The fingers stopped weaving. ‘Why, yourself, of course. Promoted under my authority to the rank of Fist.’

After the captain exited the Throne room and the doors closed Mallick also left, but by a small side door, leaving behind the court functionaries, clerks and servants for a small private audience chamber. After a moment Oryan entered the room by another door. Mallick fixed the dark-skinned, tattooed man with a long hard stare. ‘Why, servant of mine, are you still here?’

The old man remained unperturbed, his long dark face impassive. The Wickans are not important enough.’

Tight-lipped, Mallick grated, ‘I gave you strict orders.’

‘Your problem in the past has been your nurturing of grudges and your predilection for vendetta.’ The slim old man, limbs no more than bone and writhing, faded blue tattoos, made a casting away gesture. ‘You must learn to abandon such urges if you wish to actually succeed.’

Mallick's eyes bulged his outrage, hissed splutterings escaped his lips bringing spittle with them. He brought his pudgy fisted hands to his face. ‘You would dare!’

Again, unperturbed, the Seven Cities shaman's eyes remained bland. ‘Which do you wish? Petty satisfaction or achievement of your ambitions? Choose!’

Mallick sucked in a great shuddering breath, forced his hands down. ‘Past failures would indicate flaws in my choices, yes. Though I dearly wish them utterly destroyed they are currently no dire threat, true. No fearsome Wickan curses winging my way. Yes, Oryan. At this time attention to them would be counter to productive, yes? Very well. Annoying distractions, they are, from the main stage. Like a loud man at the theatre. An irritation to be endured by us – the more cultured.’ Mallick crossed an arm over his chest then propped his other upon it and pressed the tips of his fingers to his forehead. ‘And so further insult is to be endured from these unwashed illiterates, as my advisers suggest.’

An insouciant shrug. ‘As I say. They are of no importance.’

‘Very good. So, the west, then. And speaking of the west – any word from our beautiful murderess?’

‘None since she left with the fleet. I believe she secured a position as an officer's whore.’

‘Careful, Oryan. Your biases are showing. No doubt she has the man enslaved.’

‘As I said – a whore.’

‘Yes, well. You may have a point there.’

A discreet knock at one door. Mallick gestured Oryan out, crossed to it. ‘Yes?’

‘Matter of a property dispute, Assemblyman,’ a voice quavered through the door. Mallick pulled it open. ‘A what?’

A court clerk bowed extremely low. ‘As the authority present in the capital, sir. A property dispute has arisen out of the rebuilding efforts

Mallick stared at the man, his bulging eyes blinked. ‘And this is a matter you bring to me now?’

‘The parties involved are most insistent, and of the highest rank and most prestigious families…’

‘Then perhaps a city magistrate would no doubt be appropriate.’

The clerk bowed again. ‘Sadly, said magistrate's family has been proven to be distantly related to one of the claimants…’

Mallick clasped his hands at his stomach, his eyes narrowed to angry slits. ‘Very well, court clerk. Here is my judgment upon the case that said self-important appellants are so keen to bring before me to the exclusion of all else I may have to attend to. Said plot of land or property is to be divided exactly in half and fifty per cent given to each party – even if said property constitutes a slave. Am I understood?’

The clerk bowed deeply again – perhaps to hide the tight grin that he fought to disguise. ‘Excellent, sir. I shall write up the papers immediately.’

‘That should winnow the line of petitioners, do you not think?’

‘Most drastically, sir.’

For the next few days while they skirted the Jacuruku north coast, Traveller lay at the bow gripped in a fever of sweats and shuddering chills. Ereko guided the Kite while Kyle and the Lost brothers slept in turns. The third night Traveller suddenly cried out, weeping in-consolably, his body wrenched with the violence of his convulsions. Kyle went to the Thel Akai's side. ‘What did they do to him, those mages?’

Ereko was surprised. Under their broad bone ridge, his argent eyes flicked to Kyle, smiled their reassurance, then returned to scanning the shore. ‘They? Nothing. He carries his illness with him. It has been whispering to him all these months. I have seen it growing upon him day by day. Those fools with their interference have weakened him and now he feels its pull keenly.’

‘You cannot cure it?’

A shake of his shaggy head. ‘You have not guessed, Kyle? It is the sword he carries. That is not a blade meant for any human, no matter who. It brings with it the memories of terrible things. Bloodshed, yes. But much worse – acts of cruelty and of soul-corroding anguish. It was forged ages ago by the one known as the Son of Darkness, Anomandaris. Know you of him?’

‘Yes. We have legends of him. Stories of the Moon itself floating overhead and dragons soaring.’ Those fireside tales no longer sounded so incredible to Kyle.

‘It has held many names over the ages. Anger. Rage. Vengeance. Of them all, he chose for himself vengeance. A choice we should perhaps be grateful for. Now that choice eats at him like acid. I pray it will not taint his spirit.’

Kyle watched the man, curled up under a cloak, hands clenched in his sweat-slick hair, his face hidden behind his forearms. ‘Then we should take it from him.’

The giant grasped Kyle's upper arm in his massive grip. ‘No. You mustn't. He would strike without thought. Would you add yet another burden to his conscience?’

‘Then what can we do?’

Without turning his head, Ereko slid his bright gaze to Kyle in a strange sort of sideways regard. He bared his tusk-like teeth in a one-sided grin. ‘You can pray, Kyle.’

Kyle flinched away. Pray? Is there so little hope? He moved off to lie down next to the Lost brothers wrapped in cloaks and blankets. Pray? To who? He thought of the bewildering array of Gods, spirits and heroes he'd heard mentioned since leaving Bael lands. None appealed to him. That left his old guardian and tribal ancestral spirits going back all the way to their legendary progenitor, Father Wind. Perhaps that very entity taken from him by the very company he joined? Yet, as time has passed, it all seemed so unreal to him.

The gentle night waves rocked the Kite, and the susurration of the nearby surf whispered rhythmically. Kyle eventually did slip into an uneasy sleep. He repeated his people's ancient invocation:

Great All Father,

Whose breath cleanses, brings life,

Guide me. Show me my path.

Kyle awoke, spluttering and coughing on a mouthful of smoke. He lay in a tent made of roughly sewn hides. But not a tent like the one he'd recently slept in; this one was cramped and dark, its ceiling low. A hunched figure, a man or a woman, occupied half the sagging quarters. A brazier next to the occupant sent out gouts of smoke that made Kyle's eyes water and his breath catch in his throat. Outside, a strong wind blew, gusting at the sides of the frail construction. The figure waved a hand wrapped in tatters of cloth. Its shape was unnervingly strange and distorted. ‘Apologies for the poor domestic arrangements. Recent setbacks have reduced my circumstances.’

‘Where am I? Where is everyone?’

‘You are not so far away from your ship and your friends, Kyle.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Who am I?’ The shape rocked back and forth, cackling. ‘A friend, of course. One who has, how shall I put it – intervened – to help.’

‘Help?’

‘Yes. Help you. Whereas those you erroneously pray to ignore your pleas, I, however, am always responsive.’