Читать книгу A Darkness at Sethanon - Raymond E. Feist - Страница 15

MARTIN CROUCHED.

He motioned for those behind to remain quiet as he listened for movement in the deep thicket. Sundown was approaching and animals should have been appearing at the edge of the pond. But something had driven away most of the game. Martin hunted the source of that disruption. The woods were silent except for the sound of birds overhead. Then something rustled in the brush.

A stag leaped forward, bounding over the edge of the clearing. Martin dodged to his right, avoiding the stag’s antlers and flying hooves as the frightened animal sprang past. He could hear the scurrying of his companions as they avoided being trampled by the fleeing animal. Then Martin heard a deep grumbling sound issuing from where the stag had fled. Whatever had spurred the animal into flight was approaching through the undergrowth. Martin waited, his bow ready.

He watched as the bear limped into view. At a time it should be getting fat and glossy, this animal was weak and scrawny, as thin as if it had just emerged from a long winter’s sleep. Martin studied it as it lowered its head to drink from the pool. Some injury had lamed the animal, sickening it and preventing it from getting the food it needed. Two nights before the bear had mauled a farmer who had attempted to defend his milk cow. The man had died and Martin had been tracking the bear since. It was a rogue and had to be killed.

The sound of horses carried through the woods, and the bear’s muzzle came up as it sniffed the air. A questioning growl escaped its throat as it rose on hind legs, followed by an angry roar as it smelled horses and men. ‘Damn!’ said Martin as he stood, drawing his bow. He had hoped to get a cleaner shot, but the animal would turn and flee in a moment.

The arrow sped across the clearing, taking the bear below the neck in the shoulder. It was not a quick killing shot. The animal pawed at the shaft, its growls a bubbling, liquid sound. Martin came around the pond, his hunting knife out, his three companions behind. Garret, now Huntmaster of Crydee, let fly his own arrow as Martin raced toward the bear. The second shaft took the beast in the chest, another serious but not yet fatal wound. Martin sprang at the bear while it pawed at the arrows embedded in its thick fur. The Duke of Crydee’s large hunter’s knife struck deep and true, taking the weak and confused animal in the throat. The bear died as it hit the ground.

Baru and Charles followed, their bows at the ready. Charles, short and bandy-legged, wore the same green leather clothing as Garret’s, the uniform of a forester in Martin’s service. Baru, tall and muscular, wore a plaid of green and black tartan – signifying the Iron Hills Clan of the Hadati – slung over one shoulder, leather trousers, and buckskin boots. Martin knelt over the animal. He worked at the bear’s shoulder with his knife, turning his head slightly at the sweetish, rotting stench that came up from the gangrenous wound, then he sat back, showing a bloody, pus-covered arrowhead. He said to Garret in disgust, ‘When I was Huntmaster for my father, I often ignored a little poaching here and there during a lean year. But if you find the man who shot this bear, I want him hung. And if he has anything of value, give it to the farmer’s widow. He murdered that farmer as much as if he had shot him instead of the bear.’

Garret took the arrowhead and examined it. ‘This arrowhead is home-cast, Your Grace. Look at this odd line running down the side of the head. The man who cast these doesn’t file the heads. He’s as sloppy in his fletchery as his hunting. If we find a quiver of arrowheads with the same flaw, we have our man. I’ll pass word to the trackers.’ Then the long-faced Huntmaster said, ‘If Your Grace had reached that bear before I’d hit it, we might have had two murders to charge the poacher with.’ His tone was disapproving.

Martin smiled. ‘I had no doubt of your aim, Garret. You’re the only man I know who’s a better shot than I. It’s one of the reasons you’re Huntmaster.’

Charles said, ‘And because he’s the only one of your trackers who can keep up with you when you decide to hunt.’

‘You do set a fast pace, Lord Martin,’ agreed Baru.

‘Well,’ said Garret, not entirely appeased by Martin’s answer, ‘we might have had one more good shot before the bear ran.’

‘Might, might not. I’d rather jump it here in the clearing, with you three coming, than try to follow it into the brush, even with three arrows in it.’ He motioned toward the thicket a few yards away. ‘It could get a little tight in there.’

Garret looked at Charles and Baru. ‘No argument as to that, Your Grace.’ He added, ‘Though it got a mite close out here.’

A calling voice sounded a short way off. Martin stood. ‘Find out who is making all that noise. It almost cost us this kill.’ Charles hurried off.

Baru shook his head as he regarded the dead bear. ‘The man who wounded this bear is no hunter.’

Martin looked about the woods. ‘I miss this, Baru. I might even forgive that poacher a little for giving me an excuse to get away from the castle.’

Garret said, ‘It’s a thin excuse, my lord. By rights you should have left this to me and my trackers.’

Martin smiled. ‘So Fannon will insist.’

Baru said, ‘I understand. For almost a year I stayed with the elves and now you. I miss the hills and meadows of the Yabon Highlands.’

Garret said nothing. Both he and Martin understood why the Hadati had not returned. His village had been destroyed by the moredhel chieftain Murad. And while Baru had avenged it by killing Murad, he no longer had a home. Someday he might find another Hadati village in which to settle, but for the time being he chose to wander far from home. After his wounds had healed at Elvandar, he had come to Crydee to guest for a while with Martin.

Charles returned, a soldier of Crydee behind. The soldier saluted and said, ‘Swordmaster Fannon requests you return at once, Your Grace.’ Martin exchanged a quick glance with Baru. ‘What’s afoot, I wonder?’

Baru shrugged.

The soldier said, ‘The Swordmaster took the liberty of sending extra mounts, Your Grace. He knew you’d left on foot.’

Martin said, ‘Lead on,’ and they followed the soldier to where others waited with mounts. As they readied themselves for the return to Castle Crydee, the Duke felt a sudden disquiet.

Fannon stood waiting for them as Martin dismounted. ‘What is it, Fannon?’ said Martin as he slapped at the road dust on his green leather tunic.

‘Has Your Grace forgotten Lord Miguel will arrive this afternoon?’

Martin looked at the lowering sun. ‘Then he’s late.’

‘His ship was sighted beyond the point at Sailor’s Grief an hour ago. He’ll be passing Longpoint lighthouse into the harbour within the next hour.’

Martin smiled at his Swordmaster. ‘You’re right, of course. I had forgotten.’ Almost running up the stairs, he said, ‘Come and talk with me, Fannon, while I change.’

Martin hurried toward his quarters, once occupied by his father, Lord Borric. Pages had drawn a hot tub and Martin quickly stripped off his hunter’s garb. He took the strongly scented soap and washing stone and said to the page, ‘Have plenty of cold fresh water here. This scent is something my sister might like, but it cloys my nose.’ The page left to fetch more water.

‘Now, Fannon, what brings the illustrious Duke of Rodez from the other side of the Kingdom?’

Fannon sat upon a settee. ‘He is simply travelling for the summer. It is not unheard of, Your Grace.’

Martin laughed. ‘Fannon, we’re alone. You can drop the pretence. He’s bringing at least one daughter of marriageable age.’

Fannon sighed. ‘Two. Miranda is twenty and Inez is fifteen. Both are said to be beauties.’

‘Fifteen! Gods, man! She’s a baby.’

Fannon smiled ruefully. ‘Two duels have been fought already over that baby, according to my information. Remember, these are easterners.’

Martin stretched out to soak. ‘They do tend to get into politics early back there, don’t they?’

‘Look, Martin, like it or not, you are Duke – and brother to the King. You’ve never married. If you didn’t live in the most remote corner of the Kingdom, you’d have had sixty social visits since your return home, not six.’

Martin grimaced. ‘If this turns out like the last, I’m going to return to the forests and the bears.’ The last visit had been from the Earl of Tarloff, vassal to the Duke of Ran. His daughter had been charming enough, but she tended to the flighty and had giggled, a trait that set Martin’s teeth on edge. He had left the girl with vague promises to visit Tarloff someday. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘she was a pretty enough thing.’

‘Pretty has little to do with it, as you well know. Things are still reeling in the East, even though it’s approaching two years since King Rodric’s death. Guy du Bas-Tyra’s out there somewhere doing what only the gods know. Some of his faction still wait to see who will be named Duke of Bas-Tyra. With Caldric dead and the office of Duke of Rillanon also vacant, the East is a tower of sticks. Pull the wrong one and it will all come down on the King’s head. Lyam is well advised by Tully to wait for sons and nephews. Then he can put more allies in office. It would do well for you not to lose sight of the facts of life for the King’s family, Martin.’

‘Yes, Swordmaster,’ Martin said, with a regretful shake of his head. He knew Fannon was right. Once Lyam had elevated him to the position of Duke of Crydee, he had lost a great deal of his freedom, with even greater losses to come, or so it seemed.

Three pages entered with buckets of cold water. Martin stood and let them pour the water over him. Shivering, he wrapped himself in a soft towel, and when the pages were gone, he said, ‘Fannon, what you say is obviously right, but … well, it’s not even a year since Arutha and I returned from Moraelin. Before that … it was that long tour of the East. Can’t I have a few months just to live quietly at home?’

‘You did. Last winter.’

Martin laughed. ‘Very well. But it would seem to me that there is a lot more interest in a rural duke than is required.’

Fannon shook his head. ‘More interest than is required in the brother to the King?’

‘None of my line could claim the crown, even if three, maybe soon four, others didn’t stand in succession before me. Remember, I abdicated any claim for my posterity.’

‘You are not a simple man, Martin. Don’t play the woodsy with me. You may have said whatever you wished on the day of Lyam’s coronation, but should some descendant of yours be in a position to inherit, your vows won’t count a tinker’s damn if some faction in the Congress of Lords wishes him King.’

Martin began to dress. ‘I know, Fannon. That was meant only to keep people from opposing Lyam in my name. I may have spent most of my life in the forests, but when I dined with you, Tully, Kulgan, and Father, I kept my ears open. I learned a lot.’

A knock came and a guard appeared at the door. ‘Ship flying the banner of Rodez clearing Longpoint light, Your Grace.’

Martin waved the guard out. He said to Fannon, ‘I guess we’d better hurry to meet the Duke and his lovely daughters.’ Finishing his dressing, he said, ‘I will be inspected and courted by the Duke’s daughters, Fannon, but for the gods’ love and patience, I hope neither of them giggles.’ Fannon nodded in sympathy as he followed Martin from the room.

Martin smiled at Duke Miguel’s jest. It concerned an eastern lord Martin had met only once. The man’s foibles might have been a source of humour to the eastern lords, but the joke was lost on Martin. Martin cast a glance at the Duke’s daughters. Both girls were lovely: delicate features, pale complexions framed by nearly black hair, and both had large dark eyes. Miranda sat engaged in conversation with young Squire Wilfred, third son of the Baron of Carse and newly come to the court. Inez sat regarding Martin with frank appraisal. Martin felt his neck begin to colour and turned his attention back to her father. He could see why she had been the excuse for a duel between hotheaded youths. Martin didn’t know a great deal about women, but he was an expert hunter and he knew a predator when he saw one. This girl might be only fifteen years of age, but she was a veteran of the eastern courts. She would find a powerful husband before too long, Martin didn’t doubt. Miranda was simply another pretty lady of the court, but Inez hinted at hard edges Martin found unattractive. This girl was clearly dangerous and already experienced in twisting men to her will. Martin determined to keep that fact uppermost in mind.

Supper had been quiet, as was Martin’s usual custom, but tomorrow there would be jugglers and singers, for a travelling band of minstrels was in the area. Martin had little affection for formal banquets after his eastern tour but some sort of show was in order. Then a page hurried into the room, skirting the tables to reach Housecarl Samuel’s side. He spoke softly, and the Housecarl came to Martin’s chair. Leaning down, he said, ‘Pigeons just arrived from Ylith, Your Grace. Eight of them.’

Martin understood. For so many birds to have been used the message would be urgent. It was usual to employ only two or three against the possibility of a bird not finishing the dangerous flight over the Grey Tower Mountains. It took weeks to send them back by cart or ship, so they were used sparingly. Martin rose. ‘If Your Grace will excuse me a moment?’ he said to the Duke of Rodez. ‘Ladies?’ He bowed to the two sisters, then followed the page out of the hall.

In the antechamber of the keep, he found the Hawkmaster, in charge of the hawk mews and the pigeon coop, standing with the small parchments. He handed them to Martin and withdrew. Martin saw the tiny message slips were sealed, with the royal crest of Krondor drawn on the roll of paper about them, indicating only the Duke was to open them. Martin said, ‘I’ll read these in my council chamber.’

Alone in his council room, Martin saw that the slips had been numbered one and two. Four pairs. The message had been sent four times to ensure it arrived intact. Martin unfolded one of the slips marked one, then his eyes widened as he fumbled to open another. The message was duplicated. He then read a number two, and tears came unbidden to his eyes.

Long minutes passed as Martin opened every slip, hoping to find something different, something to tell him he had misunderstood. For a long time, he could only sit staring at the papers before him as a cold sickness visited the pit of his stomach. Finally a knock came at the door, and he said weakly, ‘Yes?’

The door opened and Fannon entered. ‘You’ve been gone near an hour—’ He stopped when he saw Martin’s drawn expression and red eyes. ‘What is it?’

Martin could only wave his hand at the scraps. Fannon read them, then half staggered backward to sit in a chair. A shaking hand covered his face for a long minute. Both men were silent. At last he said, ‘How could this be?’

‘I don’t know. The message only says an assassin.’ Martin let his gaze wander around the room, every stone in the wall and piece of furniture associated with his father, Lord Borric. And of his family, the most like their father had been Arutha. Martin loved them all, but Arutha had been a mirror of Martin in many ways. They had shared a certain way of seeing things and had endured much together: the siege of the castle during the Riftwar while Lyam had been absent with their father, the long dangerous quest to Moraelin to find Silverthorn. No, in Arutha Martin had discovered his closest friend in many ways. Elven-taught, Martin knew the inevitability of death, but he was mortal and felt an empty place appear within himself. He regained his composure as he stood. ‘I had best inform Duke Miguel. His visit is to be short. We leave for Krondor tomorrow.’

Martin looked up as Fannon reentered the room. ‘It will take all night and morning to get ready, but the captain says your ship will be able to leave on the afternoon tide.’

Martin motioned for him to take a chair and waited a long moment before speaking. ‘How can it be, Fannon?’

The Swordmaster said, ‘I can’t answer that, Martin.’ Fannon was thoughtful a moment, then softly said, ‘You know I share your grief. We all do. He, and Lyam, were like my own sons.’

‘I know.’

‘But there are other matters that cannot be put off.’

‘Such as?’

‘I’m old, Martin. I suddenly feel the weight of ages upon me. News of Arutha’s death … makes me again feel my own mortality. I wish to retire.’

Martin rubbed his chin as he thought. Fannon was past seventy now, and while his mental capacity was undiminished, he lacked the physical stamina required of the Duke’s second-in-command. ‘I understand, Fannon. When I return from Rillanon—’

Fannon interrupted. ‘No, that’s too long, Martin. You will be gone several months. I need a named successor now, so I can begin to ensure he is capable when I leave office. If Gardan were still here, I’d have no doubt as to a smooth transition, but with Arutha stealing him away’ – the old man’s eyes filled with tears – ‘making him Knight-Marshal of Krondor, well …’

Martin said, ‘I understand. Who did you have in mind?’ The question was asked absently, as Martin struggled to keep his mind calm.

‘Several of the sergeants might serve, but we’ve no one of Gardan’s capabilities. No, I had Charles in mind.’

Martin gave a weak smile. ‘I thought you didn’t trust him.’

Fannon sighed. ‘That was a long time back, and we were fighting a war. He’s shown his worth a hundred times since then, and I don’t think there’s a man in the castle more fearless. Besides, he was a Tsurani officer, about equal to a knight-lieutenant. He knows warcraft and tactics. He has often spent hours speaking with me about the differences between Tsurani warfare and our own. I know this: once he learns something, he doesn’t forget. He’s a clever man and worth a dozen lesser men. Besides, the soldiers respect him and will follow him.’

Martin said, ‘I’ll consider it and decide tonight. What else?’

Fannon was silent for a time, as if speaking came with difficulty. ‘Martin, you and I have never been close. When your father called you to serve I felt, as did others, that there was something strange about you. You were always aloof, and you had those odd elvish ways. Now I know that part of the mystery was the truth of your relationship to Borric. I doubted you in some ways, Martin. I’m sorry to admit that … But what I’m trying to say is … you honour your father.’

Martin took a deep breath. ‘Thank you, Fannon.’

‘I say this to ensure you understand why I say this next. This visit from Duke Miguel was only an irritation before; now it is an issue of weight. You must speak to Father Tully when you reach Rillanon, and let him find you a wife.’

Martin threw back his head and laughed, a bitter, angry laugh. ‘What jest, Fannon? My brother is dead and you want me to look for a wife?’

Fannon was unflinching before Martin’s rising anger. ‘You are no longer the Huntmaster of Crydee, Martin. Then no one cared should you ever wed and father sons. Now you are sole brother to the King. The East is still in turmoil. There is no duke in Bas-Tyra, Rillanon, or Krondor. Now there is no Prince in Krondor.’ Fannon’s voice became thick with fatigue and emotion. ‘Lyam sits upon a perilous throne should Bas-Tyra venture back to the Kingdom from exile. With only Arutha’s two babes in the succession now, Lyam needs alliances. That is what I mean. Tully will know which noble houses need to be secured to the King’s cause by marriage. If it’s Miguel’s little hellcat Inez, or even Tarloff’s giggler, marry her, Martin, for Lyam’s sake and the sake of the Kingdom.’

Martin stifled his anger. Fannon had pressed a sore point with him, even if the old Swordmaster was correct. In all ways, Martin was a solitary man, sharing little with any man save for his brothers. And he had never done well with the company of women. Now he was being told he must wed a stranger for the sake of his brother’s political health. But he knew there was wisdom in Fannon’s words. Should the traitorous Guy du Bas-Tyra be plotting still, Lyam’s crown was not secure. Arutha’s death showed all too clearly how mortal rulers were. Finally Martin said, ‘I’ll think about that as well, Fannon.’

The old Swordmaster rose slowly. Reaching the door, he turned. ‘I know you hide it well, Martin, but the pain is there. I’m sorry if it seems I add to it, but what I said needed to be said.’ Martin could only nod.

Fannon left and Martin sat alone in his chamber, the sole moving thing the shadows cast by the guttering torches in the wall sconces.

Martin stood impatiently watching the scurrying activity in preparation for his and the Duke of Rodez’s departure. The Duke had invited Martin to accompany them aboard his own ship, but Martin had managed a barely adequate refusal. Only the obvious stress of dealing with Arutha’s death had allowed him to rebuff the Duke without serious insult.

Duke Miguel and his daughters appeared from the keep, dressed for travel. The girls were poorly hiding their irritation at having to resume travel so soon. It would be a full two weeks or more before they were again in Krondor. Then, as a member of the peerage, their father would be hurrying to Rillanon for Arutha’s burial and state funeral.

Duke Miguel, a slight man of fine manners and dress, said, ‘It is tragic we must quit your wonderful home under such grim circumstances, Your Grace. If I may, I would gladly extend the hospitality of my own home to you should Your Grace wish to rest awhile after your brother’s funeral. Rodez is but a short journey from the capital.’

Martin’s first impulse was to beg off but, keeping Fannon’s words of the night before in mind, he said, ‘Should time and circumstances permit, Your Grace, I’ll be most happy to visit you. Thank you.’ He cast a glance at the two daughters and determined then and there that should Tully advise an alliance between Crydee and Rodez, it would be the quiet Miranda he would court. Inez was simply too much trouble gathered together in one place.

The Duke and his daughters rode out in a carriage toward the harbour. Martin thought back to when his father had been Duke. No one in Crydee had need of a carriage, which served poorly on the dirt roads of the Duchy, often turned to thick mud by the coastal rains. But with the increasing number of visitors to the West, Martin had ordered one built. It seemed the eastern ladies fared poorly on horseback while in court costume. He thought of Carline’s riding like a man during the Riftwar, in tight-fitting trousers and tunic, racing with Squire Roland, to the utter horror of her governess. Martin sighed. Neither of Miguel’s girls would ever ride like that. Martin wondered if there was a woman anywhere who shared his need for rough living. Perhaps the best he could hope for would be a woman who would accept that need in him and not complain over his long absences while he hunted or visited his friends in Elvandar.

Martin’s musing was interrupted by a soldier accompanying the Hawkmaster, who held out another small parchment. ‘This just arrived, your Grace.’

Martin took the parchment. Upon it was the crest of Salador. Martin waited until the Masterhawker had left to open it. Most likely it was a personal message from Carline. He opened it and read. He read again, then thoughtfully put the parchment in his belt pouch. After a long moment of reflection, he spoke to a soldier at post before the keep. ‘Fetch Swordmaster Fannon.’

Within minutes the Swordmaster was in the Duke’s presence. Martin said, ‘I’ve thought it over and I agree with you. I’ll offer the position of Swordmaster to Charles.’

‘Good,’ said Fannon. ‘I expect he will agree.’

‘Then after I’m gone, Fannon, begin at once to instruct Charles in his office.’

Fannon said, ‘Yes, Your Grace.’ He started to turn away but turned back toward Martin. ‘Your Grace?’

Martin halted as he had just begun to walk back to the keep. ‘Yes?’

‘Are you all right?’

Martin said, ‘Fine, Fannon. I’ve just received a note from Laurie informing me that Carline and Anita are well. Continue as you were.’ Without another word he returned to the keep, passing through the large doors.

Fannon hesitated before leaving. He was surprised at Martin’s tone and manner. There was something odd in the way he looked as he left.

Baru quietly faced Charles. Both men sat upon the floor, their legs crossed. A small gong rested to the left of Charles and a censer burned between them, filling the air with sweet pungency. Four candles illuminated the room. The only furnishings were a mat upon the floor, which Charles preferred to a bed, a small wooden chest, and a pile of cushions. Both men wore simple robes. Each had a sword across his knees. Baru waited while Charles kept his eyes focused upon some unseen point between them. Then the Tsurani said, ‘What is the Way?’

Baru answered. ‘The Way consists of discharging loyal service to one’s master, and of deep fidelity in associations with comrades. The Way, with consideration for one’s place upon the Wheel, consists of placing duty above all.’

Charles gave a single curt nod. ‘In the matter of duty, the code of the warrior is absolute. Duty above all. Unto death.’

‘This is understood.’

‘What, then, is the nature of duty?’

Baru spoke softly. ‘There is duty to one’s lord. There is duty to one’s clan and family. There is duty to one’s work, which provides an understanding of duty to one’s self. In sum they become the duty that is never satisfactorily discharged, even through the toil of a lifetime, the duty to attempt a perfect existence, to attain a higher place on the Wheel.’

Charles nodded once. ‘This is so.’ He picked up a small felt hammer and rang a tiny gong. ‘Listen.’ Baru closed his eyes in meditation, listening to the sound as it faded, diminishing, becoming fainter. When the sound was fully gone, Charles said, ‘Find where the sound ends and silence begins. Then exist in that moment, for there will you find your secret centre of being, the perfect place of peace within yourself. And recall the most ancient lesson of the Tsurani: duty is the weight of all things, as heavy as a burden can become, while death is nothing, lighter than air.’

The door opened and Martin slipped in. Both Baru and Charles began to rise, but Martin waved them back. He knelt between them, his eyes fixed on the censer upon the floor. ‘Pardon the interruption.’

‘No interruption, Your Grace,’ answered Charles.

Baru said, ‘For years I fought the Tsurani and found them honourable foemen. Now I learn more of them. Charles has allowed me to take instruction in the Code of the Warrior, in the fashion of his people.’

Martin did not appear surprised. ‘Have you learned much?’

‘That they are like us,’ said Baru with a faint smile. ‘I know little of such things, but I suspect we are as two saplings from the same root. They follow the Way and understand the Wheel as do the Hadati. They understand honour and duty as do the Hadati. We who live in Yabon had taken much from the Kingdom, the names of our gods, and most of our language, but there is much of the old ways we Hadati kept. The Tsurani belief in the Way is much like our own. This is strange, for until the coming of the Tsurani, no others we met shared our beliefs.’

Martin looked at Charles. The Tsurani shrugged slightly. ‘Perhaps we only find the same truth on both worlds. Who can say?’

Martin said, ‘That sounds the sort of thing to take up with Tully and Kulgan.’ He was quiet a moment, then said, ‘Charles, will you accept the position of Swordmaster?’

The Tsurani blinked, the only sign of surprise. ‘You honour me, Your Grace. Yes.’

‘Good, I am pleased. Fannon will begin your instruction after I’m gone.’ Martin looked up at the door, then lowered his voice. ‘I want you both to do me a service.’

Charles didn’t hesitate in agreeing to serve. Baru studied Martin closely. They had forged a bond on the trip to Moraelin with Arutha. Baru had almost died there, but fate had spared him. Baru knew his fortune was intertwined in some way with those who had quested for Silverthorn. Something lay hidden behind the Duke’s eyes, but Baru would not question him. He would learn what it was in time. Finally he said, ‘As will I.’

Martin sat between the men. He began to speak.

Martin gathered his cloak about him. The afternoon breeze was chilly, blowing down from the north. He looked sternward as Crydee disappeared behind the headlands of Sailor’s Grief. With a nod to the ship’s captain, he descended the companionway from the quarterdeck. Entering the captain’s cabin, he locked the door behind. The man who waited there was one of Fannon’s soldiers, named Stefan, equal in height and general build to the Duke, and wearing a tunic and trousers of the same colour as Martin’s. He had been sneaked aboard in the early hours before dawn, dressed as a common sailor. Martin took off his cloak and handed it to the man. ‘Don’t come up on deck except after night until you’re well past Queg. Should anything force the ship ashore at Carse, Tulan, or the Free Cities, I don’t want sailors speaking of my disappearance.’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

‘When you get to Krondor, there’ll be a carriage waiting for you, I expect. I don’t know how long you can continue the masquerade. Most of the nobles who’ve met me will already be en route to Rillanon, and we’re enough alike to casual observation that most of the servants won’t know you.’ Martin studied his bogus counterpart. ‘If you keep your mouth closed, you might pass as me all the way to Rillanon.’

Stefan looked disquieted by the prospect of a long siege of playing nobility but said only, ‘I will try, Your Grace.’

The ship rocked as the captain ordered a change of course. Martin said, ‘That’s the first warning.’ Quickly he stripped off his boots, tunic, and trousers, until all he wore was his underbreeches.