Isak found himself picking at the chair as he thought. 'So the alternatives are?'

'Allow him to come here and see massive bloodshed on the streets, or deflect him.'

'Have they asked him to lead a revolt?' Isak said in surprise.

'No, my Lord, but you are white-eyes and these are fraught times. With the two of you in the city, you will fight -1 guarantee it. With armies at your sides, the destruction in the city will be extensive.'

'Your expression tells me I'm not going to like the other choice much either.'

'No.' Lesarl was quiet for a moment while he stared into the fire.

Isak felt trepidation flood his body.

'My Lord,' Lesarl began hesitantly, 'this is the only viable course of action I can recommend. I don't want you to think too long about it because the longer you do so the more terrible it will seem.'

'Understood, now tell me.'

'Suzerain Torl is a devoted servant; he will realise the necessity. We need him to persuade the dark monks to go south, drawing every fanatic in their wake. I cannot entirely predict the end result, except to say that where religious fervour is concerned the usual rules of war, diplomacy and common sense do not apply.'

'You're talking about a crusade?' Isak said, feeling the enormity of his words like a millstone on his shoulders.

'Yes, my Lord. To avoid civil war here in Tirah, the Brethren of the Sacred Teachings must announce a holy war against the Menfn -to be joined by the whole spectrum of murderers, madmen and self-serving opportunist bastards in our priesthood when we circulate the rumour that Lord Styrax has consorted with daemons.' He sighed. 'And they will ask Lord Chalat, Chosen of the God Tsatach and deposed Lord of the Chetse, to lead them.'

CHAPTER 24

It was cold in the Duchess Chamber of the Ruby Tower. Dropping the antechamber onto Byora's clerics had opened the room to the winter wind gusting through the large double-doors. The small group of petitioners trooped in under the beady eye of Jato, Steward of the Tower, mindful of the positions they had been assigned. Luerce was almost last, lacking both wealth and a title, but that position gave him time to observe the others. Timing was everything, and Luerce was well-used to gauging a crowd.

He was a slight man, pale and thin-boned as most Litse were, but folk described his face as washed-out rather than porcelain, the more usual description for those of that tribe. It was an easy face to see weakness in, and few doubted it when that was what was displayed. Azaer hadn't had to show him the value of weakness; he already knew it.

The group on either side of the door included workmen, and a fat man in a drooping velvet hat. While some repaired minor damage to the plaster, others watched as the fat man painted on the newly whitewashed wall, tracing faint lines with sooty water. Luerce couldn't quite resolve the shapes into anything recognisable, but still it made him want to smile: he was painting shadows where once images of the Gods had been. The destruction of the antechamber had revealed enormous murals of Death and Ushull. The duchess had fallen into a rage at the sight of them and demanded both be whitewashed within the hour.

Now the duchess sat on her throne, with little Ruhen on her left, in the shadow of Sergeant Kayel. As Luerce stared at Ruhen, scarcely able to believe what he saw, the duchess said something to the boy and brought him round to sit beside her. Ruhen, apparently live winters of age and the picture of innocence, smiled up at the duchess as she bent to place a kiss on his brown curls. At the side of the room a grey-haired woman watched, bewildered – the child's mother, Luerce remembered. She was little more than skin and bone, and she looked broken, lost. He could see nothing more than a glimmer of recognition in her eyes, and it obviously wasn't enough for her to take exception to the duchess's motherly attentions to her son.

Then Ruhen looked up and stared straight at Luerce, and he felt that electric tingle down his spine. As his master fixed his gaze upon him, the sounds of shuffling feet and hurried whispers withered to nothing.

'Gods below,' Luerce breathed. The woman ahead of him turned and gave him a puzzled look, but he was so lost in the swirl of shadow in his mind that he hardly noticed.

Careful to keep the thought to himself, he recalled, I was there that day in the square when the duchess took you in, just a matter of months ago, no more, and look how you have grown.

'Where is Lady Kinna?' the duchess called, fingers idly stroking Ruhen's hair as though the boy were a pet.

Steward Jeto cleared his throat. 'Ah, she sends her apologies, your Grace. She came down with an ailment, an illness of the throat, two days past; she has been unable to leave her bed since.'

'Have my doctors been sent to attend her?'

'They have consulted with Lady Kinna's doctor, a woman from Helrect, so I am told. Your doctor is satisfied that she is receiving good care. They tell me a few days' rest will see Lady Kinna better than ever.'

Jeto finished his statement with a nervous cough. The fussy little sexagenarian had jet-black hair and a prominent nose, both of which contrived to make him look rather like a crow amongst pigeons. Black hair was rare in Byora, and Jeto lacked the height and thick bones of the Menin. Luerce was a small man himself, but he felt sure he could snap Jeto's neck like a twig if it became necessary.

'Very well, let us begin,' the duchess announced, holding Ruhen close.

Steward Jeto bowed ceremoniously and brought the first petitioner forward, a tall woman of similar age to the duchess – and her rival in wealth, if the jewellery with which she was adorned was anything to go by. Indeed, the duchess greeted the woman almost as a friend as Jeto began to outline the suit. Luerce let the words drone on without listening. He had a task to complete, but he could not risk interrupting a woman as powerful as this one clearly was.

Luerce had been apprenticed to a chandler from an early age, but he had not found the trade to his liking, despite being a good worker and popular with the customers. People were his greatest skill, making friends and connections as much as ferreting out their secrets. The old master had not lasted long after Luerce had married his daughter.

Now he left his wife to run the chandlery; so many foreigners passed through Byora that there were always opportunities for a man with a quick mind and glib tongue. His illicit living had been even more profitable than the chandlery, but he'd thought the fun had come to an end the day he tried to con a man with scarred hands and a quicker mind than his own. He'd spent the next few days confined to bed while the swelling subsided, and during those uncomfortable sleepless nights the shadows had spoken to him.

Since then Luerce had been waiting for the day he was needed, all the while extending his contacts within the city and smiling sympathetically at stories of hauntings and unfortunate accidents among his rivals.

The second petitioner was a waddling mage in robes that had once been very fine. Luerce bided his time, unwilling to steal a mage's thunder. The third was a meekdooking merchant whose fortunes had seen better days, judging by the state of his clothes. With a mournful wail Luerce slipped through the lines and past the merchant, falling to his knees well short of the point where Ilumene would have to give him a second beating.

'Your Grace,' Luerce moaned, 'I beg your forgiveness but I cannot wait any longer! I am cursed; cursed by a vengeful priest of Death. My daughter lies at home, one foot inside Death's Gates because of his spite and no healer can help her.'

He felt the crowd behind him shift, alarmed at the mention of a curse. The guards on either side started to move closer before Ilumene raised a hand to stop them. He had already stepped forward, putting himself between Ruhen and Luerce, as a bodyguard should, and now he peered at Luerce as though trying to see whether he was mad, or simply desperate. He is a great actor, Luerce thought.