Gift: and curse.

Now, however, Paran walked among them without the family guards.

The power of blood was gone, and all he possessed by way of armour was the uniform he now wore. Not a craftsman, not a hawker, not a merchant, but a soldier. A weapon of the Empire, and the Empire had those in the tens of thousands.

He passed through Toll Ramp Gate and made his way along Marble Slope Road, where the first merchant estates appeared, pushed back from the cobbled street, half hidden by courtyard walls. The foliage of gardens joined their lively colours with brightly painted walls; the crowds diminished and private guards were visible outside arching gates.

The sweltering air lost its reek of sewage and rotting food, slipping cooler across unseen fountains and carrying into the avenue the fragrance of blossoms.

Smells of childhood.

The estates spread out as he led his horse deeper into the Noble District. Breathing-space purchased by history and ancient coin. The Empire seemed to melt away, a distant, mundane concern. Here, families traced their lines back seven centuries to those tribal horsemen who had first come to this land from the east. In blood and fire, as was always the way, they had conquered and subdued the cousins of the Kanese who'd built villages along this coast. From warrior horsemen to horsebreeders to merchants of wine, beer and cloth. An ancient nobility of the blade, now a nobility of hoarded gold, trade agreements, subtle manoeuvrings and hidden corruptions in gilded rooms and oil-lit corridors.

Paran had imagined himself acquiring trappings that closed a circle, a return to the blade from which his family had emerged, strong and savage, all those centuries ago. For his choice, his father had condemned him.

He came to a familiar postern, a single high door along one side wall and facing an alley that in another part of the city would be a wide street.

There was no guard here, just a thin bell-chain, which he pulled twice.

Alone in the alley, Paran waited.

A bar clanked on the other side, a voice growled a curse as the door swung back on protesting hinges.

Paran found himself staring down at an unfamiliar face. The man was old, scarred and wearing much-mended chain-mail that ended raggedly around his knees. His pot-helm was uneven with hammered-out dents, yet polished bright.

The man eyed Paran up and down with watery grey eyes, then grunted, «The tapestry lives.»

«Excuse me?»

The guardsman swung the door wide. «Older now, of course, but it's all the same by the lines. Good artist, to capture the way of standing, the expression and all. Welcome home, Ganoes.»

Paran led his horse through the narrow doorway. The path between two outbuildings of the estate, showing sky overhead.

«I don't know you, soldier,» Paran said. «But it seems my portrait has been well studied by the guards. Is it now a throw-rug in your barracks?»

«Something like that.»

«What is your name?»

«Gamet,» the guard answered, as he followed behind the horse after shutting and locking the door. «In service to your father these last three years.»

«And before that, Gamet?

«Not a question asked.»

They came to the courtyard. Paran paused to study the guardsman «My father's usually thorough in researching the histories of those enter» Gamet grinned revealing a full set of white teeth.» h that he did.» Paran passed over the reins. He swung about and looked round the courtyard. It seemed smaller than he remembered. The old well, made by the nameless people who'd lived here before even the Kanese looked ready to crumble into a heap of dust. No craftsman would reset those ancient carved stones, fearing the curse of awakened ghosts. Under the estate house itself were similarly unmortared stones in the deepest reaches the many rooms and tunnels too bent, twisted and uneven to Servants and groundskeepers moved back and forth in the yard. None Gamet cleared his throat. «Your father and mother aren't here.»

He nodded. There'd be foals to care for at Emalau the count «Your sisters are though,» Gamet continued. «I'll have the house servants freshen up your room.»

«It's been left as it was, then?»

Gamet grinned again. «Well, clear out the extra furniture and casks.»

«As always.» Paran sighed and, without another word, made his way to the house entrance.

The feast hall echoed to Paran's boots as he strode to the long dining table. Cats bolted across the floor, scattering at his approach. He unclasped his travelling cloak, tossed it across the back of a chair, then sat at a longbench and leaned his back against the panelled wall. He closed his eyes.

A few minutes passed, then a woman's voice spoke. «I thought you were in Itko Kan.»

He opened his eyes. His sister Tavore, a year younger than him, stood close to the head of the table, one hand on the back of their father's chair.

She was as plain as ever, a slash of bloodless lines comprising her features, her reddish hair trimmed shorter than was the style. She was taller than the last time he'd seen her, nearly his own height, no longer the awkward child. Her expression revealed nothing as she studied him.

«Reassignment,» Paran said.

«To here? We would have heard.»

Ah, yes, you would have, wouldn't you? All the sly whisperings among the connected families.

«Unplanned,» he conceded, «but done nevertheless. Not stationed here in Unta, though. My visit is only a few days.»

«Have you been promoted?»

He smiled. «Is the investment about to reap coin? Reluctant as it was, we still must think in terms of potential influence, mustn't we?»

«Managing this family's position is no longer your responsibility, brother.»

«Ah, it's yours now, then? Has Father withdrawn from the daily chores?»

«Slowly. His health is failing. Had you asked, even in Itko Kan. .»

He sighed. «Still making up for me, Tavore? Assuming the burden of my failings? I hardly left here on a carpet of petals, you may recall. In any case, I always assumed the house affairs would fall into capable hands.» Her pale eyes narrowed, but pride silenced the obvious question. «At her studies. She's not heard of your return. She will be very excited.» His sister snorted, turning away. Telisin? She's too soft for this world, brother. For any world, I think. She's not changed. She'll be happy to see you.» He watched her stiff back as she left the hall.

He smelled of sweat-his own and the mare's-travel and grime, and of something else as well: Old blood and old fear. Paran looked around. Much smaller than I remembered.

Through the pallor of smoke ravens wheeled. Their calls raised a shrill chorus above the cries of wounded and dying soldiers. The stench of seared flesh hung unmoving in the haze.

On the third hill overlooking the fallen city of Pale, Tattersail stood alone. Scattered around the sorceress the curled remains of burnt armour-greaves, breastplates, helms and weapons-lay heaped in piles. An hour earlier there had been men and women wearing that armour, but of them there was no sign. The silence within those empty shells rang like a dirge in Tattersail's head.