sighed over the silver roots of the hair grown in since his ordeal at Rockfell. ‘That’s the price of my service to a Fellowship Sorcerer. Would an imposter try such stupidity?’
The sentry’s sharp glance flickered to his companion. ‘Hat off, you!’ he rapped with impatience.
Fionn Areth obliged without turning his head, still mollified by the view. The massive, lower fortress lay spread out below, clutched like a bezel around the ducal council-hall, with its craft shops and gabled houses a jumble of lead roofs and slate, descending in steps to the valley. Beneath the chain-bridge, the first combers swirled in scallops of green, flooding in from the tidal rip in the estuary. At the periphery, the double-take of chagrined alarm passed unseen, as the gate sentry noted black hair and green eyes, then the sharp-angled set of his features.
‘Dharkaron’s glory!’ the watch captain gasped, low-voiced. ‘Here I thought you’d brought me a yokel.’ He wheeled, cracked an order to the halberdiers, then slipped through the grille and bolted up-town at a jangling sprint.
Dakar, smiling, murmured a laconic phrase to the man who remained.
The gate sentry now stood rigidly smart, and answered with punctilious deference. ‘Someone’s already fetched Vhandon and Talvish. Naturally, now, they’ll serve as your escort. The wait’s just a courtesy. Our watch-officer will have gone on ahead to inform the duke of your arrival.’
The herd-boy from Araethura overheard this, impressed. Faced forward, he jammed on his straw hat, while Dakar touched an arm to forestall an untoward exclamation. ‘Patience. We’ll be warmly welcomed.’
As the grass-lands-bred hothead this once minded decency, the Mad Prophet stifled his pique. The problem with bear-baiting Arithon’s double: the artless creature provided no sport.
The recent arrivals were closely observed from an overhead vantage in the right gate tower. Two heads bent close to peer from an embrasure, one close-cropped and grey, and the other flaxen. Granite strength set in counterweight contrast to a dancer’s mercurial quickness, the ill-matched pair of retainers surveyed the two men held up at the bridge-head.
‘Merciful death! Did you look at that hat!’ Vhandon burst out in amazement. Normally the more restrained of the two, he lapsed back into thoughtful silence.
‘Yon’s not himself,’ Talvish agreed. His narrow features hinted at laughter, while his clever fingers danced a tattoo against the battered stone coping. ‘The stance is all wrong. That sword’s not Alithiel. What I see is a flat-footed bumpkin who’s maybe experienced at skipping through cow clods?’
‘The rescued double,’ Vhandon surmised. Stolid frame planted, arms crossed, he was frowning, soot eyebrows shading creased sockets. He resumed in the rural drawl of East Halla, ‘If the bait from the Koriani trap’s been brought here, then where under the Fatemaster’s almighty eye is his royal Grace of Rathain?’
Talvish grinned like a weasel. ‘Shall we go down and find out?’
For answer, Vhandon poked his spike helm through the siege shutter. ‘Pass them! They’re known to us.’
The gate sentry detaining the arrivals waved back, and Dakar, glancing up, shouted a pleased phrase in Paravian.
‘Tal, damn you, wait! Stop and listen to this!’ Vhandon’s blunt grip trapped his fellow’s wrist, halting the rush for the stairwell. ‘The Mad Prophet’s brought us a parcel of joy! The child’s a goatherd who believes all the mummery, that Duke Bransian’s allied with the Light.’
‘You say?’ The taller blond chuckled with rapacious delight, then cracked his knuckles to limber his sword-hand. ‘My beer coin says the duke’s brothers will spit him.’
Vhandon’s frown vanished. ‘And mine says, Bransian will get his lambasting blade in before them.’
‘Ath!’ Talvish plunged for the landing, snorting back laughter. ‘The duke might, at that. It’s a squeaking tight call.’
A fleeting glance was exchanged in the dark, as side by side, the retainers who were life-pledged to serve Arithon descended to wring the Mad Prophet for news.
Whisked at brisk speed through the shaded, tight streets of Alestron’s inner citadel, with the two men-at-arms padding like predators after him, Fionn Areth was shown through an iron-strapped door, into the bowels of a drumkeep.
‘Up there,’ said the blond, whose leopard’s glance absorbed everything, and whose narrow lips did not smile.
The sturdy partner with the reticent face held his stance.
Parted from Dakar, assigned to these veterans, Fionn Areth stifled his questions. He shoved back his straw hat and set about climbing stairs.
The swordsmen trod after him, matched. The feat should not have been possible, the breathless goatherd thought sourly. Their differing frames should not have been able to stride in such seamless tandem. Distempered by the time he was granted a guest-chamber, Fionn Areth closed the door on his disconcerting armed escort. Faced about, he bumped into a liveried page, sent to help with his bath and his dress.
‘No.’ Flushed scarlet, Fionn Areth jerked his thumb toward the doorway. His scowl would have credited the Prince of Rathain, as he dispatched the fellow outside.
The room had no rug, no tapestries, no ornaments. A bronze-bound clothes-chest sat beside a low table bearing a basin, and a close stool, shoved underneath. The bed-covers were linen and beautifully woven, with a weapon rack waiting at hand’s reach. The bronze tub had massive, lion ring handles, and was already filled and steaming. Fionn Areth stripped and washed, pausing a moment to admire the towels. Hair dripping, lips pursed in a tuneless whistle, he hooked up his grimed hose to wipe down his baldric and scabbard.
Still naked, hands busy, he heard the door gently open. He wheeled, but found no one there: only a clean pair of boots and a pile of folded clothing.
Sword in hand, he advanced. His nonchalance frayed into a desperate silence as he surveyed the offering he was expected to wear.
The garments themselves were no less than royal. Fionn Areth fingered the silk shirt, nipped and darted with a gentleman’s cords and eyelets, and finished with silver-stamped studs. The matching hose were too narrow and short. The emerald doublet was exquisite, but left him terrified the rich velvet would finger-print if he touched it. Worse, it fastened over the left shoulder with buttons and cord, adorned by a black sash braided with silver, then a belt, and a studded baldric whose fastening required a bewildering set of chased buckles.
Fionn Areth dropped the shirt, his calluses catching on satin facing and sleeve-ribbons. The boots were too small. Knuckles pressed to his temples to forestall a headache, he stopped trying to number the rows of frogged silver buttons.
He had been ten times a fool to have done away with the servant.
‘Pox on the finicky habits of greatfolk!’ Wiping damp hands on his shivering flanks, he assaulted the problem, aware he was going to be late.
By the end, Fionn Areth faced the wracking decision of whether to leave his blade behind on the bed. The scabbard provided was too narrow and long. Presented before a duke who loved war, he was going to make a bungling impression bearing a weapon that banged at his ankles. Bothered to curses, the Araethurian hiked up the hose, gave a rankled
