The Twilight herald

That wiped the smile from Haipar's face. She'd been expecting the usual messy squabble, the sort of war that never quite flowers into anything too terrible but offers plenty of scope for profitable activities for her kind. Sitting across a poorly defended border from the largest army in the Land was not part of her plans. 'So what are you doing here?' she asked, a scowl on her face.

'My business is my own,' Zhia replied, 'and I see no reason yet to discard an identity that has been useful. Things will need to be pretty desperate before I flee the White Circle, but I am quite confident that should it come to that, I would get out alive.'

Haipar had seen Zhia forced into a corner before, and if the Farlan did attack the city, there was no question: Haipar would want to be allied with Zhia. Raylin had no truck with loyalty and honour; you got what you paid for, and what you paid for were unstable tempers and barely controlled skills and talents.

'So what now?'

'Now, we have work to do.'

'Work?' Legana repeated, finding her voice at last. 'You're going to follow Siala's orders?'

'Certainly, since that was exactly what I had hoped for. She wants me to liaise with her armies to get them trained and give her a chance against the Farlan – at the moment she has a rabble: raw recruits, mercenaries of varying talent, unblooded noblemen and Raylin of all shades. A rabble will be useless, but a rabble they will stay unless someone takes control. That means I need to find officers, ensure each regiment has some experienced staff, and get whatever Raylin we have onto the command staff. You Raylin can smell trouble coming. Haipar, your first duty will be to persuade the Jesters to sell me a few of their acolytes, half a dozen, if possible, for there's more than just training to do.'

Haipar gave a mock curtsey. 'Smelling trouble is part of our job; we are mercenaries, after all.'

'I know, but it's an i

'I-' Haipar looked confused at the question. She smoothed her

white-grey hair away from her ta

'The fact that so many are congregating in Scree is important, I think – your kind are as bad as white-eyes when it comes to tolerat¬ing the presence of your own. There's something in the air here, a storm brewing. I intend to find out what that is, and be ready when it comes.' Her expression darkened. 'When I see a wandering minstrel wearing an augury chain, it makes me think you Raylin might have got it right when you smelled trouble.'

CHAPTER 7

In the burnished light of evening Lord Salen looked down over the valleys and ravines that served as streets for the great city of Thotel. At this distance the pickets and patrols that kept the conquered in¬habitants under control were silent, the torches and guard-fires little more than pinpricks of light. Salen enjoyed the sense of standing above the rest of humanity. Here, above the darkness of the streets, a trace of sunlight still remained. For a dizzying moment it felt like he stood on the peak of a mountain, his body light enough to float away into the abyss below.

He shook off the feeling and turned his attention back to Thotel, a city quite unlike any Menin city. The hollowed-out rock formations that the Chetse called stoneduns were massive weathered chunks of granite scattered around this deep valley like a giant's discarded toys. Wind and water had eroded the softer stone to expose these gigantic boulders, then the Chetse had chipped and scraped until the rocks were riddled with tu

Each stonedun had a clan name carved into the rock, identifying it as a community, a fortress in its own right. Some clans had refused to surrender to the Menin, believing their barred gates would hold them safe through a siege…

Lord Salen was leaning out of an open window at the highest point of one such stonedun. The rough rock ledge felt curiously pleasant against his palms, as though the wall still resisted, long after the gates had been torn open and the inhabitants slaughtered.

A brass-bound, wax-stoppered bottle hanging on a long golden chain from his neck chinked delicately against the stone and he pulled it up and slipped it into one of the many pockets of his patchwork robe. He was small for a white-eye, but he was the Chosen of Larat and Lord of

the Hidden Tower, and his mind was sharper than his blade. He wore no armour and carried only a long dagger, but years of study had armed him with weapons few soldiers would even understand. Though the Menin were Karkarn's chosen people – the War God's own – Salen had always preferred the controlled ways of Larat to Karkarn's brutal strength. In Lord Styrax's absence, he had quietened this city with mere words. When he stirred himself to action, the very bedrock of Thotel would tremble.

'Lord Salen?' The messenger coughed uncomfortably, trying not to look too hard at the charms and amulets set into each of the brightly coloured fragments of cloth. Some made his eyes water, writhing to avoid his gaze; others, of tarnished metals, had gems that sparkled too brightly in their pitted settings. A few were impossible to make out in the gloom. Those were the one Mikiss found his eyes drawn to the most – he was glad that he couldn't discern any details.

The mage didn't move.

'My Lord, a message from Larim,' Mikiss repeated.

'The maggots are quiet tonight.'

'My Lord?'

'The Chetse. Don't you think they live like maggots, Mikiss? Tu

'I wouldn't know, Lord. One of the patrols killed some youths break¬ing curfew – one was carrying a weapon, so they were all executed, according to your standing orders.'

'And the benefit of those orders is now plain to see: I am enjoying the peace it has brought to the city this evening. These people can only be cowed; a shame Styrax could not see that.' The white-eye leaned over the balcony and looked directly down. Mikiss could hear the man's rings scrape on the stone as he watched a ripple run though Salen's robe, though there was no hint of any breeze.

Ah, the message, my Lord?' Mikiss said again, trying to hide the apprehension in his voice. 'Lord Larim has seen the wyvern approach¬ing. Lord Styrax will be here very soon.'

'Good. I've been waiting for him. I wonder what he's been up to; what can have taken so long.' Salen's aristocratic voice was measured

and calm, but Mikiss still found it sinister and shivered – he imagined a lizard would speak that way. Larat's adepts were all like that: their words were measured, whispery, their eyes were clinical and inhuman. He knew treachery was pla