Famous By My Sword

By Jack Stockley

What do you do when the most devious of the gods invites you on a quest?

Answer: accept -- cautiously.

So seven near strangers put their lives and their secrets on the line for the power of legendary Sword of Light and the fabulous wealth of the Last Lord. But with De'enebra the Designer, the most devious of the gods, making the offer, acceptance must be tempered by discretion.

As the questers ride out, one by one their pasts are uncovered, their real foes exposed and their true selves revealed. And the Outsiders, privy to the deepest secrets and with an unknown agenda, hide in the shadows orchestrating double-cross to follow deception until even the gods are caught in the web.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Stockley
• Release date: Apr 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533724588

Jack Stockley

Born in Lancashire, UK, and growing up in Scotland, Jack was an avid reader from a young age. He settled into reading fantasy and science fiction at about 10 and started writing for fun when he went to university to read mathematics in 1982. Most of his early writings were thankfully lost when he moved to Australia in 1989. All that survived was an outline for "Famous By My Sword", which was finally restarted 15 years later, and finished in 2015.  Jack Stockley is the nom de plume of a justly obscure academic living in Sydney.

Book preview

But if thou will be constant then,

And faithful of thy word,

I will make thee glorious by my pen,

And famous by my sword.

My dear and only Love, Marquis of Montrose

Prologue: The Dying Lord

THE BELL TOLLED AS the Lord lay dying. His family watched, waited, paced. An outsider would almost have heard their thoughts:

Hurry up and die, old man. For the love of Law, die! Die! Die!

What is it that makes a man a saint and not a sinner? Power has turned you rotten, Grandfather.

Hold on, old man, hold on. The Outsiders are coming to Karyeder. And then it shall be mine.

It shall be me, I will have the secret, and the power you didn’t, old man.

Why do I have to be here? Let it end, O Lady, let it end, let us go!

And then the faintest, most respectful of knocks at the door put the thoughts back in the cage. The young woman pacing by the door opened it slightly: the servant outside whispered his message. In the chair at the head of the dying man’s bed an old woman in a gown of deep blue-purple sat, hands folded on a cane. Her hair was white, but her eyes were dark.

‘The Patriarch is here, Grandmother.’

‘Bring him in,’ the old woman ordered. ‘Get the children in too.’ She leaned forward to the dying man. ‘Father, the priest is here.’

The man on the bed did not stir. His long, white hair framed a sharp, narrow face, the face of one who had wielded power so long it was as natural as breathing. Old though he was, time and power had touched him lightly: his daughter looked his elder. On his breast as he lay was a sword forged around a clear gem. The dying Lord’s hands were clasped over the hilt: his family’s eyes were on the blade, lusting after it.

‘Father,’ the old woman repeated, reaching out hesitantly. As her hand neared the sword the rest of the family leaned forward, ready to act. She withdrew her hand. There was another knock at the door and in swept a tall man wearing priestly vestments embroidered with a crowned lion holding a sceptre. Behind him one servant led two children and another carried a babe. The children ran to their parents, the baby was handed over to her mother. The servants closed the door and fled. The bell tolled again.

The priest stood at the head of the bed and looked at the dying Lord. His eyes strayed to the sword; a momentary flicker of lust for it crossed his face.

‘Father,’ the old woman said. ‘Everyone is here, as you ordered.’

The dying man opened his eyes, eyes as dark as the night, and everyone looked away.

‘Lachan?’ he asked.

‘My lord,’ the priest replied.

‘The Lady’s message?’

‘Sire, it is the same one the Overpriest gave you. She has ruled, and that is the way of it.’

‘She has ruled,’ the old man hissed. ‘But I have decided.’ He beckoned the priest. The Patriarch hesitated, then came forward and the dying man gripped the sword hilt. As the priest leaned over, the Lord whispered a strange word and the sword in his hand was a stiletto. With a movement too fast for a man so close to death, the Lord stabbed the priest in the neck. Blood fountained from an artery. The Lord’s family shouted and screamed. The Patriarch reeled back, trying in vain to stop the flow: his blood sprayed onto the bed covers.

The Lord sat up. ‘I have decided! The Giver has shown me the way and I am free!’ The stiletto in his hand changed shape back to a long sword. As he swept its point around the room his family scrabbled away. The priest fell to the ground. The great-granddaughter by the door fumbled with the handle but it would not turn, would not respond to her magic. The children wailed. The eldest daughter drew the blade hidden in her cane and lunged for the old man’s heart. Her father’s sword parried the blow with ease. With a gesture he knocked her away.

‘The Sword is mine,’ the Lord said: ‘it will always be mine.’ The bell tolled again. ‘My tomb is prepared, and blood seals the bargain!’ He scooped up blood from the covers of his bed. ‘Blood of Hers, flesh of mine.’ He cast the blood at his family. ‘And you are my flesh!’

FIVE MILES OUTSIDE the city of Karyeder, the two Outsiders pulled up their horses. The capital of the Lord of Atûmban lay before them in the jungle valley. They glanced at each other, sharing a smile and a thought: finally! Horses and riders heard the bell toll, then the tower of the palace keep was a gout of flame.

‘No! No!’ the one on the left cried. Birds rose raucous from the trees as the sound of the explosion rolled over them.

‘You said we had time!’ the second said.

‘As ye did,’ said a third voice, a perfectly balanced mix of the other two. ‘Someone has interfered.’

‘Who did this?’ second voice demanded. ‘Your sister?’

‘No,’ said third voice. ‘She remains ignorant of what was to transpire.’

‘Has he taken it?’ second voice asked.

‘Taken it, and all his kin too,’ replied third voice.

‘Even the children?’ first voice said, half choked. ‘And ... and Dohna?’

‘All of them, and her too. The one we required has been lost, My promise to her set at naught.’

First voice sobbed. ‘Two hundred years wasted. Oh my dear spirit, I cannot go through another life of this.’

Second voice reached out a hand: it was ignored. ‘Oh my soul, you must. How could I stand it alone?’ The ungrasped hand was dropped.

‘How much longer?’ first voice pleaded.

‘I cannot say.’ Third voice was sympathetic. ‘My debt to you cannot be paid through her, but it will be.’

‘Words,’ second voice snapped. ‘Three lives each we have served You. You know we cannot turn to anyone else.’

‘By My Name I swore to help ye to your end, and I am ever faithful of My word.’

‘Then tell us where in all the Hells he has taken it,’ second voice demanded.

There was a pause. ‘I cannot track it,’ said third voice. ‘It is the Giver: She has told him how to hide.’

‘I cannot go through another life of this,’ first voice repeated, weeping. ‘How shall we find another?’

‘If we ever do, we take proper care of Your damnable sister first,’ second voice said. ‘She never understood what She had: why does She never listen?’

‘Such is Her ever constant nature,’ said third voice.

‘So close,’ first voice sobbed, ‘after so long!’

‘Karyeder of all places.’ Second voice was bitter. ‘We should have been more alert.’

‘What occurred I could not change,’ said third voice. ‘He was Hers before I was aware of him.’

‘So You claim,’ second voice replied. ‘Next time we make damn sure we get to the right one first. If we ever find another one!’

‘Agreed,’ said third voice.

‘No, I cannot bear it,’ first voice wept. ‘To hide again from you, and from myself. I would rather be gone.’

‘Do not say that!’ second voice pleaded, reaching out and this time grasping a hand. ‘One more try, it is worth one more try! I know I am being selfish, but please stay.’

‘One more try,’ first voice agreed miserably. ‘Soul will hide again from Spirit and from itself.’

‘And I must play my empty role,’ second voice said, squeezing the other’s hand.

‘Ye must leave,’ commanded third voice: ‘the earthquake comes on now that he is gone. The city will not survive.’

1: A Quest for the Gods

FURIOUS HAMMERING AT a door woke Janten from his reverie. He turned from his contemplation of the castle’s courtyard, strode across his room and threw his door open. Across the corridor another man had also come out to investigate. Janten took him in with a glance: tall, tanned, handsome in a rugged way, with a short, fashionable beard, soldier, or ex-soldier, holding a pack of cards. The two men turned towards the noise.

The corridor was well lit, lined with faux torches brought alight by magic, and Janten saw a short, powerfully built, red-haired woman hammering at a door. ‘Abreen!’ she yelled, and continued with a tirade in a language Janten did not know. Before he could say anything, the door opened.

No-one came out, but he heard a man’s drawling voice speaking the same tongue, by his tone of voice making no effort to calm the woman down. She swore at the man, stormed into the room and slammed the door shut. The harangue went on, muffled.

‘Fiery little thing, isn’t she?’ Janten said.

‘Don’t let her hear you call her that,’ the other man said with a smile.

‘You know her?’

‘By reputation.’ The tall man leaned against the door frame, absentmindedly cutting the cards one-handed. ‘She’s Sharpeye of the Dy’olf, and I bet she’s found out there’s a member of the Canvé family here.’

‘So that’s Sharpeye,’ Janten said. ‘Is it true what they say about her?’

‘About half of it.’ The man stuck out his free hand. ‘Salnafarr Galona.’

‘Janten Bayet.’ They shook hands.

‘That accent: you’re from Khurrea, yes?

Janten laughed. ‘Is it that obvious? Now: your accent’s Quelnish, but there’s a touch of somewhere else there.’

‘I’ve been around a lot,’ Salnafarr said. ‘Now: wizard, not so old despite the grey hair.’

‘Went grey at six, family trait.’ Janten ran a dark-skinned hand through his close cropped hair. ‘Any idea what this Duke’s got us here for?’

Salnafarr shook his head. ‘A man who can afford to light corridors by magic could  —’

The door down the corridor opened again and Sharpeye came out: she hadn’t calmed down. The man she had been shouting at followed her. He was barely taller than Sharpeye, clean-shaven and ruddy skinned. He said one last thing to the woman as he tied back his long black hair.

‘I pay no debts when it comes to Canvés,’ she snapped in Quelnish, the international language. She stormed off away from the men.

As Sharpeye slammed her door closed the short man nodded at the soldier. ‘Salnafarr.’ He came forward, hand outstretched. ‘Abreen of Lomaset: you’ve got to be Janten Bayet.’

The wizard nodded and shook the smaller man’s hand. Daracan drawl, Janten thought, fiftyish I reckon, not so handsome!

‘Can you tell us what’s going on, Abreen?’ Salnafarr asked.

The short man shook his head. ‘Amanalk says he’ll tell us after dinner: I’ve got no idea what he’s planning.’

‘Will she be there?’ Janten asked, pointing towards where Sharpeye had gone.

‘Reckon so.’ Abreen nodded at Salnafarr as he looked at the wizard. ‘Don’t be playing this one at cards, Janten,’ he said. ‘See you later.’ He went back to his room, and the two other men did the same.

WHEN JANTEN GOT TO the dining room eight places were set and three people were there. Sharpeye was one. Of the other two, the elder was thin, pale skinned, beak-nosed, blonde haired with a goatee, around fifty, and obviously a member of the Canvé family: he wore a jacket fringed in canverin, the traditional apple-green colour of the illusionists. The wizard could almost taste the animosity between him and Sharpeye, even though they sat at opposite ends of the table. The other new person looked like he had strayed up from the farm: he was as tall and as blonde as Salnafarr, but clean-shaven, more heavily built and a little older. He wore the Shielding Hand of Rinarl the Protector. This must be that knight I heard the maids giggling about, Janten thought.

The knight stood up and held out a hand. ‘Sten Aldsen.’

‘Janten Bayet.’ They shook hands.

‘Lyndon Canvé,’ the illusionist drawled, also standing up, arms folded.

Janten nodded in acknowledgement, and went to take a place across from Sharpeye. She was a very attractive woman and in her late twenties, or so Janten guessed now he was close to her, with a net-like tattoo on her neck. She nodded at him. ‘Sharpeye of the Dy’olf,’ she said in a lilting accent.

‘Janten Bayet of Tehlerin,’ the wizard replied.

Before he could say more, Salnafarr and Abreen came in. With them was an older man, their host, Duke Amanalk, and servants with the first course. Janten noticed that both Abreen and the Duke wore the Knotted Serpent of De’enebra the Designer, Lord of Law.

‘My daughter is not going to join us,’ the Duke began.

‘You shouldn’t have told her not to go riding,’ Abreen said. ‘Samanaque’s as bad as you were at that age, Amanalk.’

‘That will do.’

The Duke completed the mutual introductions. Abreen asked why he had called them together, but the Duke said that he was under instructions from Lord De’enebra to say nothing until everyone was together. Janten took that to mean they would have to wait for his daughter to return. Amanalk said nothing else until Sten drew him into discussions on the duchy’s agriculture. Lyndon, trapped by talk in which he had no interest, contributed nothing. Janten spent most of the evening talking to Salnafarr. Abreen hardly spoke a word, and the only time Sharpeye said anything was when Salnafarr mentioned serving with the royalists in the second Taraskan civil war: she had been on the same side, but had not met the Quelnishman.

AFTER DINNER DUKE AMANALK led them to his study. There were only four chairs: one facing the door, which the Duke took, the others strung out away from the fire, backs to the door. Sharpeye chose to stay by the door, as far as she could conveniently be from the Canvé. She watched Abreen settle himself by the fire, standing on one side with the handsome Quelnishman on the other. The knight, the wizard and the illusionist took the other three chairs. No-one spoke: they waited for news of the Duke’s daughter.

Sharpeye’s thoughts were a mix of resentment at Abreen for trapping her near a Canvé and speculation on how old the grey haired, dark skinned, clean shaven wizard actually was. Her ruminations were interrupted by a knock at the door. She flung it open before the knocker could enter: the servant without flinched back. He stammered something in Atumboran, the local language, then changed to Quelnish. ‘I ... I bring news of the mistress, your grace.’

Everyone stood with the Duke and turned to look at the servant. ‘What did you say?’ the old man spluttered. ‘Come in, man, come in, spit it out! Sharpeye, let the man in. What did you say about your mistress?’

The servant came into the room, followed by a tall woman in a cowled brown robe.

‘Your daughter was thrown by her horse,’ she said in an oddly accentless contralto. ‘I have returned the rider, but the horse eluded me.’

‘My daughter, how is she?’ the Duke demanded. ‘Where is she now?’

‘She’s resting, your grace,’ the servant replied, ‘sleeping in her chamber. This woman here  —’

‘Who are you?’ the Duke interrupted. ‘Where did you find Samanaque? How did you know she lived here?’

The woman was unperturbed by the Duke’s outburst. ‘I am Aki Masymay, your grace, a simple wanderer.’ She threw back the cowl to reveal a light brown, friendly, middle-aged face, with short cropped black hair showing a faint hint of grey. ‘I did not find your daughter, she found me. Her horse took fright and threw her. She herself told me where she lived before she passed out. I carried her here.’

‘Her horse threw her?’ The Duke turned to the illusionist and raised an eyebrow.

‘She’s telling the truth, your grace,’ Lyndon drawled.

The Duke looked back at the tall woman, his face still troubled. ‘Wanderer Aki,’ he said, ‘my hospitality is yours in gratitude for what you have done. But if you would excuse me, I would see my daughter.’ He turned to the wizard. ‘Janten?’

The wizard followed the Duke and the servant out. The woman turned to follow, but was stopped by Abreen, speaking what Sharpeye thought was Aquilian, a language she did not know.

‘You exalt me beyond my position, sir,’ Aki replied in Quelnish without turning around.

‘I don’t think I do, Master Aki,’ Abreen returned, also in Quelnish. ‘Have we met before?’

‘I do not believe so. I regret that I must leave you, sir, for her ladyship may yet need me.’

Sharpeye crashed the door shut behind her. ‘Who is she?’ she demanded.

‘She is Aki,’ Abreen said. ‘Didn’t you hear what she said?’

‘What of the Master Aki, Abreen?’ the knight asked.

‘She is  —  or was  —  a member of the Order of the Eagle, Sten: a disciple of Lord Aspiral, fresh from the Sanctuary by that Aquilian accent.’ He looked over at the illusionist, settled back into his chair. ‘Didn’t you see it, Lyndon?’

‘We Canvés do not trouble ourselves identifying esoteric fanatics.’

‘In the same way you don’t trouble yourselves to act with honour?’ Sharpeye asked.

The illusionist stiffened in his chair, but Salnafarr broke in to head off the argument Sharpeye was angling for. ‘What difference does it make what she is?’ he asked. ‘She’s found old Amanalk’s daughter: now we might get something done rather than sit around like a pack of gargoyles, not even a deck of cards to pass the time ...’

‘Do you think of nothing else?’ the illusionist snapped. ‘Didn’t you hear her? Samanaque’s been thrown from her horse. She’ll be badly hurt. We could be here weeks yet.’

Salnafarr looked unconcerned by this outburst. ‘Maybe we should take this wanderer along instead,’ he suggested. ‘I’ve heard these Masters of the Arts can do some amazing things. You know, an old mate once said  —’

Sharpeye knew all those stories. ‘Yes, yes,’ she interrupted, ‘but what makes you think she would come, look you? Or that old Amanalk would agree to let her?’

‘I think it’s worth a try,’ Abreen said. ‘My gambling friend here may have had a good idea, and we don’t want to waste such a rarity. We’ve got to persuade Amanalk this Aki fits in with Lord De’enebra’s designs.’ 

‘How do we do that when he won’t tell us what’s going on?’ Sharpeye wanted to know. ‘You said he was close mouthed, Abreen, but, mallon escrach, this is ridiculous. And why should she agree?’

‘She also serves a Lord of Law,’ Sten said. ‘Maybe convincing the Duke she fits in with the Designer’s instructions will convince her.’

‘Who wants to bet on that?’ Salnafarr asked.

AKI’S TRAINING HAD instilled a perfect sense of direction, so the corridors could have been in total darkness, not lit by magic, and she would have found her way back to where the Duke’s daughter lay. But she had more important things to consider than the Duke’s wealth.

Firstly, and most importantly, how had the Daracan recognised her for what she was? She was sure they had not met. Was it a lucky guess from my accent? A follower of Law, but there was an untrustworthy feel to him. She hoped it was not just a reaction to his looks  —  or lack of them. I should be beyond that, she thought.

Then the illusionist: he had not recognised what she was. There was a clear resemblance to the great Lyral Canvé, whom she had met at the Sanctuary a few years before his death. His son possibly, looks the right age, what is his name? ... Lycin!

The woman by the door had reminded Aki of an old friend who came from the Plains of Semat. So like Redhand, even down to the web tattoo on her neck. She must be another exile from the Dy’olf.

The other man by the fire was, like the Sematian, some sort of warrior-for-hire, and could be from anywhere. The farmhand in the third seat was no danger. In fact, he could be the reverse: a Knight of the Corona would not side with those who hunted her.

That left the wizard who had gone on to see what could be done for her charge. He was young, despite the grey hair, and wore the insignia of a Master: there was no telling where his loyalties lay.

Finally, the gathering overall: warrior, mercenary, knight, illusionist, wizard, amazon. What reasons had the old nobleman for this gathering? There was no sense of comradeship in that room, so this was no meeting of old friends. A quest was being woven: the Duke had spun some interesting threads together.

And with that thought Aki arrived at Samanaque’s room. ‘May the Guide be ever watchful over all our paths,’ she murmured in her native Aquilian, and went in.

Duke Amanalk was standing by the bed, holding his daughter’s right hand. The old nursemaid Aki had left keeping watch was still fussing about, but looked much less anxious: the Master Wizard had worked some healing, for the young woman was sleeping peacefully.

‘You did well,’ the wizard said as Aki entered. ‘It was a pretty serious fall and you brought her back in one piece.’ His Quelnish was peppered with the distinctive flat vowels of the southern continent of Khurrea.

‘You read well, Master,’ the wanderer replied. ‘I did only what I have been trained to do.’

‘And I’ve done what I have been trained to do,’ the wizard added. ‘I can’t heal her broken bones, but have taken down the swelling a bit. She has to sleep now, your grace,’ he told the Duke. ‘She needs to stay in bed for a couple of days, and won’t be riding until the breaks heal.’

‘But that would be weeks!’ the Duke exclaimed.

‘Too right, your grace.’

The Duke was silent for a while, then laid his daughter’s hand back on the bed. The young woman stirred and muttered something in Atumboran that Aki did not catch. Then she began to repeat an old lesson in Quelnish. ‘Sixty seconds make a minute; sixty minutes, a mark; four marks, a candle; six candles, a day; six days, a week; five weeks, a month; twelve months a year but two days short.’ The Duke looked anxiously at the wizard who shrugged.

‘A dream, a memory,’ he said, ‘I don’t think  —’

Samanaque interrupted him with further Atumboran then began to chant the names of the days and the months in Quelnish. ‘Highday, Sunday, Moonsday, Lowday, Starday, Earthday. First Day: Frostful, Snowfall, Sunreturn, Leafset, Flowerful, Sunfull, Midyear, Seedset, Leaffall, Sunflight, Stormful, Darkfall and Last Day.’ She added some more Atumboran then fell silent. The Duke, the nurse and the two visitors waited but she said no more.

‘Who did you mean?’ the Duke said, speaking to himself.

‘Your grace?’ Aki asked.

The Duke suddenly looked at the wanderer. ‘What brought you to these lands, Aki?’ he asked. ‘What guided you here?’

‘Guided, your grace?’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I passed this way purely by chance.’

‘Yeah no,’ the wizard said. ‘Come on, Master Aki: I can’t believe you don’t credit the Guide for leading you here.’

‘Master? The Guide? You are a disciple of Lord Aspiral?’ the Duke asked.

‘I was,’ Aki admitted. ‘But I left the Sanctuary at my Lord’s command, and the task He set me is complete.’

‘You were guided here by Him,’ the Duke said. ‘Yes, so much is clear. They work together. Come, Masters,’ he said to the wizard and the wanderer, ‘we must return to my study. There is something you need to hear, Master Aki, then you can judge who guided you to my daughter, and thence to my door.’ He nodded to the nursemaid and the two visitors followed him out.

JANTEN FOLLOWED THE Duke back to the study, with Aki trailing noiselessly in their wake. They did not speak, and the room was silent when they arrived. Janten went back to his seat, as did the Duke. Aki hovered behind the illusionist as Sharpeye slammed the door shut.

‘My daughter will recover,’ the Duke began. There were murmurs of polite interest. ‘But she will need a long rest.’

‘And I guess our instructions don’t allow us to wait,’ Abreen said. ‘Well, whether it’s omens or what have you, if we’ve got to leave tomorrow  —’

‘I will explain all,’ Amanalk interrupted him. ‘It may be that Master Aki here,’ he pointed at the wanderer as he spoke, ‘will consent to fill the place I thought was Samanaque’s once she knows what I am to reveal. She is no simple wanderer, as you may have thought initially. She is in fact  —’

‘A member of the Order of the Eagle,’ Sharpeye said. ‘We know, Amanalk, we know. Can we get on?’

The Duke looked put out to be upstaged. ‘Very well. In fact, Lord De’enebra’s instructions do require you to leave tomorrow. Not because the omens are right, but because a certain anniversary falls due shortly, and that is the only time you can attempt to recover what must be recovered. Furthermore, I was given descriptions of all of those who were to undertake this quest.’

‘So you reckon De’enebra slipped up over Samanaque, eh, Amanalk?’ Abreen asked.

‘I do not reckon that, Abreen. The descriptions were vague, as if ... as if He were looking through a frosted glass at you all. I expect that it was I who erred in choosing my daughter  —  perhaps I was led astray by wanting to enlarge the part my family would play.’

‘So we do look for another woman?’ Sharpeye said, moving forward to stand behind the knight.

‘What do you mean another?’ Lyndon said.

‘I’m worth more to any quest than half a dozen illusionists, Canvé.’

‘Only if they’re dead.’

‘The best kind.’

‘Quiet!’ the Duke shouted. ‘I’ve not gathered you together at such effort so you can indulge in airing old grievances and trading insults.’

‘On my soul, we’ve had precious little else to do, Amanalk,’ Salnafarr said. ‘Just tell us what you have to tell us, where we go, when we’ve to get there, what we’ve to get and why.’

‘Very well. If you will give me time, I will explain all.

‘As some of you know, I and my ancestors have long been followers of De’enebra the Designer, Lord of Law. It is now over three centuries since His aid enabled my family to build this keep and found our dukedom. In return, the first Duke Amanalkiri swore eternal allegiance to De’enebra for himself and all his descendants. Now, at last, comes His first call on my family.

‘Five months ago the Overpriest of De’enebra met our Lord in a dream and was told to deliver a scroll to me, a scroll hidden in the altar of the Great Temple in Amondé. This scroll contained the instructions I mentioned earlier. It told me much, not all of which is relevant to my story. Suffice it to say that I learnt of you all through the scroll, and contacted you through agencies the scroll granted me.

‘And so here you all are  —  not as I first thought, and not as soon as I wanted, but here none the less: the Knight of Earth and the Ploughshare, The Wizard who has Walked the Way, The Warrior who Shares the Name, The Illusionist who Lost Himself in Victory, The Archer whose Heart was Stolen, The Nobleman who Gave Away his Descent and The Woman who Goes Unguided.’

Janten turned to look at Aki at the last description, as did the others. ‘Unguided,’ she said slowly. ‘A fair description of me, your grace, one way or another. If the Guide did not lead me here, then maybe Lord De’enebra did.’

‘Why did you think of Samanaque, your grace?’ Janten asked.

The Duke shrugged. ‘In hindsight I was clearly mistaken, but until tonight she seemed a reasonable fit. Samanaque is strong-willed and has taken little guidance from me for many years.’

‘I fit my description well enough,’ Salnafarr said, ‘but why are we here?’

‘Lord De’enebra says that there is great threat to the power of Law on Sentinle unless someone  —  and He means you  —  travels to the tomb of Sarf Karo and recovers the Sword of Light.’

Janten was too shocked by the Duke’s words to say anything.

‘Who in the pits is Sarf Karo?’ Sharpeye asked. ‘And what’s the Sword of Light?’

‘I thought that was a myth!’ Salnafarr exclaimed.

‘You are joking,’ Lyndon said to the Duke. ‘You’ve brought us here to discuss chasing a phantom, Amanalk? I have other matters more pressing to deal with.’

‘Chasing a phantom should be right up your alley,’ Sharpeye sneered. ‘What are we talking about here, Amanalk?’

The old Duke was looking in amazement at her. ‘You must have heard of the Last Lord and the Sword of Light!’

‘I’ve never been to Atûmban before,’ Sharpeye said, ‘and I am a warrior of the Dy’olf, not a collector of stories.’

‘Were a warrior ...,’ Lyndon said.

‘Just as you were a Grand Master,’ the Sematian returned.

Lyndon came to his feet. ‘How in all the Hells do you  —’

‘The Canvés have no secrets from me.’

‘Sharpeye, Lyndon,’ Sten broke in to forestall further arguing, ‘this is no place to air your grievances. Your grace,’ he said, turning back to Amanalk as Lyndon sat down again, ‘you had better tell us the story of Sarf Karo, so we all know what we are dealing with.’

‘Very well,’ the Duke said. ‘Sarf Karo, the so-called Last Lord was the last effective ruler of the whole of the Atûmban peninsula. This year marks five centuries since his death, and tales usually paint him as a desperate and merciless tyrant. Most of his power derived from a talisman he was granted in his youth: the Sword of Light. This weapon  —  whose ownership is disputed  —  is said to have been a gift from the Lords of Law to their first champion in the dawn of Sentinle’s history. In Sarf Karo’s case, Lady Natheya is said to have granted it to him. He was reputed to be Her Agent, but according to the Scroll of De’enebra he disobeyed Her direction to pass the Sword on, which puts the lie to that. In any case, the Sword disappeared on his death and the location of the Last Lord’s tomb was kept secret even from the Lords of Law. It appears that he had struck a bargain with a God  —  or Gods  —  of Anarchy to guard the Sword of Light past his death against all who came to take it, who- or what-ever they were, and who- or what-ever had sent them.

‘The Scroll of De’enebra revealed the location of this hidden tomb, thus confirming that part of the legends, and the story it told of Sarf Karo accords with those tales kept by my family from the time of his rule. It also instructs that the Sword must be rescued from the grasp of one who ought no longer to hold it.

‘The scroll has gone. All that is left is a map of the tomb and the secret and true name of the Sword of Light, a name long thought lost and a secret thought buried with the Last Lord.’

The Duke looked around at the group. ‘I can only reveal these things to those who are willing to go,’ he said. ‘Who accepts the Quest of De’enebra?’

There was silence for a full minute. Sten broke it at last. ‘The Sword of Light has long been sought by the Knights of the Corona,’ he said. ‘Sarf Karo was not granted the Sword, but stole it with murder from my order, even if he was acting under the direction of the Rulemaker. It was ours before he ever saw the light of day, and so that is may be ours again, I will undertake this quest.’

The knight looked up, his pale blue eyes filled with purpose. ‘But I have questions. Firstly, why has Lord De’enebra waited so long to reveal these secrets and set this quest up? His secrets aren’t as hidden as you make out, your grace, and this leads to my second question: who is to take the Sword if it is ever recovered?’

Amanalk frowned. ‘We should not question but do,’ he said. ‘Lord De’enebra speaks of great peril to Law, and life itself, on Sentinle if the Last Lord holds the Sword any longer. He did not say what this peril was, but I think your and Master Aki’s presence here suggests that Lords Rinarl and Aspiral are also alert to this threat and our gods have a common purpose.’

‘So who gets the Sword?’ Sharpeye demanded.

‘Lord De'enebra did not say,’ the Duke replied.

‘Perhaps He doesn’t know,’ Abreen said.

Sten ignored this. ‘The Sword of Light belongs in the hands of my Grand Master, Vance, Countess of Metanal, Knight of Flame and the Firelight, because she also knows its true name. I, Sir Sten Aldsen, Knight of Earth and the Ploughshare, swear to Lord Rinarl by my sword and my vow that I will undertake the Quest of De’enebra to wrest the Sword of Light from the clutches of Sarf Karo.’

Janten knew he had to accept the gamble of this adventure. ‘Count me in too, your grace. If a Lord of Law  —  or maybe it’s three of Them  —  wants Janten Bayet to go, he’ll go.’

‘The Order of the Corona is not alone in its claim to the Sword of Light.’ Everyone turned to the speaker: it was Aki. ‘The High Master of the Order of the Eagle also knows the hidden name. Aspiral’s Blade, as we know it, worked great things in our hands before we lost it when the Second Empire fell. The High Altar of the Sanctuary awaits the Blade’s return after over a millennium. I know not if I shall suffice for the task, yet I will take up the Quest of De’enebra. I thought the purpose of my exile fulfilled, but I would appear to have been guided here after all.’

Salnafarr burst out laughing at this. ‘And Salnafarr Galona will join the carnival. I lay no claim to the Sword for any order, god or vows. On my soul, it’s enough to have one god  —  or maybe it’s three  —  on my side for once.’ He laughed again.

‘And I’ll go too,’ Abreen said. ‘As my name attests, I am pledged to Lord De’enebra’s service. He calls and I’ve got to answer.’

‘No quest is worthy of the name unless a Canvé is part of it  —’  Lyndon began.

‘Is that why they so often fail?’ Sharpeye asked ingenuously.

Lyndon shot her a venomous look, but went on, ‘—  and as I am the only member of my family invited, I will not refuse.’

‘You all sound ridiculous, but good luck to you,’ Sharpeye said. ‘I bear no allegiance to any Lord of Law, and don’t see why on the reported word of one of Them  —  or maybe it’s three  —  I should risk my life for something I’ve never heard of before, and what’s worse spend weeks in the company of a Canvé for the privilege.’

‘You’ve got something better to do?’ Abreen asked.

‘No, but I can always find paid work doing something. I’d rather spend my time doing a meaningless job and being paid a pittance than spend it in his company unpaid.’

‘Close the door on your way out,’ Lyndon said, ‘we won’t miss you.’

‘Be quiet, Lyndon, you’re not helping here,’ the Duke commanded. ‘Is payment your only concern, Sharpeye?’

‘The main one. Canvés have already ruined my life twice, and what you say gives me no reason to risk it happening again. Anyway, this whole thing sounds suspicious to me. Look you, you’ve avoided answering Sten’s first question, and admitted this god of yours hasn’t answered the second: why has it taken so long to find this tomb, and who is supposed to get the thing in the end? I don’t see why I should waste unpaid weeks on a half-baked quest only to end up watching Sten and Aki  —  assuming they survive  —  fight over which of their bloody orders gets the blade back.’

‘She makes good points, your grace,’ Salnafarr said. ‘I begin to have second thoughts myself.’

‘You’ve already agreed,’ Abreen said, ‘and word given to a Lord of Law cannot be broken.’

‘Damn! Well how about this,’ Salnafarr said: ‘those of us left alive at the end can throw dice for it  —  or cut cards.’

‘With you?’ Lyndon snorted. ‘I fear your reputation precedes you, Salnafarr.’

‘And I think you’ve already foresworn the Sword,’ Janten told the Quelnishman.

‘Ah, maybe I did.’

‘If I may get back to my point here,’ Amanalk said, ‘This quest is Lord De’enebra’s call on my family. He didn’t just mean me to get you all together, but I am also to fund and provision you, and offer such reward as is necessary to persuade any who are reluctant. Furthermore, His scroll confirmed the legend of Sarf Karo’s wealth, most of which disappeared when he did: presumably buried with him, as was the custom of his people.’

‘Now you’re talking sense!’ Sharpeye exclaimed. ‘Wealth in what form? I don’t carry great lumps of gold around. What about something lighter: gems, jewellery?’

‘Sarf Karo’s main source of power and fame was the Sword of Light,’ the Duke answered. ‘But he was Archon of Atumba, controlled the gem mines of Anoradith and ruled the whole peninsula at a time when the smiths of Gwaiton and Vorinor were at their best. There will be gems and jewels, as well as plate and coin.’

‘And we take what we can find?’ Salnafarr asked.

‘There is no other claimant.’

‘But what if the tomb  —’ Sharpeye began.

‘If the tomb had been robbed,’ Amanalk interrupted her in exasperation, ‘the Sword of Light would have been found and there is no way under the heavens that could have been kept secret. The gems and jewels will still be there.’

‘And your down-payment?’ Sharpeye asked.

‘Apart from the provisioning, horses, weaponry and so forth, a thousand each.’

‘I need no payment,’ Sten and Aki responded simultaneously.

‘I’ll take gold,’ Salnafarr said.

‘And I gems,’ Sharpeye added.

The Duke looked at her sharply. ‘As Abreen pointed out, to break a promise made to a Lord of Law is death.’

‘I heard him. I said I’ll go, my word upon it. The warriors of Dy’olf do not break a contract.’

‘And ex-warriors?’ Lyndon asked.

‘Enough Lyndon!’ the Duke snapped. He glared at the illusionist. Lyndon made a small gesture of apology to his host. ‘Now that you have all accepted,’ Amanalk continued, ‘I can reveal the secrets: Sarf Karo, the Last Lord, lies in the Mound of Stashev.’

Janten nodded, and saw Abreen and Salnafarr doing the same. ‘I know where that is,’ Abreen said. ‘Twenty-five, twenty-six days hard journey from here, first southwest by south towards Gwaiton, then you strike off south to the Pass of Derat: it’ll still be open. Then east-southeast when through. Get us a map, Amanalk.’

‘Never mind a map,’ Salnafarr said, ‘it would be much easier to head southeast for the coast, take a ship from Port Atubroa around the Atubroa peninsula and come to land south of the Bellerine Mountains, near the ruins of Cobrac. Then we ride northwest to Stashev: even if the weather is rough at sea that would be at least five days less.’

Janten knew a shorter route. ‘Yeah no, I reckon we can do better,’ he said. ‘There are passages under the mountains. If we ride more or less due south, it will only take thirteen or fourteen days to them, a day or so through, then it’s three easy days walk to the Mound.’

‘Walk?’ Salnafarr asked.

‘We couldn’t take horses through the caverns,’ the wizard said. ‘We couldn’t even get them up to the entrance.’

‘So what do we do with them?’

‘I know some people in the villages in the Bellerine March. We can leave them with them, or sell them.’

‘Could we pick up some more on the other side?’ Sharpeye asked.

‘That part of the peninsula is pretty much unsettled wilderness,’ Amanalk said. ‘There has been a trade road running parallel to the mountains on the other side for many centuries, but when Cobrac was destroyed by the Red Pirate it fell into disuse. I believe there is still some logging and trapping in the forests on the mountain slopes, but nothing travels that road at this time of year.’ He turned to Janten. ‘I thought the passages under the mountains long lost. How did you learn of them?’

‘I happened across them when on business of the Order of Wizards, two years ago,’ Janten replied. ‘I ended up staying there for a while.’

‘Is the way through safe?’ Sten asked.

‘As long as I’m with you.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Lyndon demanded.

‘The caverns aren’t empty, but my friends keep them clear of creatures.’

‘What are these friends?’ Sharpeye asked.

‘Oh, human: but they have a reputation as bandits.’

‘Bandits!’ Abreen exclaimed. ‘I’ve travelled through that region and there’s nothing there for bandits to prey on.’

‘Most of them are really prospectors, trappers or just runaways dreaming of wealth under the mountains,’ Janten had to admit. ‘They do a little light banditry if the chance comes when the trade road is open, and they trade with the villages on the north side.’

‘There’s nothing left under those mountains,’ Abreen said. ‘They’ve got to know that.’

‘Yeah no, they turn up the odd piece,’ Janten said. ‘When I was there last year one of the deep miners found a piece of Mirrorstone as big as my fist  —  low grade but valuable. And the mountain streams still have some gold in them.’

‘They don’t sound very dangerous,’ Sharpeye said.

‘They really know those caverns,’ Janten said. ‘And they’re not defenceless.’

‘How often have you fought in caverns against a prepared foe?’ Sten asked.

‘Point taken,’ Sharpeye conceded. ‘Bribery?’

Janten nodded. ‘What we get for the horses would easily be enough  —  as long as I’m with you.’

‘Would they not just take the horses?’ Lyndon asked.

‘They don’t keep horses on the north side. The way down to the plain is too narrow and steep and there’s nowhere to safely stable them.’

‘I’d still prefer to take ship,’ Salnafarr said, ‘much less risky. We have to get back after all, and I don’t see these friends of yours letting us walk back through the mountains with Sarf Karo’s hoard in our packs.’

‘The horses will easily pay for a double passage.’

‘I don’t think you’re going to get a suitable price for the horses in the Bellerine March,’ Amanalk said. ‘It’s a savage region. It would be better if I advanced you what you think would be necessary for the bribe before you go.’

‘Then what do we do with the horses?’ Sten asked.

‘I was coming to that: I assume you mean to go through Hainaux City, Janten?’ Amanalk asked. The wizard nodded. ‘I have an agent in Hainaux,’ the Duke continued, ‘a relative of my mother’s. I’ll give you a letter of introduction and he’ll escort you  —  or arrange an escort  —  as far as you think necessary. He can care for, or return with, the horses.’

‘I’m with Salnafarr on our chances of getting back past these friends of yours, Janten,’ Lyndon said. ‘It sounds to me like we’re trusting bandits to be honest.’

‘If one of us has the Sword of Light, we’ll have nothing to fear coming back,’ Janten said, ‘even if there is only one of us.’

‘Is it that powerful?’ Sharpeye asked.

Aki answered before Janten could. ‘It is said in the scrolls of my order that the one who truly masters Aspiral’s Blade cannot be resisted in a lawful cause. If time is of the essence then the manner of our return should not determine our route.’

Sten turned to the Duke. ‘Did Lord De’enebra give us a firm date, your grace?’

Amanalk nodded. ‘Ander’s Day: there is a glamour on the entrance and it can only be seen when both moons are full and bright, which will next happen the evening of this Ander’s Day.’

‘Ander’s Day?’ Salnafarr asked. ‘That the first of Sunflight isn’t it?’ The Duke nodded. ‘It’s the tenth tomorrow, that gives us time to take ship.’

Janten was sure that was not a good idea. ‘Only just,’ he said. ‘If we have trouble hiring a ship, or finding a trustworthy captain, or there’s a storm, we’d never make it.’

‘We could just as easily get ambushed going by your route,’ Salnafarr said. ‘Even if your friends can be trusted, or bought off and then cowed by the Sword, to take your thirteen days due south to the mountains we’d have to cross the Wyverine Moors, and that’s hardly riding though the Homelands of Qualn.’

‘I was allowing time to go around the moors to the west. And going by sea puts our travel plans in someone else’s hands.’

‘Does our Lord give us any hint on our route, Amanalk?’ Abreen asked.

The Duke shook his head.

‘The gods have brought us together,’ Sten said. ‘I believe we must trust their choice of us, and we should vote on our route.’

Salnafarr shrugged. ‘That sounds fair enough  —’ he began.

‘But Lord De’enebra has told us,’ Aki interrupted. ‘The Wizard who has Walked the Way. He means us to take Master Bayet’s route.’

‘I think you’re right, Aki,’ Sten said slowly. ‘I would vote we go that way then.’

‘As would I,’ Abreen said, nodding.

‘And I,’ added Janten.

‘And I, of course,’ Aki said.

‘I concede,’ Salnafarr said. ‘The caverns it is.’

‘If that is settled, then I can reveal the second secret,’ Amanalk said. ‘I take it that at least two of you will not want to know the name of the Sword?’ Sten and Aki nodded. ‘And so I have, as instructed, written it down. The name is a strange one, with no meaning in any tongue I can find. As Lord De’enebra warned me, it seems to slip from the mind. I looked at it only a few hours ago, but I could no longer say it without checking if my duchy depended on it.’

‘Then why are you telling us?’ Sharpeye asked.

‘These are my instructions,’ Amanalk replied, and he handed a folded scrap of paper to Lyndon. The illusionist unfolded it, looked at the single word written there in red, frowned and passed it on to Janten as Aki stepped away into the shadows.

The wizard read the meaningless collection of syllables as Sharpeye looked over his shoulder. He then passed the folded paper to Sten. The knight did not read it, but gave it to Salnafarr. The Quelnishman’s face screwed up as he read, as if his mind refused to accept the word. He did not refold it, but passed it to Abreen, who glanced at it without reacting.

‘Destroy it,’ the Duke commanded. Abreen threw the paper into the fire. Janten looked as the scrap burned. He had just time to reread the word Vesafinesan before the flames ate the great secret.

‘Now,’ said the Duke, ‘before we retire we have much planning to do ...’

2: Challenges

WHETHER BY DESIGN OR accident, Aki had been given a room looking east. With the habit ingrained from years at the Sanctuary, she awoke as the sun began to lighten the eastern sky. After going through her usual pre-dawn ritual, she stood by the open casement and greeted the dawn in Aspiral’s name by softly reciting the Litany of the Pilgrim. Shortly before she finished there was a soft knock at the door. When Aki failed to answer two maids came in, one carrying a small pile of clothes, the other a tray covered with a linen cloth. The young servants stopped when they saw Aki, but before either could say anything the wanderer finished the Litany and turned to face the maids.

‘By your pardon, ma’am,’ the maid carrying the clothes said with a curtsy. ‘His grace sent me with these, and the Housekeeper thought you’d want something light to break your fast.’ She crossed over to put the clothing on the bed while the other maid put the tray on a small buffet table by the door. The second maid took the cloth off the tray to reveal some bread and cheese, with pieces of fruit, a pitcher and a small earthenware goblet.

‘Thank you, my dears,’ Aki said. ‘And my thanks to the Housekeeper.’

The maids bobbed curtsies and left.

Aki looked over the small pile of clothes. As well as underclothes there was a padded shirt, a short sleeved chain mail jerkin that would go over it, a light leather, green dyed tabard-like jacket to go over that, two pairs of trousers, and a wide black leather belt. On the right breast the leather jacket bore the Septagram of the Brotherhood of Law with the Eagle-in-Flight of Aspiral embroidered inside it. Aki looked closely at the emblem of her god and could make out where stitching in the shape of the Serpent of De’enebra had been unpicked. She also saw that the clothing had been altered, let out in some places, taken in at others. Originally meant for Samanaque, Aki deduced. His grace’s seamstress must have been working all night to alter them. I shall wear them: better for riding than my robes, and I will look less like the outsider of this group. She found they fitted her very well, but she left the chain mail jerkin behind.

Once dressed, Aki went across to the tray of food. The pitcher contained milk  —  yesterday’s Aki assumed  —  she drank a goblet full and ate one of the apples on the tray while she watched the castle and the town of Amanalkir below it come to life. While she watched, a horseman in the livery of the Guild of Messengers arrived, was handed a message and rode away. Aki took a second apple with her and headed for the stables.

She found Salnafarr had arrived there before her, unarmed but dressed in clothing similar to hers, also without the chain mail jerkin. There was no specific emblem on his Septagram. He was inspecting a hoof of one of the horses while a man Aki judged to be the stable-master held the horse’s head and a farrier looked on. Salnafarr said something Aki did not catch to the farrier as he put the hoof down. He stroked the horse’s flank and the farrier replied in Atumboran as Aki arrived. The stable-master patted the horse on the neck, and a stable boy Aki had not noticed came up to take the horse away.

‘Good morrow, mistress,’ the stable-master said in Quelnish when he caught sight of Aki. ‘His grace told me to expect you. I have just the mount. Pretir!’ he called out. ‘Pretir! Where in all the Hells are ye? Pretir!’

‘He’ll be chasing skirt in the kitchen,’ the farrier said with a smirk, ‘and hiding from Red. I’m going there meself, I’ll fetch him.’

‘Aye, fetch ’im a clip on the lug while yer at it,’ the stable-master said. ‘No, tell ye what, say I’ll get Red to give ’im another thumping if ’e don’t look lively.’

‘What was it she said?’ the farrier laughed. ‘Try that again and I’ll kick your arse from here to Harpen!’

As the farrier walked away chuckling, the stable-master turned back to Aki. ‘I’ll bring the mount meself, mistress,’ he said.

‘He keeps a good stable, old Amanalk,’ Salnafarr said once the stable-master had left.

‘You have been here a while?’ Aki asked.

‘Two days. Abreen sent me a message telling me to meet him here and promising profit.’

‘You have met him before?’

‘We’ve worked together a couple of times. He even saved me from the headsman’s block a few years ago, across near Harpen. It was all a mix-up, but I’ve avoided Qualn since.’

‘And the others of our party?’

‘No. Although I know people who know Sharpeye: actually, we fought on the same side in the Taraskan Revolt in ’04, but didn’t meet. I’d heard about Lyndon from his cousin Lycin, who married a friend of mine from Falyeder. And I’ve a cousin who joined the Knights of the Corona: once you meet one of them, you know them all.’ He paused, then asked, ‘What do you think of our little army?’

Aki hesitated. ‘I though it a strange gathering last night,’ she confessed. ‘And the dawn has not changed my view.’

‘Strange isn’t half of it,’ Salnafarr agreed. ‘The gods alone know what we’ve got ourselves in for.’ He grinned. ‘I thought I’d heard cursing, but when Sharpeye found there was a Canvé here ...’ he tailed off, shaking his head with a chuckle.

‘Do you know what lies between her and the illusionist?’

‘Not really. Sharpeye’s feelings about Canvés are pretty well known in our circle, but there are a dozen theories about the cause. I did overhear Abreen telling her she’d agreed to listen to Amanalk  —  something about a debt I think, but curses aside my Sematian is not so good. I’m sure he didn’t tell her about Lyndon before they got here.’

‘When was that?’

‘Early yesterday. They’d been with a caravan that got in after dusk the day before  —  probably as hired guards, knowing Abreen: never misses a chance for profit. I’ve not had a chance to speak to either of them properly.’

‘When did the others get here?’

‘Not sure. Several days before I did, I think.’ As he was speaking the stable-master came up leading a roan mare.

‘Woodwand, mistress,’ he said. ‘She’s be just the one for you.’

Aki reached out and stroked the mare’s muzzle. ‘She will be fine,’ Aki said. The mare sniffed at the wanderer’s hand, and tossed her head as if in agreement.

‘What will you be wanting in the way of tack, my lady?’ the stable-master asked.

‘A blanket will suffice,’ Aki replied.

The stable-master looked across at Salnafarr with surprise, but the other man just shrugged. ‘As you wish, mistress,’ the stable-master said. ‘I’ll have her ready for you.’ With that he led the mare away.

Aki turned to Salnafarr. ‘When does the Duke expect us to leave?’

‘Within a mark,’ came Sharpeye’s voice as she strode up. The Sematian was already fully armed. She had a slender sword at one hip, a quiver at the other and two daggers nestled in her greaves. She was also wearing clothes supplied by the Duke, except that the green leather jacket had had its Septagram covered by a piece of smooth leather, and the undershirt its sleeves shortened to leave her lower arms bare. Her long red hair was bound in a queue with a leather thong and on her left arm was an archer’s brace that formed a curious open-palmed glove covering the back of her hand  —  Aki realised she had been wearing a similar glove the previous night, and she wondered what injury it hid. The iron soles on Sharpeye’s boots crunched the straw underfoot. ‘Amanalk is going over the route with the others, but it’s nothing new. I said I’d get you two  —  and the air’s fresher away from Canvé.’

‘What is it between you two?’ Salnafarr asked. ‘What’ve you got against him?’

‘Nothing I want to tell a stranger about,’ Sharpeye said. ‘I don’t know you, so you’ll understand if I keep my secrets. Just take it I’ve reason enough and more to dislike him and his kin. As for what he thinks of me ...’ she shrugged, ‘you’ll have to ask him, but don’t forget their family motto: the truth is the best lie.’

‘It will be difficult if we do not know how far we can trust you two to work together,’ Aki said. ‘There may be a time on this quest when you need to trust him, and he to trust you.’

‘Well, if that time comes we’ll deal with it. I’m not the one who picked us for this job, so difficulties are not my fault. I am a warrior of the Dy’olf and have given my word to three Lords of Law: I won’t be the one to cause failure. Now, I’m off to check what that goat Pretir has done about my tack.’ With that she headed off into the stables.

‘I’d better get my gear together,’ Salnafarr said, and he and Aki turned to go.

They walked back in silence for a minute, but as they reached the keep Aki asked, ‘What do you think the Designer meant by calling her The Archer whose Heart was Stolen?’

‘Yes, that must be her, mustn’t it. Maybe a Canvé broke her heart  —  that’s the favourite theory. She said to have no heart as far as they’re concerned.’

‘And why, if you do not mind my asking, are you The Nobleman who Gave Away his Descent?’

‘I don’t mind. It’s no secret. I was born heir to a barony in southern Qualn. I was pretty much a failure as a youth: gave away is fair comment, I lost most of it at dice and cards. By the time I got better at both, I didn’t miss the trappings and stopped bothering to use the title.’

Aki had very few possessions to collect, and she was back in the courtyard several minutes before any of the others made an appearance. As she waited stable-hands arrived with the horses Amanalk was supplying. Aki was no expert judge of horseflesh, but it looked to her that, as Salnafarr had said, the Duke kept a good stable. She took the time to become acquainted with Woodwand, using the skills of her order to make sure human and horse would act together smoothly, as if they had been together for years and not mere marks. There was also a stream of servants bringing other supplies, and Aki had to change her mind about a saddle for Woodwand or she would be unable to carry her fair share.

Janten and Lyndon were the next to arrive, also dressed in the outfit provided by the Duke, neither with the chain mail, neither Septagram with a specific emblem, neither showing the colour of their profession. Both had swords and Janten carried a staff. After greeting Aki, they set to sorting out the burdens they would carry. Aki did not notice Salnafarr arrive until she heard him laugh lewdly at something. To the pilgrim’s surprise, despite his earlier mention of poverty the nobleman was now wearing what looked like nearly new chain-mail under the leather jerkin, clearly his own. On his back she noticed a grey metal shield that seemed to glisten: although she had only ever read of them, Aki recognised it as an enchanted Iron Shield. Salnafarr was talking in Atumboran to a tall young man holding the reins of his horse. Aki could not understand what they were saying, but it had ribald overtones. The stable-hand had long straw coloured hair and a leering expression that detracted from his otherwise fine features. The young man gave a start and blanched. Turning round, Aki saw Sharpeye striding across the courtyard towards them. With hardly an apology