“Do it anyway. I want him gaoled. Or dead. Why is he called ‘the Cook’?”

“Oh, a foolish story that he stewed and ate some rival long ago. No right-thinking man would give it any credence. You know how these thieves like to dress themselves in dark rumours.”

“Yes,” murmured the Shadowhand, thinking of Torquentine in Vaymouth: a shadow at the centre of a far more intricate web of rumour, but far too clever to let his name be widely known. Ochan the Cook would soon regret whatever he had done to draw Torquentine’s attention. Though playing the role of Torquentine’s vengeful messenger irked him, Mordyn was willing to see it through. It would be a profitable exchange of services, so long as Torquentine delivered on his promise to kill Gann nan Dargannan-Haig. And the Shadowhand had never been one to put pride above effectiveness.

“I will go and find the Bloodheir,” Mordyn said, rising to his feet. “I should talk to him before the feast. He’ll be in no mood to listen later on, and probably too drink-bruised to do so tomorrow.”

He turned back after a few paces down the passage, and returned to the doorway. He was not surprised to find the High Thane’s Steward leaning over the jug of wine, sniffing at it.

“Have one of your servants take that to my chambers, would you?” Mordyn said. “And get them to build up the fire there a bit more. I was cold last night.”

The Chancellor was deep in thought as he headed for the Tower of Thrones. He was tired, for he had been sleeping badly ever since leaving Vaymouth. The chambers the Steward had provided for him here in Kolkyre were a very poor substitute for the comforts of his Palace of Red Stone. That, combined with the fact that he never slept easily while separated from his wife Tara, meant he suffered too many hours of wakefulness in the night. It did not help that he was, in any case, on edge.

Not the least of his concerns was his reliance on Aewult nan Haig. So far, the Bloodheir was irritating and offending various people without precipitating an irrecoverable breach. That could easily change. Every new day provided abundant opportunities for him to say or do something profoundly unhelpful. The sooner Aewult and his army were moved on, the better. The question thereafter would be whether he could manage the swift defeat of the Black Road.

All the signs, thankfully, were that the Black Road’s forces in the Glas valley were too few to offer any serious resistance. Now that he was here in Kolkyre, where it began to be possible to sift fact from rumour, Mordyn was satisfied that Lannis-Haig had been undone by misfortune and by the cunning, rather than the numbers, of their enemies. The complicity of the White Owl Kyrinin, the ravages of the Heart Fever five years ago, a tendency to complacency in Croesan and his family: these were all it had taken to allow the Horin-Gyre Blood, alone, to bring Anduran down. They would be of little use against Aewult nan Haig’s army.

The Shadowhand winced as flurries of sleety snow began to swirl around him. He had never much liked Kolkyre but at this time of year, when bitter winds came off the sea and every day seemed given over to fog or rain or sleet, it was particularly unpleasant. He folded his arms to protect his hands from the cold, and longed for the day when he would be on the road south once more. In Vaymouth now, Tara would be bathing, breathing the sweet clove-scented air she so loved; or perhaps hosting some gathering of the ladies of Gryvan’s court, exquisitely garbed. Too far away, Mordyn thought, and too long to wait for our reunion. If Aewult did not win his victory quickly – insufferable as such a victory would no doubt make him – it would be a considerable time before the Chancellor forgave him.

IV

The hall of the Tower of Thrones was small but grand. It had room for no more than thirty or forty people, but on the night of the feast to welcome Aewult nan Haig, whatever the guests lacked in numbers was more than made up for by their grandeur. Lheanor oc Kilkry-Haig and his wife Ilessa sat at the high table. On their right hand was Aewult, then Orisian and Anyara. On the left sat Mordyn Jerain and the High Thane’s Steward, Lagair. There should have been one other there. The rumour, already flying through the Tower’s corridors, was that Roaric nan Kilkry-Haig had refused to share a table, or even a room, with the Haig Blood. Orisian, required to spend the evening at Aewult’s elbow, almost wished he could have done likewise.

The long table that ran away down the length of the hall was filled with Lheanor’s officials, the captains of the Haig army and the wealthiest merchants and Craftsmen of Kolkyre. It was not an admixture likely to produce high good humour, and so it proved. A kind of leaden, forced jollity arose, but it lacked conviction. The resentment and mistrust between the Haig and Kilkry Bloods were too deep-rooted to be wholly set aside for even a single night.

Musicians came and paraded up and down the hall. Falconers displayed Lheanor’s finest hunting hawks. A trickster made coins disappear. None of it did much to ease the evening’s latent tension. At length a storyteller was ushered in. As he bowed to Lheanor a hush fell across the room.

“In the Storm Years,” the storyteller began, “not long after the Kingship fell, a man called Rase oc Rainur – tall and red and strong-handed – had a hall at Drinan, which was then but a village. In the summer, the people grazed their cattle far out through the forest. Now, there was a girl called Fianna, daughter of Evinn, who often stood watch over her father’s cattle, taking only his two black dogs with her.”

Aewult nan Haig leaned too close to Orisian, his breath heavy with wine and grease.

“I think I’ve heard this before,” the Bloodheir said.

“It’s a common tale here,” Orisian replied. “It’s called ‘The Maid and the Woodwight’.”

“A miserable one, isn’t it? Doesn’t everybody die?”

“Not quite everyone.”

The storyteller pressed on, but he had clearly failed to catch the Bloodheir’s attention. As a scattering of discussions resumed around the hall, Aewult turned his attention to Anyara.

“You’ve a very fair face, my lady.” He flicked a wide grin at Orisian. “Has your sister given her affections to anyone, Thane?”

“My affections are my own,” Anyara said, “and I don’t give them away. I’m sure your own lady would say the same thing.” She glanced pointedly at the beautiful young woman who sat amongst the Haig captains at the long table.

Orisian was not certain of her name – Ishbel, he thought – but it was already common knowledge in Kolkyre that she shared a bed with the Bloodheir. It was said that he had smuggled her all the way from Vaymouth in one of the supply wagons. Apparently Aewult’s mother, Abeh oc Haig, had forbidden the liaison, as she disapproved of the woman’s background or breeding. Whatever the truth of it, Orisian suspected it was not wise ground for Anyara to start digging in.

To his relief, Aewult appeared to be amused rather than annoyed.

“A pretty face but a pointed tongue, I see,” the Bloodheir said through a mouthful of mutton. “You’ll have to blunt that a bit if you want to marry her off, you know.”

“I don’t mean to marry her off,” Orisian said quickly. He pressed forward against the table, hoping to put a barrier between Aewult and his sister. “How long do you expect to remain here in Kolkyre?”

“Keen to see us off to battle?” Aewult asked, with a smirk. “You don’t need to worry. We’ll be on our way soon enough. We’ll get your lands back for you, Thane, and sit you on your throne in Anduran. Believe me, I’ll not spend a day more than I must up here. It’s too cold and too wet.”

“It’ll get colder yet,” Orisian said. “Our winters aren’t really made for fighting.”