The mercenary looked deep into Bahl's colourless eyes and utter panic showed on his face. A bolt of lightning leapt from the blade and the mercenary spun in the air as it threw him backwards. He hit the edge of a table and crashed down on the floor. Sparks and tongues of flame danced around the room so ferociously that even the fires and lamps shrank back in fear.

No one else moved. They all averted their eyes, desperate not to be next to attract Bahl’s attention. Bahl's free hand bunched into a fist, and he sought to compose himself. Tonight more than ever, his rage was close to the surface; it felt like a red mist of violence lurking at the edges of his vision. He drove it back down, and as he calmed himself he noticed how the new odours of burnt flesh and urine cut through the air.

'I will take the scroll now.'

The cowering wagoner scrabbled it out of his bag, dropped it, picked it up again and gave it to Bahl, retreating hurriedly back to his seat. The giant looked at the scroll in silence, a puzzled expression on his face, and then passed his hand over it, muttering wordlessly.

'Lord Bahl,' said a voice. Bahl turned to see the Ghost – Carel? – down on one knee, eyes on the ground.

'My Lord, I would swear on the name of the Palace Guard that Aracnan meant to kill the youth. It was the sight of Nyphal that held him back.'

Bahl nodded, to himself more than anyone else. It was true only the youth would have been able to open the scroll, and probably fortunate that his instincts had stopped him, though it wasn't intended to kill. He tucked it into his belt. The College of Magic would no doubt enjoy prising its secrets apart.

'Bring the boy to the palace. I will take him off your hands.' The offer surprised him as much as the wagoner. What do 1 do with him? he wondered in the privacy of his own mind. Was Aracnan pursuing a mission of the Gods here, or some private enterprise of his own? Either was possible.

Abruptly Bahl froze, like a dog catching a scent on the wind. The tavern and its occupants faded from his awareness and instead he felt the city around him, stone houses and damp streets and gutters clogged with rubbish, and a mind like his own. Aracnan.

He sheathed his broadsword and made for the door. As he pulled it open, the sensation grew stronger. Aracnan was on a rooftop ahead, masked by shadows. Somehow he'd been able to conceal himself from Bahl until now, perhaps just to prove he was more skilled in magic than Bahl would ever be.

The Duke of Tirah stepped out and pulled the door closed behind him. He took a moment to check for curious faces, then, when he was certain he was alone, he walked left to an alley until he was out of sight of the tavern. Then he waited.

'Surprised, my Lord?'

Bahl hadn't even seen the mercenary cross the rooftops to reach him

It was disconcerting that Aracnan could get around him so easily.

'Impressed. But also curious. You've never needed to hide yourself

in Tirah before.'

'Times, it seems, are changing. Someone doesn't want me in this 'tv so I shall be brief. It was hard enough to find you without inviting another attack.'

'Attack?'

That is my problem. Your beloved city is safe. What I came to tell you is that the boy is to be your Krann. I was told to bring him to the palace, but he would not come.'

'My Krann… So that's what the Siblis had sensed; they were following the call of his gifts. And the tavern, did you encourage me to go there?'

'I did, but only gently. You'd have noticed if I'd had any ill intent

towards you.'

Bahl paused, about to speak, then shrugged and returned to more important matters. The boy refused? How is that possible?'

'With this one there'll be no simple answers. The boy's trouble, but now he is your trouble. Take care, my Lord. The Land has not been so dangerous a place since the Great War.'

Isak stumbled on down the street, stubbing his toe on the cobbles, but there was no chance of a rest. He'd been drifting off to sleep in the warmth of the stables, soothed by the comfortable sighing of horses, when the door had burst open and his father appeared, his face contorted into a mask of terror and rage.

'You've done it now,' Herman screamed, 'and you'll get what's coming to you, white-eye bastard! Soon I'll be rid of all your trouble at last. You're going to the palace, and I hope you rot there!'

Before Isak had been able to say a word, a mob of drunken men had set upon him with drink-fuelled passion, and with so many of them, there had been no chance of fighting back. Instead, Isak took a deep breath and forced his way out through them, then took to his heels

and ran, not caring where he was headed. The cobbles were painful against his bare feet so he turned into the nearest alley and hopped the fence at the end, picking a direction at random. His mind was racing: what had he done now? There had been real intent in the punches

he’d received; they were going to kill him if they caught him. Isak had to escape – or find a patrol – so he headed for where most of the towers were situated, where the rich folk must live. There'd be guards there, surely. Soon he found himself on the long avenue leading up to the palace. The moons escaped the clouds for a moment and shone down on to the smooth walls and the Tower of Semar, which loomed out from behind them. They lit a path for Isak to follow, but instead he just stood and gaped at the sight; he was still standing there when the leaders of the pack caught up.

Before Isak had fully grasped what was happening a fist flew into his stomach and drove the wind from him. As he doubled over, that blow was followed by a knee to the groin. Thin hands gripped his shoulders, and Isak saw a man's rat-like features for a split second before they smashed into his face, then he crashed to the ground. A hot sharp burst flowered in his side as he was kicked and spun on to his back. Now the rest of the gang had caught them up, but they silently kept their distance from the fight.

As Isak blinked back the pain he saw the drizzling rain glint in the moonlight as it fell around him. With an effort, he forced himself to his knees, his eyes fixed on the hatred blazing out of the face of the man who'd hit him. The man drew a knife from his belt, ignoring a cry behind him, and as Isak struggled to stand, his attacker lunged forward, a hungry smile on his lips.

Isak heard someone – Carel, maybe? – shout out a warning, but his eyes were fixed on his attacker. He managed to bring his left hand up, grasping the hilt and stopping the dagger from sinking into his throat. Pain screamed up his arm and into his shoulder as the edge sliced his palm, but he kept his grip for long enough to be able to grab at the man's wrist with his other hand, then pulled his stunned assailant close and buried his teeth into the man's hand.

The assailant screamed and dropped the knife, which clattered on to the cobbles and was immediately forgotten. He swung desperately at Isak, who released his bite, gave the man a bloody grin and threw him against the wall of a house behind him. The man was reaching for another weapon, but this time it didn't matter: Isak held back his blow until the man had just got a finger round the hilt of the second blade, and then he lashed forward with both palms to smash into the man's throat with a sickening crunch. As the man twitched and went limp, the only sound was Isak's breathing, ragged with pain and wrath.

The broken figure slid slowly down the wall and crumpled in a corner like a doll. Isak stared down at the man, then at his hands. The rain was running red trails down the fingers of his left hand; the other was washed clean as he watched. Then, a little belatedly, he remembered the rest of the gang behind him and took off down the street. As Isak started to run again, the pack stirred into action and followed after him, baying for blood.