Only Hoff seemed unaffected. He looked the four Northmen up and down with a deep frown on his face, no more impressed with the hooded giant than he had been with Goodman Heath. “So you are messengers from Bethod.” He rolled the words around in his mouth, then spat them out, “The King of the Northmen.”

“We are,” said the smiling old man, bowing with great reverence. “I am White-Eye Hansul.” His voice was rich, round and pleasant, without any accent, not at all what West had been expecting.

“And you are Bethod’s emissary?” asked Hoff casually, taking another swallow of wine from his goblet. For the first time ever West was pleased the Lord Chamberlain was in the room with him, but then he glanced up at the hooded man and the feeling of unease returned.

“Oh no,” said White-Eye, “I am here merely as translator. This is the emissary of the King of the Northmen,” and his good eye flicked nervously up to the dark figure in the cloak, as though even he was afraid. “Fenris.” He stretched out the “s” on the end of the name so that it hissed in the air. “Fenris the Feared.”

An apt name indeed. Major West thought back to songs he had heard in his childhood, stories of bloodthirsty giants in the mountains of the distant north. The room was silent for a moment.

“Humph,” said the Lord Chamberlain, unmoved. “And you seek an audience with his August Majesty, the High King of the Union?”

“We do indeed, my Lord Chamberlain,” said the old warrior. “Our master, Bethod, greatly regrets the hostility between our two nations. He wishes only to be on the best of terms with his southern neighbours. We bring an offer of peace from my King to yours, and a gift to show our good faith. Nothing more.”

“Well, well,” said Hoff, sitting back in his high chair with a broad smile. “A gracious request, graciously made. You may see the King in Open Council tomorrow, and present your offer, and your gift, before the foremost peers of the realm.”

White-Eye bowed respectfully. “You are most kind, my Lord Chamberlain.” He turned for the door, followed by the two dour warriors. The cloaked figure lingered for a moment, then he too slowly turned and stooped through the doorway. It wasn’t until the doors were shut that West could breathe easily again. He shook his head and shrugged his sweaty shoulders. Songs about giants indeed. A great big man in a cloak was all. But looking again, that doorway really was very high…

“There, you see, Master Morrow?” Hoff looked intensely pleased with himself. “Hardly the savages you led me to expect! I feel we are close to a resolution of our northern problems, don’t you?”

The Under-Secretary did not look in the least convinced. “Er… yes, my Lord, of course.”

“Yes indeed. A lot of fuss over nothing. A lot of pessimistic, defeatist nonsense from our jumpy citizens up north, eh? War? Bah!” Hoff whacked his hand on the table again, making wine slop out of his goblet and spatter on the wood. “These Northmen wouldn’t dare! Why, next thing you know they’ll be petitioning us for membership of the Union! You see if I’m not right, eh, Major West?”

“Er…”

“Good! Excellent! We’ve got something done today at least! One more and we can get out of this damn furnace! Who do we have, Morrow?”

The Under-Secretary frowned and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Er… we have one Yoru Sulfur,” he wrestled with the unfamiliar name.

“We have a who?”

“Er… Sulfir, or Sulfor, or something.”

“Never heard of him,” grunted the Lord Chamberlain, “what manner of a man is he? Some kind of a southerner? Not another peasant, please!”

The Under-Secretary examined his notes, and swallowed. “An emissary?”

“Yes, yes, but from whom?”

Morrow was positively cringing, like a child expecting a slap. “From the Great Order of Magi!” he blurted out.

There was a moment of stunned silence. West’s eyebrows went up and his jaw came open, and he guessed that the same was happening, unseen, behind the visors of the soldiers. He winced instinctively as he anticipated the response of the Lord Chamberlain, but Hoff surprised them all by bursting into peals of laughter. “Excellent! At last some entertainment. It’s been years since we had a Magus here! Show in the wizard! We mustn’t keep him waiting!”

Yoru Sulfur was something of a disappointment. He had simple, travel-stained clothes, was scarcely better dressed than Goodman Heath had been, in fact. His staff was not shod with gold, had no lump of shining crystal on the end. His eye did not flash with a mysterious fire. He looked a fairly ordinary sort of a man in his middle thirties, slightly tired, as though after a long journey, but otherwise well at his ease before the Lord Chamberlain.

“A good day to you, gentlemen,” he said, leaning on his staff. West was having some difficulty working out where he was from. Not the Union, because his skin was too dark, and not Gurkhul or the far south, because his skin was too light. Not from the North or from Styria. Further then, but where? Now that West looked at him more closely he noticed that his eyes were different colours: one blue, one green.

“And a good day to you, sir,” said Hoff, smiling as though he really meant it. “My door is forever open to the Great Order of Magi. Tell me, do I have the pleasure of addressing great Bayaz himself?”

Sulfur looked puzzled. “No, was I wrongly announced? I am Yoru Sulfur. Master Bayaz is a bald gentleman.” He pushed a hand through his own head of curly brown hair. “There is a statue of him outside in the avenue. But I did have the honour to study under him for several years. He is a most powerful and knowledgeable master.”

“Of course! Of course he is! And how may we be of service?”

Yoru Sulfur cleared his throat, as though to tell a story. “On the death of King Harod the Great, Bayaz, the First of the Magi, left the Union. But he swore an oath to return.”

“Yes, yes, that’s true,” chuckled Hoff. “Very true, every school-child knows it.”

“And he pronounced that, when he returned, his coming would be heralded by another.”

“True, also.”

“Well,” said Sulfur, smiling broadly, “here I am.”

The Lord Chamberlain roared with laughter. “Here you are!” he shouted, thumping the table. Harlen Morrow allowed himself a little chuckle, but shut up immediately as Hoffs smile began to fade.

“During my tenure as Lord Chamberlain, I have had three members of the Great Order of Magi apply to me for audiences with the King. Two were most clearly insane, and one was an exceptionally courageous swindler.” He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers before him. “Tell me, Master Sulfur, which kind of Magus are you?”

“I am neither of those.”

“I see. Then you will have documents.”

“Of course.” Sulfur reached into his coat and brought out a small letter, closed with a white seal, a single strange symbol stamped into it. He placed it carelessly on the table before the Lord Chamberlain.

Hoff frowned. He picked up the document and turned it over in his hands. He examined the seal carefully, then he dabbed his face with his sleeve, broke the wax, unfolded the thick paper and began to read.

Yoru Sulfur showed no sign of nerves. He didn’t appear troubled by the heat. He strolled around the room, he nodded to the armoured soldiers, he didn’t seem upset by their lack of response. He turned suddenly to West. “It’s terribly hot in here, isn’t it? It’s a wonder these poor fellows don’t pass out, and crash to the floor with a sound like a cupboard full of saucepans.” West blinked. He had been thinking the very same thing.

The Lord Chamberlain put the letter down carefully on the table, no longer in the least amused. “It occurs to me that the Open Council would be the wrong place to discuss this matter.”

“I agree. I was hoping for a private audience with Lord Chancellor Feekt.”