And on a set of wide steps before the tallest of the three towers sat a magnificent old man. He was dressed all in white, with a long beard, a hook nose, and white hair spilling from under a white skull-cap. Logen was impressed, finally. The First of the Magi surely looked the part. As Logen shuffled towards him he started up from the steps and hurried over, white coat flapping behind him.

“Set him down here,” he muttered, indicating a patch of grass by the well, and Logen knelt and dumped Quai on the ground, as gently as he could with his back aching so much. The old man bent over him, laid a gnarled hand on his forehead.

“I brought your apprentice back,” muttered Logen pointlessly.

“Mine?”

“Aren’t you Bayaz?”

The old man laughed. “Oh no, I am Wells, head servant here at the Library.”

“I am Bayaz,” came a voice from behind. The butcher was walking slowly toward them, wiping his hands on a cloth. He looked maybe sixty but heavily built, with a strong face, deeply lined, and a close-cropped grey beard around his mouth. He was entirely bald, and the afternoon sun shone brightly off his tanned pate. He was neither handsome nor majestic, but as he came closer there did seem to be something about him. An assurance, an air of command. A man used to giving orders, and to being obeyed.

The First of the Magi took Logen’s left hand in both of his and pressed it warmly. Then he turned it over and examined the stump of his missing finger.

“Logen Ninefingers, then. The one they call the Bloody-Nine. I have heard stories about you, even shut up here in my library.”

Logen winced. He could guess what sort of stories the old man might have heard. “That was a long time ago.”

“Of course. We all have a past, eh? I make no judgements on hearsay.” And Bayaz smiled. A broad, white, beaming smile. His face lit up with friendly creases, but a hardness lingered around his eyes, deep-set and glistening green. A stony hardness. Logen grinned back, but he reckoned already that he wouldn’t want to make an enemy of this man.

“And you have brought our missing lamb back to the fold.” Bayaz frowned down at Malacus Quai, motionless on the grass. “How is he?”

“I think he will live, sir,” said Wells, “but we should get him out of the cold.”

The First of the Magi snapped his fingers and a sharp crack echoed from the buildings. “Help him.” The smith hurried forward and took Quai’s feet, and together he and Wells carried the apprentice through the tall door into the library.

“Now, Master Ninefingers, I have called and you have answered, and that shows good manners. Manners might be out of fashion in the North, but I want you to know that I appreciate them. Courtesy should be answered with courtesy, I have always thought. But what’s this now?” The old gatekeeper was hurrying back across the yard, greatly out of breath. “Two visitors in one day? Whatever next?”

“Master Bayaz!” wheezed the gatekeeper, “there’s riders at the gate, well horsed and well armed! They say they’ve an urgent message from the King of the Northmen!”

Bethod. It had to be. The spirits had said he had given himself a golden hat, and who else would have dared to call himself King of the Northmen? Logen swallowed. He’d got away from their last meeting with his life and nothing else, and yet it was better than many had managed, far better.

“Well, master?” asked the gatekeeper, “shall I tell them to be off?”

“Who leads them?”

“A fancy lad with a sour face. Said he’s this King’s son or something.”

“Was it Calder or Scale? They’re both something sour.”

“The younger one, I reckon.”

Calder then, that was something. Either one was bad, but Scale was much the worse. Both together were an experience to be avoided. Bayaz seemed to consider a moment. “Prince Calder may enter, but his men must remain beyond the bridge.”

“Yes sir, beyond the bridge.” The gatekeeper wheezed away. He’d love that, would Calder. Logen was greatly tickled by the thought of the so-called Prince screaming uselessly through that little slot.

“The King of the Northmen now, can you imagine?” Bayaz stared absently off down the valley. “I knew Bethod when he was not so grand. And so did you, eh, Master Ninefingers?”

Logen frowned. He’d known Bethod when he was next to nothing, a little chieftain like so many others. Logen had come for help against the Shanka, and Bethod had given it, at a price. Back then, the price had seemed light, and well worth the paying. Just to fight. To kill a few men. Logen had always found killing easy, and Bethod had seemed a man well worth fighting for—bold, proud, ruthless, venomously ambitious. All qualities that Logen had admired, back then, all qualities he thought he had himself. But time had changed them both, and the price had risen.

“He used to be a better man,” Bayaz was musing, “but crowns sit badly on some people. Do you know his sons?”

“Better than I’d like.”

Bayaz nodded. “They’re absolute shit, aren’t they? And I fear now they will never improve. Imagine that pinhead Scale a king. Ugh!” The wizard shuddered. “It almost makes you want to wish his father a long life. Almost, but not quite.”

The little girl that Logen had seen playing scurried over. She had a chain of yellow flowers in her hands, and she held it up to the old wizard. “I made this,” she said. Logen could hear the rapid pounding of hooves coming up the road.

“For me? How perfectly charming.” Bayaz took the flowers from her. “Excellent work, my dear. The Master Maker himself could not have done better.”

The rider clattered out into the yard, pulled his horse up savagely and swung from the saddle. Calder. The years had been kinder to him than to Logen, that much was clear. He was dressed all in fine blacks trimmed with dark fur. A big red jewel flashed on his finger, the hilt of his sword was set with gold. He’d grown and filled out, half the size of his brother Scale, but a big man still. His pale, proud face was pretty much as Logen remembered though, thin lips twisted in a permanent sneer.

He threw his reins at the woman churning milk then strode briskly across the yard, glowering about him, his long hair flapping in the breeze. When he was about ten strides away he saw Logen. His jaw dropped. Calder took a shocked half step back and his hand twitched towards his sword. Then he smiled a cold little smile.

“So you’ve taken to keeping dogs have you, Bayaz? I’d watch this one. He’s been known to bite his master’s hand.” His lip curled further. “I could put him down for you if you’d like.”

Logen shrugged. Hard words are for fools and cowards. Calder might have been both, but Logen was neither. If you mean to kill, you’re better getting right to it than talking about it. Talk only makes the other man ready, and that’s the last thing you want. So Logen said nothing. Calder could take that for weakness if he pleased, and so much the better. Fights might find Logen depressingly often, but he was long, long past looking for them.

Bethod’s second son turned his contempt on the First of the Magi. “My father will be displeased, Bayaz! That my men must wait outside the gate shows little respect!”

“But I have so little, Prince Calder,” said the wizard calmly. “Please don’t be downhearted, though. Your last messenger wasn’t allowed over the bridge, so you see we’re making progress.”

Calder scowled. “Why have you not answered my father’s summons?”

“There are so many demands on my time.” Bayaz held up the chain of flowers. “These don’t make themselves, you know.”

The Prince was not amused. “My father,” he boomed, “Bethod, King of the Northmen, commands you to attend upon him at Carleon!” He cleared his throat. “He will not…” He coughed.

“What?” demanded Bayaz. “Speak up, child!”

“He commands…” The Prince coughed again, spluttered, choked. He put a hand to his throat. The air seemed to have become very still.