'I see that,' said Keeva, 'but with all your wealth you can have everything you want for the rest of your life. Every pleasure, every joy is available to you.'

'There is not enough gold in all the world to supply what I want,' he said.

'And what is that?'

'A clean conscience,' he said. 'Now, do you wish to return to the settlement to see your brother buried?'

The conversation was obviously over. Keeva shook her head. 'No. I don't want to go there.'

'Then we will push on. We should reach my home by dark.'

Cresting a hill, they began the slow descent on to a wide plain. As far as the eye could see there were ruins everywhere. Keeva drew rein and stared out over the plain. In some places there were merely a few white stones, in others the shapes of buildings could still be seen. Towards the west, against a granite cliff-face there were the remains of two high towers, which had crumbled at the base and crashed to the ground like felled trees.

'What was this place?' she asked.

The Grey Man gazed over the ruins. 'An ancient city called Kuan-Hador. No one knows who built it, or why it fell. Its history is lost in the mists of time.' He looked at her and smiled. 'I expect the people here once believed they owned the hills and the trees,' he said.

They rode down on to the plain. Some way to the west Keeva saw a mist rolling between the jagged ruins. 'Speaking of mists,' she said, pointing it out to her companion. Waylander halted his horse and glanced to the west. Keeva rode alongside. 'Why are you loading your crossbow?' she asked him, as his hands slid two bolts into the grooves in the small black weapon.

'Habit,' he said, but his expression was stern, his dark eyes wary. Angling his horse towards the south-east, away from the mist, he rode away.

Keeva followed him and swung in the saddle to stare back at the ruins. 'How strange,' she said. 'The mist is gone.'

He, too, glanced back, then unloaded his weapon, slipping the bolts back into the quiver at his belt. He saw her looking at him.

'I do not like this place,' she said. 'It feels . . . dangerous,' she concluded lamely.

'You have good instincts,' he told her.

Matze Chai parted the painted silk curtains of his palanquin and gazed with undisguised malevolence at the mountains. Sunlight was filtering through the clouds and shining brightly upon the snow-capped peaks. The elderly man sighed and pulled shut the curtains. As he did so his dark, almond-shaped eyes focused on the back of his slender hand, seeing again the brown liver spots of age staining the dry skin.

The Chiatze merchant reached for a small, ornate wooden box and removed a tub of sweet-smelling lotion, which he applied carefully to his hands, before leaning back against his cushions and closing his eyes.

Matze Chai did not hate mountains. Hatred would mean giving in to passion, and passion, in Matze's view, indicated an uncivilized mind. He loathed what the mountains represented, what the Philosopher termed the Mirrors of Mortality. The peaks were eternal, never changing, and when a man gazed upon them his own ephemeral nature was exposed to the light; the frailty of his flesh apparent. And frail it was, he thought, regarding his coming seventieth birthday with a mixture of disquiet and apprehension.

He leant forward and slid back a panel in the wall, revealing a rectangular mirror. Matze Chai gazed upon his reflection. The thinning hair, drawn tightly across his skull and braided at the nape of his neck, was as black as in his youth. But a tiny line of silver at the hairline meant that he would need to have the dye reapplied soon. His slender face showed few lines, but his neck was sagging, and even the high collar of his scarlet and gold robes could no longer disguise it.

The palanquin lurched to the right, as one of the eight bearers, weary after six hours of labour, slipped on a loose stone. Matze Chai reached up and rang the small golden bell bolted to the embossed panel by the window. The palanquin stopped smoothly and was lowered to the ground.

The door was opened by his Rajnee, Kysumu. The small warrior extended his hand. Matze Chai took it and stepped through the doorway, his long robes of heavily embroidered yellow silk trailing to the rocky path. He glanced back. The six soldiers of his guard sat their mounts silently. Beyond them the second team of bearers climbed down from the first of the three wagons. Dressed in livery of red and black, the eight men marched forward to replace the tired first team, who trudged silently back to the wagon.

Another liveried servant ran forward, bearing a silver goblet. He bowed before Matze Chai and offered him the watered wine. The merchant took the goblet, sipping the contents. 'How much longer?' he asked the man.

'Captain Liu says we will camp at the foot of the mountains, sir. The scout has found a suitable site. He says it is an hour from here.'

Matze Chai drank a little more, then returned the goblet, still half full, to the servant. Climbing back into the palanquin he settled himself down on his cushions. 'Join me, Kysumu,' he said.

The warrior nodded, pulled his sword and scabbard from the sash of his long grey robes, and climbed inside, seating himself opposite the merchant. The eight bearers took hold of the cushioned poles, raising them to waist height. At a whispered command from the lead bearer they then hefted the poles to their shoulders. Inside the palanquin Matze Chai gave a satisfied sigh. He had trained the two teams well, paying attention to every detail. Travel by palanquin was usually not dissimilar to sailing a small boat on choppy water. The cabin lurched from side to side and within minutes those with delicate constitutions would begin to feel queasy. Not so for those who travelled with Matze Chai. His teams were made up of eight men of equal height, trained for hours every day back in Namib. They were well paid, well fed, powerful young labourers; men of little imagination but great strength.

Matze Chai leant back in his cushions, transferring his gaze to the slim, dark-haired young man seated opposite him. Kysumu sat silently, his three-foot-long curved sword on his lap, his coal-black slanted eyes returning Matze Chai's gaze. The merchant had grown to like the little swordsman, for he spoke rarely and radiated calm. There was never a hint of tension about him.

'How is it you are not wealthy?' Matze Chai asked him.

'Define wealth,' answered Kysumu, his long face, as ever, expressionless.

'The ability to purchase whatever one desires, whenever one desires it.'

'Then I am wealthy. All I desire is a little food and water each day. These I can pay for.'

Matze Chai smiled. 'Then let me rephrase the question: how is it that your renowned skills have not supplied you with plentiful amounts of gold and coin?'

'Gold does not interest me.'

Matze Chai already knew this. It explained why Kysumu was the most highly prized Rajnee in all the lands of the Chiatze. All men knew that the swordsman could not be bought, and thus would never betray the nobleman who hired him. Yet it was baffling, for among the Chiatze nobility loyalty always came at a price, and it was perfectly acceptable for warriors and bodyguards like Kysumu to change allegiance when better offers were made. Intrigue and treachery were endemic to the Chiatze way of life – indeed, among politicians of all races. Which made it even more curious that Kysumu was revered among the treacherous nobility for his honesty. They did not laugh behind his back, or mock his 'stupidity'. Even though it highlighted, in glorious colour, their own lack of morals. What a strange race we are, thought Matze Chai.

Kysumu had closed his eyes and was breathing deeply. Matze Chai looked at him closely. No more than five and a half feet tall, slightly round-shouldered, the man looked more like a scholar or a priest. His long face and slightly downturned mouth gave him a look of melancholy. It was an ordinary face, not handsome, not ugly. The only distinctive feature was a small purple birthmark on his left eyebrow. Kysumu's eyes opened and he yawned.