“Make him doubt,” the Shadowhand had whispered to her on that last night – a long night, and gentle, both sweet and sad – before his departure. “That is all that is required. When word comes of Gann’s death – and it will come – give the Craftmaster just enough cause to wonder about the circumstances. I need Lammain to consider the possibility that his ambition ran too far ahead of his sense.”

“I will give the matter some thought,” Lammain now said quietly.

“Do. Well, we neither of us have the time to fritter away on idle chatter, I imagine? Before he left, the Chancellor asked me to make a gift to you in his absence. He had hoped to see you himself before his departure, but there simply wasn’t the opportunity. You know how it is, when there are armies marching to and fro.”

“Of course. I am not sure what I or my Craft have done to merit a gift from your husband, though.”

“Must every gift be merited?” Tara kept any hint of a smile from her face. She spoke softly, precisely. “Just as not every crime is punished, so not every reward is earned.”

Lammain nodded. He was watching Tara intently. She wondered if it was hostility that narrowed his eyes, but concluded that it was only concentration.

“Anyway,” she continued, her voice now light, glittering, “the gift is not for you, in truth. You know how Mordyn and I have always admired your Craft’s dedication to the service of the less fortunate. Your orphanages, in particular. You have two now, don’t you?”

“Indeed. Here and in Drandar.” The Craftmaster’s self-discipline was impressive. His tone shadowed Tara’s to perfection, pitched just short of merriment.

“It’s a most worthy cause. I will have the donation brought to the Crafthouse in the morning, if that is agreeable? Delivered to the Secretary in person, I imagine?”

“You are most kind, dear lady, most kind. I will ensure that it is expected, and dealt with appropriately.”

Tara strolled back towards the music chamber with a light tread. She did not hurry, savouring these few moments of peace and solitude. Her soft footsteps rang faintly along the marble-clad corridor. She wondered how much of the donation Lammain would keep for himself, and for his Secretary. However much was needed to salve the blow of Gann nan Dargannan-Haig’s death, no doubt. Which was exactly as Mordyn intended. He would be pleased to hear how smoothly everything had gone upon his return. And that return could not come soon enough for Tara. There was no one else in whose company she could set aside all pretence and be wholly herself.

She could hear the singer’s voice, an ethereal shiver through the halls. The girl really was very good, Tara thought. In all likelihood, Abeh would steal her away and have her singing in the Moon Palace within the month. And then, inevitably, her beauty would sooner or later catch the eye of Aewult or Stravan, the High Thane’s sons. Whatever happened after she had drawn such attention, it was unlikely to end well for her.

Tara paused outside the music chamber. A single upraised finger was enough to tell the servant there to wait before opening the door. Tara took a moment to run a careful hand over her hair, to settle into place the required bright smile. Then she made her entry.

The narrow strip of fields that skirted Kolglas – fragments of land gnawed out of the vast forests of Anlane – had disappeared beneath the boots and tents and hoofs and creaking wheels of Aewult nan Haig’s host. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of his men were yet to reach the town, but enough had arrived to transform the landscape. The earth was churned into a great lagoon of mud that curved around the town’s landward flanks. It made for a slippery, sodden camping ground; one that would sap the spirits and vigour of the Bloodheir’s men. Aewult nan Haig himself, to no one’s surprise, found it not to his liking. He claimed finer quarters, in the centre of the town.

That was where Taim went seeking him, but the guards on the gate told him the Bloodheir was not within. Aewult, it transpired, had gone to the sea, to view Castle Kolglas. Taim hastened down through the crowds towards the harbour. The thought of Aewult nan Haig observing the empty shell of the castle in the sea was irrationally distasteful to him. For Taim and everyone else of his Blood, what had happened within those walls on the night of Winterbirth was a bitter memory: painful, but also, in an ill-defined way, shameful. It was all too easy to imagine the Haig Bloodheir having a very different response. It felt rather like having to watch an enemy gloating over the corpse of a fallen friend.

The night before, there had been no opportunity to speak with Aewult at any length. When Taim had greeted him outside the town, their reunion was, if not exactly hostile, certainly cold. The Bloodheir had made it plain that his only interest was in finding himself a warm bed and hot food. Taim had found himself dismissed and all but ignored. Unexpectedly, he slept well that night.

Now, the morning after, he had no difficulty in finding Aewult. The Bloodheir’s Palace Shield had cleared a stretch of the quayside and stood like an array of metal-clad statues in a wide half-circle. Protected from the common folk by that barrier, Aewult was gazing out over the choppy water towards the castle. A woman was by his side, wearing a heavy but intricately decorated coat with a thick fur collar. It took Taim a moment or two to recall her name: Ishbel, the companion Aewult had brought with him all the way from Anduran.

Taim slipped between a pair of the silent shieldmen. He was relieved that neither made any move to obstruct him; he was, at least, saved that minor humiliation. He came up to the Bloodheir’s side with a small bow. Aewult did not acknowledge his arrival.

“It’s a fine castle,” Aewult said. He turned to Ishbel, gesturing at the lifeless mass of Castle Kolglas. “Don’t you think, my lady? It’s a noble setting.”

Ishbel gave no sign of any genuine interest. “I suppose it is. If you can call anywhere this cold noble.”

Aewult smiled at her.

“It was a fine castle,” Taim said. “The roof’s half gone now. Most that wasn’t stone has been burned out.”

“You can build it back,” Aewult said. The smile vanished from his face as soon as he turned his attention to Taim. “It’s nothing that can’t be mended, once your young Thane’s back on his throne. Where is he, by the way?”

His voice had a powerful edge of threat, of aggression, in it. Where his father Gryvan, in Taim’s experience, spoke with subtle daggers concealed behind each word, Aewult flailed around with cudgels.

“I don’t know, sire. I have not seen or heard from him since we marched from Kolkyre. We expect his arrival any day, though.”

Aewult grunted. The answer clearly did not satisfy him. “You can expect whatever you like. Where did he go? Was it Highfast? That’s what Mordyn thought.”

Taim had to take a moment to consider his answer. The Bloodheir was unlikely to believe him if he feigned complete ignorance of Orisian’s plans. Even so, Taim had no intention of reporting to the Haig Blood on the detail of his own Thane’s intentions.

“I think so,” he said, endeavouring to sound like a man accustomed to ignorance of his master’s dealings. “He meant to make his way here with some speed, though.”

“Did he?”

The simple phrase was bloated with self-satisfaction and affected lack of interest. Evidently, Aewult knew – or thought he knew – something that Taim did not.

Ishbel made a disgruntled sound, faint but pointed. “I’m getting cold here. It’s bitter.”

“There’s snow coming in off the sea,” Taim said. He nodded out towards the banks of clouds to the west. They hung like a dismal roof over the grey sea. “Any west wind can bring snow at this time of year. This one’s likely to be heavy-laden. Tonight, or tomorrow maybe, there’ll be a big fall.”