`There!' he said, as he concluded drawing the horizontal black line along the bottom of the three-quarter circle depicting the sun. 'Not bad at all.'

He held the shield up for Horace's comment and the warrior nodded.

`Nice work,' he said. 'A bit more stylish than the old oakleaf you painted on my shield in Gallica.'

Halt grinned. 'Yes. That was a rush job. Bit rough, wasn't it? This is much better. Mind you, circles and straight lines are a bit easier to paint than an oakleaf.'

He leaned the shield against a tree stump to dry. By morning, the paint had hardened and they rode on, Horace once more bearing the insignia of the Sunrise Warrior.

Occasionally, as they rode through Dun Kilty, there were murmurings and fingers pointed at the insignia. Comments were made behind hands. People had noticed, he thought. And they recognised the design.

Something had been troubling Horace and he decided it was time to raise it.

`Halt,' he said, 'I've been wondering..

Instantly, he regretted beginning that way as Halt assumed the long-suffering look he always adopted when either of his young companions gave him an opportunity. Instead of waiting for Halt to reply, he forged on.

'Aren't you concerned that people might… recognise you at the castle?'

`Recognise me?' Halt said. 'Nobody there has seen me since I was a boy.'

`Well, perhaps not you. But you and…' He hesitated, then decided that it might not be wise to mention Halt's relationship to Ferris in the street. '… you know who… are twins, right? So presumably you look alike. Aren't you worried that people might go, "Oh look, there goes… you know who… in a grey cloak."

`Aaah, I see what you mean. I doubt it'll happen. After all, the cowl of my cloak hides most of my face. And people will be looking at you, not me.'

`I suppose so,' Horace admitted. He hadn't considered that.

Halt continued. 'In any event, there are substantial differences these days between you know who and myself. I have a full beard, whereas he trims his as a goatee, a ridiculous tuft on the chin only. And his moustache is smaller.' He saw the question in Horace's eyes and explained, 'I have been back here occasionally. I just never let anyone know.'

Horace nodded, understanding.

`In addition,' Halt continued, 'he wears his hair drawn back from his face while mine is sort of…' He hesitated, looking for the right word.

`Shaggy and unkempt?' Horace stopped himself just too late. Halt's haircut was a sore point. People were always criticising it. The Ranger eyed him*grimly.

`Thank you for that,' he said. There was a pause and he concluded stiffly, 'I don't think it will be a problem.

Nobody expects a king to be "shaggy and unkempt", as you so kindly put it.'

Horace considered replying, but decided it might be wiser not to. They rode on, up a steep, winding path that led to the castle gates. They rode slowly, passing traffic travelling on foot. They were the only mounted men to approach the castle and they drew interested glances from the locals.

`Look haughty,' Halt said out of the side of his mouth. `You're on an official mission for the King of Araluen.'

'I'm on a forged mission, as a matter of fact,' Horace replied in the same lowered tone. 'That's not something to look haughty about.'

`They'll never know. I'm an expert forger.' He sounded pleased with the fact and Horace glanced at him.

`That's not really something to be proud of, you know,' he said.

Halt grinned cheerfully at him. 'Aaah, I enjoy being around you, Horace,' he said. 'You remind me of how decadent I've become. Now look haughty.'

`I'd rather look enigmatic. I think I've got that down pretty well by now,' Horace told him. Halt glanced up in mild surprise. Horace was growing up and gaining in confidence, he realised. It wasn't as easy to confuse him these days as it used to be. Sometimes, Halt even had the suspicion that Horace was indulging in the sort of leg-pulling that Halt used to do to him. He couldn't think of a suitably crushing reply so he simply grunted.

The castle gates were open. There was, after all, no immediate threat to the town and there was a constant stream of traffic moving in and out of the castle forecourt.

Wagons, carts, people on foot carrying bundles on their backs, all streamed back and forth. A royal castle, of course, had a constant need for foodstuffs and other comforts such as wine and ale. And in an ancient castle like this, there was always repair work to be done. Providores mingled with workmen and tradespeople in a mass of seething humanity. Horace was reminded of a disturbed anthill as he looked around him.

Yet, even though the gates were unlocked, there were still guards either side of the entry. Seeing the two mounted strangers, they stepped forward, holding their spears crossed to bar them access' until they were identified. A few pedestrians in front of Halt and Horace shoved and sidled past the crossed spear shafts, anxious to get inside and get on with their work.

`And who might you be when you're at home?' the taller of the two guards asked.

Horace hid a smile. Things had a certain raffish informality here in Clonmel. At Castle Araluen, a guard would have pronounced the formulaic demand: Stand and be recognised.

`Sir Horace, knight of the Kingdom of Araluen, the Sunrise Warrior from the east, with messages from Great King Duncan for King Ferris,' Halt replied. Horace stared straight ahead, his face a mask. So, King Duncan was Great King Duncan whereas Ferris was just King Ferris. Halt seemed to be indulging in a little verbal one-upmanship, he thought.

Horace kept his face impassive but his eyes were alert, darting around the crowd, and he saw a few people stop and take notice as Halt said the words Sunrise Warrior.

The guard, however, didn't seem to be impressed by the title. Guards were seldom impressed by anything, Horace thought. The guard held out a hand to Halt.

`Documents now? Would you be having any of 'em to say you are who you say you are?'

Hibernians had a lilting way of talking, Horace thought. But he reached into his gauntlet and produced the Laissez Passer that Halt had prepared the previous night. He passed it to Halt, who passed it to the sentry. Horace looked away and yawned. He thought that was a nice touch – the sort of thing he might do if he were haughty. Or enigmatic.

The sentry scrutinised the pass. Of course, he couldn't read it but the royal crest and seal of Araluen looked official and impressive. He looked at his companion.

`They're all right,' he said. He handed the document back to Halt, who passed it to Horace. Then the sentries uncrossed their spear shafts and stood back, allowing Halt and Horace to pass into the courtyard of the castle.

They rode towards the central keep, where the administration section of the castle would be situated. They went through the rigmarole of having their documents examined once more, this time by a sergeant of the guard. Horace reflected that Halt had been right. Few people looked at the Ranger. Instead, they tended to concentrate their attention on Horace, who, in full armour and riding a high-stepping battlehorse, appeared to be the more impressive of the two visitors. If any of the guards were asked later to describe Halt, he doubted that they'd be able to.

They left their horses outside the keep and were directed inside by another guard, to the third floor, where

Ferris's audience room was situated. Here they were stopped yet again – this time by his steward, a young, pleasant-faced man. Horace studied him keenly. The steward had the look of a warrior about him. He wore a long sword and looked as if he might know how to use it. He was nearly as tall as Horace, although not so broad in the shoulders. Dark, curly hair framed a thin, intelligent face and he had a ready, if slightly tired, smile for them.