‘Oh, come on, Reeth!’ Kutch complained, face twisted in youthful angst at the prospect of missing a treat.

‘It might be dangerous. Anyway, I’d prefer privacy.’

‘Apparently it’s a condition,’ Karr pointed out. ‘Both of you or not at all.’

‘It makes no sense.’

‘Well, you’ve come this far…’

Reeth considered it. ‘All right. When?’

‘Today. They’re sending someone to pick you up now.’

Covenant were as good as their word.

Within the hour their emissary arrived. He was short and bony with an orderly beard, and he used words sparingly. They were told to call him Ockley. He didn’t know or wouldn’t say why Kutch had been included in the audience with Phoenix. Nor was he forthcoming about exactly where they were going.

Another hour later they found themselves on the opposite side of the city from Karr’s safe house. They were in a bustling, run-down neighbourhood mostly given over to small manufacturers of clothes, cheap furniture, minor glamours and other daily necessities. A market shared the neighbourhood, adding to the traffic. Streams of people on foot weaved around wagons and mules being loaded and unloaded. Tradesmen lugged sacks of vegetables and crates of fish.

As always, there were men and women in the crowd who regarded Caldason with contempt, if not plain hostility. It wasn’t uncommon for children to share their distaste and to show it.

‘How much longer before we get there, Ockley?’ Caldason wondered.

‘Not far now. Naturally we’re taking an indirect route.’

‘Can’t we move a bit faster?’

‘We’re to do nothing that might attract attention to ourselves,’ their guide replied sternly. ‘I would have thought you of all people could understand that.’

Reeth and Kutch slowed and fell back a few paces. They conversed under their breath.

‘Jolly soul, isn’t he?’ Kutch reckoned.

‘I can see the need for caution, but this endless dawdling isn’t to my taste.’

‘You’re not very fond of cities, are you?’

‘Not greatly. Such places are cut off from nature, and that goes against the way my people see things. And cities have the biggest concentration of magic.’

‘I think that’s one reason I’m starting to like it here. Anyway, there’s no contradiction between magic and nature. Magic’s

part

of nature.’

‘I don’t dispute that. It’s the use it’s put to I don’t like.’

A passer-by stared rudely at Caldason. He returned the gaze levelly and the man looked away.

‘Aren’t you excited about meeting another Qalochian? I mean that woman the patrician told us about.’

‘Would you be excited about meeting another sorcerer’s apprentice?’

‘Well, interested might be a better word.’

‘That’s more or less how I feel.’

‘But I’m excited about meeting Phoenix. Aren’t you?’

Caldason didn’t answer.

They carried on without talking, watching Ockley’s back. Then he stopped abruptly by a wooden building whose side was covered in handbills.

When they caught up, Reeth said, ‘What is it?’

Ockley nodded at the mass of posters. They announced events, advertised goods, denounced and championed causes, pleaded for lost things and people. Layers were plastered over each other, with the older flyers peeling and in places defaced. One of the newer posters, still smooth and unruffled, read:

WANTED

Felon. Traitor. Outlaw At Large

A substantial reward is offered for the apprehension of Qalochian Reeth Caldason, murderer, agitator and disturber of the peace.

It is the duty of any citizen knowing the whereabouts of the said Caldason, or having knowledge of his activities, to report to the authorities without delay.

Warning is hereby served

that any found wilfully harbouring the fugitive face punishment as laid down in law. Contact your local watch-house or paladin garrison.

By Royal Proclamation

Underneath, there was a glamoured, three-dimensional representation of Caldason. The picture showed someone older, heavier and fully bearded.

‘It’s nothing like you!’ Kutch exclaimed.

Caldason shushed him. ‘I’ve seen few that were. Maybe because I’ve managed to avoid having my actual likeness taken. These things are always an approximation.’

‘There’s little chance of you being identified from that,’ Ockley agreed. ‘But it’s freshly pasted, and that underlines the importance of us proceeding with caution.’

Kutch started scraping at the poster’s upper edge with his fingernails, trying to tear it down.

‘Leave it,’ Caldason said, ‘it won’t be the only one.’

‘Come,’ Ockley instructed them curtly.

Yes, sir

, Kutch mouthed behind his back, pulling a sour face.

They resumed their journey.

Ockley insisted on maintaining his serpentine route. It took them through crowded squares, roads lined with merchants’ stalls and noisome cobbled lanes. They came to a narrow street where the buildings had jutting upper storeys and a virtual sewer flowed underfoot.

Somebody threw a pail of slops from a window above, barely missing them.

Gales of laughter and hoots of derision came from across the way. A group of drunks were tumbling from an inn. One staggered a few paces to relieve himself against a wall. The others shouted abuse at Caldason and his party, their insults centring on his race. He stopped and stared at them. The jeers increased in volume and spite.

‘Come along,’ Ockley sniffed like a prissy school marm, ‘ignore them.’

Caldason didn’t move.

The two most vociferous of the drunks stood out from the rest. They were worlds apart in appearance. One was a weasel of a man with shifty eyes and bad skin. The other was melon-headed and built like a mountain. But muscular, not fat.

Passers-by were taking an interest now.

‘We don’t need this attention,’ Ockley hissed.

‘Qaloch shit!’

the weaselly man yelled.

His huge friend, indicating Kutch, shouted, ‘Your butt boy, is he?’ Bending over, he pointed to his own enormous rear.

The drunks roared.

Caldason stepped into the road.

‘Reeth!’

Kutch begged. ‘Leave it. It doesn’t matter.’

He paid no heed and walked slowly towards the mob. To a chorus of catcalls and urgings from their cronies, weasel and the man-mountain moved to meet him.

They came face to face on the boardwalk outside the inn. The other drunks seemed content, so far, to simply watch and voice their mockery.

Weasel man, wiry and street-wise, took the lead. ‘Got something you want to say to us, trash?’

Caldason gave him a benevolent smile. ‘Nothing you’re bright enough to understand, my friend.’

‘Yeah? Well you ain’t no friend of mine. You’re a fucking Qalochian bastard. Understand

that

?’

‘Ah, but there’s one difference between you and me. I’m proud to be a Qalochian and I’d never change it even if I could. You, on the other hand, can’t do anything about that broken jaw.’

Weasel-face looked puzzled. ‘What broken jaw?’

Reeth’s left hand shot out and grasped the man’s throat. A powerful tug brought him straight into the Qalochian’s flying right fist. The crack was audible. Weasel gave an agonised snort, hands to chin, eyes screwed up in pain.

‘That one,’ Caldason said.

It happened so quickly nobody had time to react. Now the other drunks fell silent, smirks frozen. Weasel sank to his knees, groaning.

Man-mountain looked down at his stricken companion, then over to Caldason, fury lighting his dim eyes. ‘You’re gonna regret that, you Qalochian scumbag,’ he rumbled.

Caldason still wore his agreeable smile. ‘Make me, lard barrel.’

The mountain seethed. Veins in his bull neck stood out like knotted rope. ‘You better get ready to use them fancy swords, little man. Not that they’ll do you any good.’ He was bunching his rock-sized fists.