2f-28e3-5345-9560-d8df2f7e1355)

New Considerations and an Old Friend (#ulink_61a34b2f-28e3-5345-9560-d8df2f7e1355)


Declan sat quietly while enjoying a mug of ale. The forge had been busy since he accomplished his masterpiece as they caught up on some work put aside while the sword was completed. But finally, the tools, ploughshares, and horseshoes had been finished, and by three o’clock, Declan had fulfilled the work. There were still a few small tasks, but nothing pressing, and Edvalt had pointedly told Declan to leave early and to begin to consider his choices.

He had removed his dirty tunic and trousers, soaked through with sweat, and had poured buckets of well water over his head to clean up as best he could. Edvalt had commandeered the wooden tub for a proper scrubbing and once he had rinsed away most of the soot and grime, Declan decided he could wait for a day to bathe properly. He settled for a quick swim in the ocean, washing the salt water away with a bucket of fresh, determined to get his proper bath soon.

They had not spoken of Declan’s options since he finished the sword for Baron Bartholomy, but the decision hung over the new master smith’s every waking moment. While Declan had always known this day would come, and that he would be ready to set out and create his own future, he suddenly felt as if it had taken him by surprise. He realised that thinking about it and living it were quite different.

Edvalt had made it clear that once Baron Bartholomy had paid for his sword, the old smith would consider retirement. Good smiths were able to live better than most common men, but even they rarely earned the opportunity to retire, and often lived with their sons or daughters until death arrived to claim them. Some earned enough goodwill from a village that the people provided for their dotage, but that was rare. A few, like Edvalt, were good enough to be able to plan for the day they could no longer do justice to their craft. They earned enough coin to buy food for their remaining years and live in a quiet cottage on the edge of a town, or rent a small loft in a city.

Declan knew that Edvalt and Mila would not move in with their daughter and her husband. The old smith still had years of work left in him, but he was getting to an age when he would welcome a gentler pace. Declan understood that. Over the course of Declan’s life he had seen Edvalt maintain his skill, but he knew that his pace was slowing. Tasks that used to take an hour now took longer. Even with a talented apprentice like Jusan, Edvalt’s productivity had fallen a little.

Soon, it would reduce significantly. It was a simple fact of life. If he lived in a big city, a craftsman like Edvalt could still do well, fashioning small, valuable items, mostly armour and arms; but here in Oncon? For every sword commissioned, he had to make hundreds of horseshoes and bridal bits, repair wagon tongues and wheel rims, fix or fashion rakes or hoes, and create all the other village items that devoured the days and returned little in payment.

Declan weighed his choices. Edvalt would expect an answer soon, perhaps even within days. He knew that should he stay and buy the smithy, the transition would be an easy one, for he would simply continue to work as he had all his life, paying Edvalt a portion of his due until he owned the smithy outright. It was an appealing plan, for this was the only home he had ever really known.

Yet there was a curiosity within him, a desire to see some of the world. Garn was a vast place with diverse peoples and foreign ways. Not only were there many alien places on the twin continents and the surrounding islands, there were distant lands across the sea few men had visited. During Declan’s life, many travellers had passed through Oncon and they had piqued his interest about such imagined destinations.

A master smith, even one as young as Declan, would be assured a good life and prosperity in the right town, and with the patronage of a local baron he might even expect wealth. Who knew if there were master smiths beyond the sea? Or even if anyone across the oceans knew of jewel steel?

The lure of the unknown and the comfort of the familiar pulled at him equally. He let out a slight sigh and realised that though he would have to decide between them soon, he did not have to make a decision this very minute.

Marius, the proprietor of the room that passed for a tavern in the village, three tables and a tiny bar where only four close friends could stand, came over and said, ‘Bit early for you, Declan.’

‘Edvalt …’ he began, then decided not to go into detail and finished, ‘… gave Jusan and me the afternoon to ourselves. Work’s been hard and I thought an ale would soften the evening.’

‘Well, I guess,’ answered Marius. He was a slender man of fading years, as close to a man of means as one might find in this village. He had a steady business in ale and wine but also lent money, and as a result owned tiny interests in several local enterprises; and while Oncon had no formal inn, for a few coppers, Marius would allow travellers to sleep on the floor of the tavern room, or in the shed. He even traded in some luxuries, if asked, and had items shipped in from nearby cities. ‘You want another?’ he asked.

Declan regarded his half-finished ale and considered the question. He wasn’t much of a drinking man, and on the rare occasions he had overindulged, he had always awakened sick and miserable. Declan shook his head and said, ‘I’m good.’

The sound of a wagon rolling up before the inn caught Declan’s attention just as a familiar voice shouted, ‘Marius! Get your saggy ass out here and help me unload!’

‘Rozalee!’ said Declan with a laugh.

Marius looked annoyed, because he knew heavy lifting would be involved. ‘Declan, help that harridan unload and your ale is free.’

Declan nodded and said, ‘One more after we’re done, for both of us?’

With a feigned resignation Marius agreed, and Declan hurried outside to see one of his favourite people climbing down from the wagon’s seat. Rozalee stood almost as tall as Declan, her face lined by the sun and the wind, nights sleeping out in fair weather and foul, and most of all from laughing. Rozalee laughed a great deal.

She wore a floppy, wide-brimmed hat, secured by a chin tie, and she cast it back as she threw her arms around Declan and hugged him hard without ceremony, lifting him off the ground. She was not a heavy woman, but she was muscular from years of driving mules, loading and unloading wagons. She grabbed his buttocks playfully, with both hands, and squeezed hard. ‘How’s my favourite apprentice smith?’ she asked as she let Declan go.

Laughing as he disentangled himself, Declan said, ‘It’s been years since I was an apprentice, Roz.’

Smacking his arse, she said, ‘I wasn’t talking about you, fool. I meant Jusan. He’s turning into a lovely young man.’

Declan laughed again as he moved to the rear of the wagon. It was a converted dray Declan had worked on a few times. The sides and rear boards could be removed if Rozalee needed to lash down large crates or other cargo, as they could be held in place by the iron bolts Edvalt had fashioned for it years ago. With the sides and rear boards attached, a variety of goods could be transported.

Rozalee untied a series of ropes threaded through the iron eyelets set in the heavy oiled canvas on top of the wagon. With a nimble leap she mounted the cart and rolled back the covering. Declan admired the way she moved.

No one would call Rozalee pretty – she was somewhat long-faced and her unremarkable light brown hair was now turning grey – but she possessed a confidence that attracted men like honey drew bears, and she was open about her appreciation of the attention.

She handed down the first crate to Declan, who put it next to the doorway. From the aroma it contained some variety of fresh fruit. Besides the berries found in the hills, fruit was rare in Oncon and Marius charged a lot for it. Edvalt’s wife, Mila, had been threatening to plant fruit trees behind their home for years but never had; everyone knew that this close to the sea, there was too much salt in the soil to grow anything but the heartiest of plants.

When they had unloaded three more cases, Rozalee said, ‘That’s the last of the fruit, I think until next spring.’ She handed Declan a large crate of meat and said, ‘Freshly butchered, but needs to go into the cold cellar now.’

Declan nodded and lifted the heavy crate onto his shoulder. Mutton and chicken were usually available in the village, and pork after piglets were weaned, but beef had to be shipped in: another rarity that Marius charged well for.

Declan entered the inn to find Marius conspicuously absent – the tavern keeper avoided heavy lifting as much as possible – then he moved through the small common room to the rear yard. The only structure in the ill-kept yard was a ramshackle run-in shed rarely used for horses; the few that did end up in Oncon were usually stabled at Edvalt’s place. To the left of the inn door, steps led down to the cold cellar located deep under the building. Once again Declan felt annoyed that Marius was too stingy to have built a staircase inside the inn, but quickly dismissed the feeling: it was like being upset with the tide for rising in the afternoon; it was simply the man’s nature.

Declan set down the crate and opened the unlatched wooden door, admitting just enough light so he could see. He carried the crate down the steps into the underground cellar, found a cool back corner for the meat, and set the crate down. A quick glance around told him Marius wasn’t stocking much that wasn’t local. He moved a crate of withering vegetables near the door so it would be used before turning completely. Marius wasted nothing, so Declan knew the tavern stew should be avoided for the next two or three days.

He returned to the wagon and carried several more crates down to the cold cellar, then, when he was finished, Declan found Rozalee tossing the canvas into the wagon bed. As she raised the tailgate and locked it down, she said, ‘You heading back to the smithy?’

‘I’m finishing my ale and have one for you. Marius is buying.’

‘Then I’m drinking,’ Rozalee said with a chuckle. She climbed up to the driver’s seat and turned the mules around. The animals had been to Oncon village numerous times and knew that they were only a short journey from being unhitched from their traces, watered, and fed, so the often-recalcitrant animals were eager to please as she drove off.

Declan nursed his ale until Rozalee came back. He fetched two fresh mugs of ale from Marius, who passed them over the bar with a scowl but said nothing.

Once he was seated opposite Rozalee, he asked, ‘What news?’

After taking a long pull of the ale, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and said, ‘The usual. War in the east; Sandura is moving against a couple of the free lords who have done something to displease Lodavico. And rumours of bandits, emboldened by the turmoil, raiding in the Covenant.’

Declan nodded. ‘You’re not the first to warn us. Though, there’s not much booty in the Covenant, so I don’t see the reason.’

‘Food, rape, a few trinkets, and little risk …’ She paused, then said, ‘Consider the men who would be tempted by that.’

Declan shrugged. ‘You’re widely travelled, you’ve seen much. I only know what I’ve experienced here. Still, you hear things. The king of Sandura can dare much in his little wars, but the first ruler to move on the Narrows will find three other kings and most of the free barons opposing him.’ He tried not to grin but couldn’t help himself.

Rozalee’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve been in a bit of an odd mood since I got here. I’ve not heard you use this tone before. What has happened?’

Declan tried not to smile. ‘I finished my masterpiece. Edvalt gave me a master’s rank.’

Rozalee stood and leaned across the table, grabbing Declan’s face between her hands, and gave him a deep kiss. Sitting down, she slapped her hand on the table and said, ‘I am going to fuck you tonight. Jusan can wait until my next visit.’

Declan didn’t know what to do other than laugh. Like several of the young men in the region, he had lost his virginity to Rozalee. It had been a rite of passage, and Rozalee was generous in her gifts but not profligate. She had rebuffed more advances than she had accepted; when she chose a young man, it was considered a mark of honour.

Declan stopped laughing and said, ‘You are serious.’

She nodded. ‘You’re a good man, Declan. And truth to tell, I’ve missed you lately.’

Feeling emboldened by the drink, he said, ‘I’ve never asked, well, because stories precede you, but … your husband, doesn’t he care about … this?’ He made a small hand motion between himself and Rozalee.

She replied, ‘My husband, if you must know, was an old man when he took me for his wife and I had barely matured enough to bear children. That was twenty-five years ago. Now he’s content to nod off after a massive midday meal and several cups of wine. His cock might rise occasionally and require the attention of one of the town girls, but many are willing because he has wealth and is generous.’ She leaned forward and whispered, ‘To keep them from telling anyone he lasts but a minute, then falls back to sleep.’

Rozalee looked sad. ‘It was never a meaningful union. We never had children.’ Then she brightened. ‘But I have been given the freedom to travel, as he hates to leave home; conduct our business, as he has no head for it; and do as I please with whomever I please.’ She squeezed his hand and stared into his eyes and said, ‘What troubles you?’

Declan said, ‘Do I stay, or go?’

‘Now the town has two master smiths, and needs but one.’

‘The truth is it needs only a journeyman, which will be Jusan in a few more years, and while he’s not brilliant, he is good enough. We rarely receive commissions for arms or weapons, so much of what Edvalt has taught is …’ He shrugged. ‘I liked learning the craft of armoury, but the art of making steel …’ He sighed. ‘It’s a difficult skill, and has little value when most who come to the smith need only a plough blade mended or a wagon rim replaced …’ He shrugged again, letting his sentences finish themselves. ‘It’s the craft of it that I like.’ He let his gaze wander past her, as if trying to peer into the future.

‘To go, or to stay,’ she echoed. Again putting her hand on his, she said, ‘Have you taken to a particular girl here?’

Declan laughed. ‘I have not. Most fathers in Oncon would love to see their daughters married to the smith, almost as much as they would the miller over in Trosh. In a village of fishermen and vegetable farmers, I will be considered a wealthy man in time.’

‘So no fun?’

He gave a small smile and said, ‘I didn’t say that, but a little fun during a drunken festival is not a betrothal, and I don’t know if I’m interested yet. A wife, children …’ He shrugged.

She studied his face, then said, ‘You will be. It’s buried in your nature to be a husband and father.’ She sat back. ‘But you are the type to settle down first, so you can provide well for them. If you leave, have you put away enough to start your own smithy?’

‘A little, and Edvalt will no doubt make a small gift of coin to me; it’s a smiths’ tradition.’ He looked at her, admiring how she was still the most attractive woman he knew. She had an uncommon bearing and, despite her age, a muscled and strong, lithe body. ‘And you?’ Declan asked. ‘Have you enough put by?’

She laughed loudly, then turned towards Marius and waved for two more mugs. ‘Are you worried for me?’

He shrugged. ‘You travel alone in dangerous times. Your husband is an old man, as you say. Things can happen.’

‘You’re a sweet man at heart, Declan. My husband never had a head for business. So when I married him, I made a bargain with Jack.’

Declan said, ‘His name is Jack? I just realised in all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never spoken his name.’

With a wry smile, Rozalee said, ‘I try not to. Anyway, I learned the business and after a few years convinced him to let me travel with him. A year later I was travelling without him. I built up the business, so it was easy to convince him he needed to stay at home and take care of things there. To this day I don’t think he realises that I only did it to spend as little time with him as possible.’ She stopped speaking when Marius brought over their mugs.





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