‘Thanks for that.’

From under his soiled cloak, the man extended a bony hand that appeared utterly bloodless, as if he should have been lying in one of the graves himself.

‘Right,’ Randur acknowledged, and reached into his pocket for a coin.

‘Much obliged,’ the man murmured, and headed back to tend to his graves.

Deeper in, the houses became much more cramped together.

Randur peered through lantern-lit windows in the crudely built shacks to see large families huddled together inside – cheek by jowl, as his mother would have said. Amazing that the sunlight would never penetrate this far to brighten their lives. The walls were so flimsy that every sound could be heard by the neighbours. What must it be like trying to sleep with babies crying all around them in the night? Not even gardens in which children could play, and the damp washing was strung up in front of their doorways. Everywhere monotonous shades of brown, grey, black. Surely if those refugees outside the city knew what it was really like to live in Villjamur then they would prefer to take their chances with the ice.

The outline of a vague shape was stretching across the entire roof of the cavern. Something up there glittered faintly like starlight. But that would have been impossible.

And it suddenly struck him how completely anonymous he was in Caveside. Despite his new position at court, he was now in an alien city where no one had heard of him. That gave him a peculiar sensation when he paced the muddy cobbles.

Suddenly, from a building to his left, two men burst onto the street brawling. A cloud of alcohol followed as several men piled out of the tavern after them, cheering them on. Light from the open doorway spilled out on the grotesque scene. The brawlers cursed each other and rolled about on the ground. They punched each other’s faces and grabbed each other’s garments as if to frantically swap clothes.

I reckon this must be one of the places I’m looking for.

Someone from the crowd stepped forward and kicked one of the fighters on the head with a solid-looking boot. It snapped back, neck broken, its owner lying perfectly still. The other man got up, brushed himself down, patted the killer on the shoulder. Together with the gathered onlookers, who were muttering approvingly, they returned inside. Randur studied the inn’s sign. He had indeed arrived at the Garuda’s Head, a crudely whitewashed building, with a pair of external torches burning. As the corpse lay on the ground in a pool of blood, a banshee could be seen approaching in the murky light. Randur stepped quickly into the tavern.

Everyone turned to stare as the stranger walked towards the bar, the sound of conversation dipped. Even with a shelf of candles distributed around the room, the place was barely navigable. The walls were plain, with little decoration, just the odd dull and faded painting of battle and hunting scenes mainly, the odd seascape. Fishing nets hung from the ceiling, wood panelling glowing behind. He tried to gauge the tenor of conversations, but all he could hear was the hushed mumble of men talking into their drinks.

Randur leaned boldly against the wooden countertop at the far end of the tavern. Rough-looking types stared at him suspiciously through a cloud of pipe smoke. He could smell arum weed, lager, and fish being fried in some other room. The counter was littered with tankards and used plates that no one had bothered to clear up.

Randur produced a knife from out of his sleeve, and slammed it on the counter followed by a handful of coins, which eventually rattled to a rest. ‘Lager,’ he announced to the grubby man standing behind the counter.

‘You’ll need more money than that,’ the fat barman replied, wiping sweat from his cheek.

Randur laughed awkwardly, pretended to rummage in his various pockets. He placed another few Drakar on the table. ‘That’s all I’ve got.’

The barman counted the coins slowly before grunting what sounded close to an approval. He turned to one side to pull the drink. Having given that little display, surely no one would think Randur worth robbing.

A grey-haired man propped to his right muttered, ‘Pretty flashy blade that.’ He indicated the onyx-handled knife that Randur had placed on the bar counter. ‘You wanna be careful you don’t get it taken from you. You can never be too careful in Caveside, like.’

‘I wouldn’t worry yourself,’ Randur replied defensively.

‘Just sayin’, like.’ The old man blew his nose into his hands, which he then wiped on his breeches.

Randur frowned at this display. The man who had addressed him was so thin and starved-looking, he appeared half-dead. His cloak was in good condition though, and still a deep green. He wore several polished copper bangles and brooches, all bearing leaf motifs, and even his boots were particularly well-shined.

Randur decided his neighbour wouldn’t be able to give much trouble. ‘Thanks for your concern.’ The barman placed the tankard of lager on the bar. Having remembered his identity wasn’t real, he felt safe in continuing the conversation. ‘I’m Randur. Who the hell are you?’

‘They call me many things round here, young Randur…’ the old man began. There was an authority in his voice, the sort that made you suspect some kind of prophecy was imminent.

Randur waited for a moment as the man stared ahead aimlessly. ‘Well, you going to tell me one of them at least?’

‘You can call me Denlin.’

‘Well, Denlin, what do you do exactly, apart from propping up this bar?’

‘Ex-soldier. Jamur Eighth Dragoons – and for forty years, too. Forty years of the military.’

Randur sipped his lager casually. ‘So, what did you fight with?’

‘Longbow and crossbow, lad. I was an archer by trade, before my eyes started failing me, that is.’

‘And is that why you quit?’ Randur said. ‘Your vision failed you?’

‘Wasn’t that really,’ Denlin said. ‘I’m no dribber – I can still bring down a garuda from the sky on a windy day.’ He looked down at the beer-stained floor. ‘Admittedly my vision’s not what it used to be.’

‘Well anyway, Denlin the Archer,’ Randur raised his tankard, ‘here’s to things not being quite what they used to be.’

‘You seem too young to be mouthing words like those,’ Denlin muttered. ‘Those’re words only a man who’s lived a bit should be saying.’

Randur shrugged. ‘You don’t have to be old to know that life will throw a good deal of shit your way.’

They clinked tankards.

‘So, lad, tell me,’ Denlin said, a new froth of beer on his lips, ‘what brings you Caveside?’

Randur checked the barman was out of earshot. ‘I’m looking for… certain people.’

‘Know a lot of people, me,’ Denlin pressed. ‘Who you looking for? Anyone specific?’

‘Look,’ Randur decided suddenly that the old man could be a lead, ‘I need someone interested in buying some stuff from me.’

‘Buying and selling, yeah? Hmm. You wanna be careful with your valuables round these parts.’

Randur said, ‘D’you know of anyone who might be into regular trading with me?’

‘Well that depends, lad,’ Denlin said. ‘Depends what needs trading.’

Randur leaned closer to the old man. ‘Look, I screwed a lady, and I took her jewels. I need to make myself some coin, and I need it quick.’

Denlin burst into a hoarse laugh. ‘Ah, I used to do a bit of that myself, lad. Ha! You sort of remind me of me.’

I truly, truly hope not, Randur reflected, leaning back to examine him. That would not be a great reason to continue living. ‘Anyway, can you help me out?’

‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Denlin said. ‘What’s in it for me?’

‘One in every ten coin is yours,’ Randur said. ‘I’ve got a lot of jewels already, and I plan to have a lot more. You’ll end up making a fair bit out of me.’