'What my Lady requires is of little concern,' Isak snapped. 'We travel until I decide we should rest, and if there's an inn when we stop, then that's where we will stay, but once we're past Nerlos For-tress, there won't be many and not all towns are going to welcome a party of armed men.'

'Lady Introl was most specific as to her daughter's requirements,' muttered Mistress Daran, her lips pursing. Isak saw exactly what the woman thought of white-eyes.

'Lady Introl does not interest me in the least.' He checked his words for fear of insulting Tila's family too much – however cross he was, Tila was a friend – but he couldn't control the look on his face: the wretched woman would not last much longer if she continued to irritate him. 'What does interest me is getting to Narkang before bloody Silvernight,' he growled.

He was pleased to see Mistress Daran flinch, presumably fighting the instinct to admonish him for his language. He determined to see how often he could make that happen on the journey to alleviate his

own boredom.

'Isak, there's nothing you can do about it, so if you want to make good speed, then let's eat now and not tarry too long.' Tila shifted as she stood; she was already feeling the strain of her new saddle.

Isak shrugged at her and walked off angrily to see to his horses instead. The argument would have to wait until Tila was too tender to he obstinate. Let's see how she felt after her first night on the ground. He swapped the packs from one horse to the other and readied Megenn's saddle.

Isak patted both animals affectionately, then rubbed down Megenn's chestnut flanks where the packs had rested. They had very different temperaments: Toramin was a fiery young stallion of unbelievable strength, while Megenn was older, a gelding, and as biddable as could be wished. Both horses appeared to cope with his weight without complaint, but Isak felt only Toramin was desperate to gallop on. At times he could feel the muscles bunch under the rich, dark coat and he'd have to tighten his grip to remind the horse who was in control.

Isak turned to watch the others for a while. Carel had already won over the Ghosts with his humour and his undeniable skill, still sharp, no matter his age; Vesna's reputation almost guaranteed respect in any barracks.

The soldiers kept apart from Mihn – the only company he sought out was that of the two rangers. Now the three were sitting slightly apart from the others, Mihn carefully positioned so he could see both Isak and the road ahead. Rangers were all strange, reclusive, often to the point of surly disregard for any who might not match their own high standards. Mihn fitted in perfectly. The bulky northerner, Borl Dedev, was the more talkative. Jeil was a native of Tirah, a wiry man only slightly taller than Mihn. Jeil had probably been orphaned to the palace as a child, judging from his lack of family name. A number of rangers and Ghosts in Bahl's service had been left as babies at the palace gates by mothers who felt they couldn't cope. Without a parent to claim them – or denied by a spiteful father, as in Isak's case – they had no family name. Like Bahl and Isak, Jeil had had to make his own name.

Isak made up his mind: now was the time, before they got too far from Tirah. He called for Mihn, and the small man was already rising, his staff in hand, almost before Isak had finished speaking. Isak led him away to a place where they could speak without being overheard, ignoring the curious faces that watched them. Borl had cropped Mihn’s hair close to his scalp the previous night; it suited him better, highlighting the dark gleam of his eyes.

‘We’re going to be away for a long time,' Isak started. 'Longer than a year.' He tried to think how to phrase what he wanted to say. His lack of eloquence was already annoying him. 'I don't know what's going to happen, and every day, I feel like I know even less.' He sighed. He'd have to be blunt. 'I want to know your history, Mihn. You've avoided telling anyone very much, and when I don't understand my own shadow, I've no chance with the rest of the Land.'

'My Lord,' he said, quietly, 'I've told you that I come from a small tribe on the northern coast-'

Isak bared his teeth in irritation. That's not what I mean. You're saying so little you might as well lie to my face. No common tribesman speaks perfect Farlan. Your accent is more refined than mine. No normal moves the way you do – not even any man of Kerin's, and he's trained our best. I doubt many of the Chief Steward's agents would survive long against you. And the man practically went down on his knees to Lord Bahl to get you working as an assassin for him – he promised he'd have the entire tribe swearing oaths of loyalty within six months.'

Mihn flinched; if anything, it looked like the idea sickened him, though Isak knew he didn't have qualms about violence. Mihn wouldn't meet his gaze and his fingers shifted and flexed round the shaft of his staff as he stared at the ground.

'Well? Have you got nothing to say? I've seen you fight. Either you're a very short true elf, a Harlequin or-' The words died in Isak's throat as Mihn's entire body jerked at his words and his eyes went wide with shock. Isak realised that the man was caught somewhere between anger and terror, then the strength drained out of his body and Mihn sank to his knees, gasping for air.

Isak gaped at the change in his bondsman, then crouched down beside the man, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady him as much as calm him. Before he could think of anything to say, Mihn choked out a handful of words. 'Please don't send me away. I have nothing – I am nothing now. My life has been…' His voice trailed off into a language Isak didn't recognise, his own tongue, perhaps.

Finally Isak understood. 'You're a Harlequin?' It was scarcely possible to believe. No one knew very much about the Harlequins – not even where they came from, let alone how they were able to remember every story and song they had ever heard. The androgynous storytellers who carried a pair of slender swords and dressed in diamond-pattern clothes and white masks were as mythical as the tales they told.

'I am nothing,' Mihn repeated, as if in a trance. He looked up to meet Isak's eyes for the first time and calmed himself a little. Tm a failure. They had such high hopes for me; all the elders said I would be the best they had ever seen. I had surpassed the masters with the blades by my eighteenth summer.'

'Then what happened?'

'I failed the last trial. There were only three of us. Those who are allowed to take the test should be certain to pass. But I failed.'

'How?'

The last trial is to tell one of the sagas, in full, one that should last for a day at least, but I… I could not remember my tale, not a single word, not a name, not a place. I had spent my life training for this, learning every language in the Land, all the dialects and accents and idiosyncrasies, repeating the stories the Gods taught us, practising each step of every play, the voices of animals and accents of man and woman. But at the test I could not remember one word of my favourite tale, one I had memorised before my tenth summer.'

Mihn leaned forward, his chest pressed down on his thighs. 'I was cast out. The mask I was to put on was burned, my blades broken. I vowed never to wield an edged weapon again, as penance for failing those who had trained me and invested their faith in me.'

'One story? One forgotten story and your life is over?'

With a bitter laugh, Mihn replied, 'A Harlequin who cannot remember? The Gods themselves wrote our laws in stone, carved into the wall of our holiest place. A Harlequin is emissary of the Gods. Without perfection in thought and word, it would be blasphemy.'

Isak gently grasped the broken figure by the shoulders and lifted him up. As he felt a shudder run through Mihn's body, he realised it was just as well Mihn had come with him: he was too similar to Bahl – left alone, he'd end up a shadow, walking the corridors of the palace like a restless phantom. Mihn's face had crumpled into complete hopelessness. He was searching for something to give him meaning again.