'It's up on your desk,' said Oterness with a nod toward the spiral stair behind him. The pulpit-like mezzanine was shrouded in shadow, for Jorinn knew not to set foot on the stair, let alone go up, even to light the lamp on the king's desk.

Emin helped his wife into her chair before going to retrieve the letter, which was folded up so small that it could be concealed in the palm of a hand. He opened it, and read the message inside, his eyes darting towards Oterness as he finished. Without speaking he went to the bell-pull by the fire and gave it a sharp tug to summon Coran, his white-eye bodyguard.

'Can't it wait? You need to eat and rest, give yourself an hour at least,' Oterness said, concerned, though she knew he would ignore both his own needs and the hurt he was feeling and attend instead to the demands of his position.

But will you never let it out? Your rage at Ilumene's betrayal was buried deep, but it's still there – and now? You're asking too much of yourself, my Emin, far more than any man should.

'I will rest soon,' the king replied at last, gripping the back of her chair and resting his hands on her shoulders. Coran stormed in without knocking as usual, his expression blank.

'Give this letter to Anversis Chals; tell him to draft a plan for Midsummer's Day.'

'Anversis? Your uncle?' Oterness interjected with a puzzled look. '1 thought he was no part of your war – doesn't he spend his days researching migration patterns?'

Emin smiled. 'True enough.'

'Surely you've not found a use for his obsessions? The man is so indiscreet – you can't possibly trust him with your secrets!'

'Also true,' the king sighed, 'but he has applied his theories to the movements of Harlequins and this letter is the first sign of something we've feared since Thistledell.'

'We?'

'Morghien and I. You remember when I first met him?'

Oterness nodded warily. 'Something about a ghost in the library your father had sponsored, and Morghien saving you from it.'

Emin scowled. 'It was no ghost, it was Azaer. The shadow was unable to resist the lure of a library open to the whole population, all that knowledge, available to everyone, and it started to rewrite some of the books, changing our history. At the end of that week I had declared war against an intangible immortal, and I had a sister to bury. There is one group of people better equipped than any other to edit history, and Rojak showed us at Thistledell the power a minstrel can wield.' He raised the letter before handing it to Coran. 'This is a report from Helrect: a Harlequin passing through there in late summer made a mistake when telling a story!'

'A mistake?' Oterness said, surprised. 'But Harlequins have perfect memories, don't they? That's the whole point.' She ignored Coran as he offered the pair a perfunctory bow and hurried out.

'Exactly. And now we need to pay great attention, to see whether any other instances crop up.'

The queen froze. 'You said "draft a plan for midsummer". What sort of plan, exactly?'

Emin crouched down at her side and put a protective hand on her swollen belly. 'If they have become the servants of Azaer, even unwittingly, the damage they could cause could be incalculable. In Scree, Azaer's disciples turned the citizens against the Gods – what if that happens across the whole Land? We have had so few opportunities to derail the shadow's cause, and I must not flinch now.'

'You would kill them all?'

'It seems,' said Emin slowly, 'that there is nothing I will not do.' He bowed his head, a man defeated by his own deeds.

'Fate's pity, did Scree have such an effect on everyone? Did no good come of it at all?'

The king laughed coldly. 'No good?' he echoed, then the hardness faded from his face and was replaced with a look of profound sadness. 'Doranei, that poor boy Doranei: he fell in love.'

CHAPTER 3

Unhindered by the weak candlelight, Lord Isak looked around at the assembled faces and tried to ignore the ache at the back of his head. One scowled back, making little effort to conceal his displeasure, but Isak had grown to expect that from his Chief Steward. The young white-eye had inherited an entire nation from his predecessor, Lord Bahl, and whatever else one might say about Chief Steward Fordan Lesarl – megalomaniacal sadist being one of the more colourful terms bandied about – the man knew how to run a country.

The rest of those present were quite a handsome bunch, something that had surprised Isak the first time he'd met them, although he had never been able to pinpoint why exactly. They were divided into those staring back like cornered rabbits and those with eyes miserably downcast. He took a deep breath. The day hadn't been going well and his already bad mood had only been darkened by the persistent drizzle that worsened to a downpour every time he ventured outside.

Don't lose your temper. Isak had to keep repeating this simple message to himself: don't lose your temper; don't turn on those you trust. He'd seen the warning in the eyes of his friends, his advisors, especially Carel. Though he was thin now, and aged ten years or more since losing his arm in battle, Carel had always recognised better than anyone else the temper boiling within Isak. Carel had been more of a father to him than Isak's real father during the years they had lived on the wagon-train, and he had been made a marshal as much for the calming effect he had on Isak as anything. He was still the person Isak trusted most.

Arranged around three tables were the nine members of Lesarl's coterie, as disparate a collection as anyone was likely to find anywhere, and not all of the Chief Steward's agents looked as if they belonged in the dusty attic of a tavern just off the bustling Crooked Tail Street. The main river docks in Tirah were only a stone's throw from the Cock's Tail, and the tavern's regular patrons were as rough and raucous as they came. The grizzled first mate sitting at one of the tables, his arms and bald head covered in tattoos and scars, looked as if he'd fit right in downstairs in the taproom; the silk-clad dandy next to him did not – but no one here was fooled by the appearance of either.

'I see you're all as delighted as Lesarl to be here,' Isak said eventually.

The Lord of the Farlan was dressed almost as splendidly as Dancer, the foppish nobleman. His tunic and breeches of deep blue had swirls of silver thread and moonstones down the left side. Isak had abandoned his silver ducal circlet after a day of official functions, but everything else bar the lack of crest on his dark grey hooded robe was as custom dictated: a pristine exterior, even down to his smooth cheeks and trimmed hair, but all the finery could not disguise the muscles underneath.

'They are concerned, as am I, about the security issue,' Lesarl said.

Isak acknowledged the point, and the informality. The Chief Steward had made it clear that his coterie were encouraged to speak freely and frankly, and without reference to rank.

'There are so many clandestine meetings going on every night in this city, no one is going to notice one more.'

' You are hardly unremarkable,' said the youngest member of the coterie, Whisper, who headed Lesarl's personal spy network. 'And neither is Dancer, especially in this district.'

Dancer gave her a broad smile and indicated those even more out of place than him. Prayer was a tonsured priest of Nartis, a sour-faced man in his early fifties who had sat as far as possible from the bejewelled woman called Conjurer. She in turn was making a futile effort to be inconspicuous. Isak suspected the woman was unused to this, but he knew most mages found it difficult to be comfortable in his presence. A combination of the raw skills of youth, the brute force of a white-eye and the vast power of two Crystal Skulls would make any sane person nervous.