'The rumours about Thotel are true then?' Suzerain Saroc interjected before Tori could continue his objections. He was very conscious that the dark monks and the Ghosts were eyeing each other suspiciously, and neither side had yet sheathed their weapons. 'Has Lord Styrax has taken the city and torn down the Temple of the Sun?'

Isak nodded. 'So I've been told.'

'But what about Narkang? Were you not returning to claim your inheritance because you felt Lord Bahl's death?'

'Unfortunately, it's not as simple as that. These parts may see more fighting before-'

'My Lord,' the ranger Jeil broke in, 'I need your help.'

Isak nodded at the suzerains and returned to Carel. He crouched down beside Jeil to inspect the damaged limb. Carel was terribly pale, and sweat poured off him as he panted, almost gasping for breath.

'I can't save it,' Jeil said calmly. He was too experienced to bother trying to hide the truth from Carel. 'You're his best chance.'

'Me? I've never done anything like this,' Isak protested.

Jeil pointed at Eolis. 'The marshal doesn't need a healer, not at the moment. He needs a butcher, and saving your pardon, my Lord, you're the best we have. Eolis will give the cleanest cut, and with a touch you can cauterise the wound.'

Isak looked down at Carel. He could see the old man was weaken¬ing before his eyes.

'There's no other way?'

'None.'

Isak looked around, but none would meet his gaze. He stood and drew Eolis. Carel couldn't stop himself howling in pain as Jeil manoeuvred the injured arm away from the body and indicated where Isak should cut. As Isak raised the slim sword, he looked at Duke Certinse, a glare of such pure venom that the duke shrank back in fear.

'On a spike,' Isak growled. He slashed down.

CHAPTER 4

'Lord Isak, your health.' Suzerain Saroc, looking markedly different dressed up in silks and fine linens, raised his goblet for the other guests to follow. A bronze brooch bearing his chalice device was pinned to his left shoulder and he now sported his earrings of rank – though the three hoops through his left ear were not plain gold, like those worn by Count Vesna and Suzerain Torl; his were intricately carved and set with flecks of jet. To Isak's intense surprise, the deeply religious Saroc, last seen dressed in dour black, had transformed into something of a peacock once they reached his estate.

The men echoed the suzerain's words; the women, all wearing tight-wrapped dresses and feathers in their hair, hmmmed agreement. It was the first time Isak had participated in a formal Farlan toast, but Tila had found a few minutes to coach him in his expected role

– which largely boiled down to draining his cup whenever his name

was mentioned. He still didn't grasp why only men carrying weapons

were allowed to speak above a mutter, though she had pointed out

one or two wearing ceremonial swords solely for that purpose.

Emptying his goblet: Isak was more than willing to do that in the name of protocol, and he did so with a flourish. He nodded graciously to each of the noblemen around the table and set his goblet down for it to be refilled – but somehow he miscalculated, and the thump as it hit the table caused the bowl of rice beside it to jump and overturn. He frowned at the table; it seemed to be closer than he'd first thought

– but when he looked up, he realised there were startled faces turned

his way. Perhaps that had been a little loud; suddenly he was reminded

that his huge frame was oversized for this rather delicate dining hall.

A hot feeling began at the back of his neck as he felt the eyes of the room on him. With painstaking care he disentangled his fingers from the goblet and raised his hand in apology to the suzerain, who smiled back and nodded graciously as the rest of the room looked away with embarrassed expressions. Oh damn, Isak thought, I'm the guest of honour, I shouldn't be apologising. Didn't Tila say I couldn't do anything wrong at a meal in my honour?

'He's going to be fine.' The soft voice in his ear was accompanied by a waft of perfume. Around them, conversation sputtered back into life as the guests returned to their meals.

Isak turned to Tila and nodded glumly. The doctors were agreed on that point at least, despite it being the only one they had been able to reach a consensus on. A middle-aged monk with a hard stare, accompanied by three novices, had arrived from a nearby monastery to help tend to the wounded. He'd been friendly to the suzerain and polite to Lord Isak, of course, but his face betrayed his feelings when he saw a local woman also tending to the sick; her hair cut short to display the scars and tattoos around her neck marked the woman clearly as a witch. No one said much, but even the veteran soldiers had deferred to her opinion.

'I know he will be,' Isak said, prodding the lump of pork on his plate with a knife, 'but I can't seem to get the smell of burned flesh out of my mind.'

Looking round at the forty or so faces in the hall, Isak saw a number still watching him with slight concern; the Countess Saroc was one who had little time for alcohol and no patience with drunks. Isak ignored her sharp eyes, which shone from her long, thin face. His natural charisma had a more dramatic effect on inanimate objects than on the Countess Saroc, but her courtesy remained faultless and her compassion for the injured unmatched; that she didn't like him was a small price to pay.

'He's too old to be leading men into battle,' Isak continued, pick¬ing at his meal. It was too rich, and had set his stomach churning. Aside from the wine, he had consumed only rice and a bowl of dressed tomatoes. Popping another in his mouth, Isak licked the oil from his fingers and sighed. 'I shouldn't have asked it of him.'

You're right that he's too old,' agreed Tila, placing her fingers on his forearm. 'You're wrong that it's your fault. The old buzzard knows his own strength better than you do, and you can't claim to be more aware of the dangers of battle than he. Let his decisions be his own.'

Her hand looked like a child's against Isak's green-edged cuff. They had little time to sit together and talk as friends these days. Isak didn't

resent the love that had flourished between Tila and Count Vesna, for both had become dear to him, but in his first weeks in Tirah Palace, he and Tila had spent nearly every minute of the day together.

Isak saw a fond smile appear on Tila's rosebud mouth. 'And, of course, a friend should be on hand to cut one's arm off when one makes the wrong choice.'

Isak resisted the urge to reach out and hug her, uncomfortably aware of the eyes on them. Instead, he stuck his tongue out at her, prompting a muted squeal of amusement, and went on the hunt for more wine.

'My Lord.' Suzerain Saroc spoke as Isak filled his own goblet from the decanter in front of him, placed there by Mihn so he wouldn't have a servant hovering at his shoulder all night – the tale of the bat¬tle in Narkang had raced through the suzerain's household, and every one of the staff was surreptitiously trying to catch a glimpse of Isak's left hand that had been left as white as the tunic he wore. Isak turned towards the suzerain, his body feeling heavy and ponderous.

'Might I persuade you to rest here a few weeks before returning to Tirah? We seldom have the chance to entertain our lord down here in Saroc; your presence would be a blessing for us all.'

'A good idea,' Isak said with a smile. 'I think Lesarl can spare me for a few weeks yet.' Off past the suzerain, he saw a frown cross Vesna's face. The count was listening idly to a knight on his right, but his concentration was on Isak and the suzerain. Old maid, thought Isak. He worries about everything if I've not discussed it with him already.