Isak turned to the shadowed figure of his Chief Steward, looming behind the backs of his coterie. He gave Lesarl a weak smile. 'One of the annoying things about my Chief Steward is that he's acknowledged by finer minds than mine as a genius.'

'I don't doubt he's right in what he said, just that he's wrong in what should be done,' Citizen said firmly.

'I suppose that'll reassure both his supporters and critics. In the last two weeks it's been suggested both that I make him the next Duke of Lomin, and that I throw him in gaol for corruption. I don't know about the title, though. I'm not convinced he's got the breeding I'd want in my dukes.'

'Yes, milord,' Citizen said in a less than deferential tone, making it plain she had no intention of being affected by Isak's unnatural charisma. Some folk found themselves laughing along with Isak in the strangest of situations, but she was prepared for him. 'Lesarl's right that it'd make you appear dictatorial, and that's a bad way to start your reign; they would've accepted it under Lord Bahl but you're still unknown to them.'

'So?'

'Fuck 'em.'

Isak gave a snort and turned to the rest of the coterie. Citizen's expression was blank; she wasn't joking. Only Prayer showed any reaction as he narrowed his lips further.

'Citizen's correct,' Dancer joined, 'in her own delightful way. The priests aren't winning themselves any friends; attendance at High Reverence is up, but only out of shame, I suspect, and that'll change as soon as folk grow tired of being reminded of their sins. I know the College of Magic has just about had enough.'

'Can you blame us?' snapped Conjurer, 'with fifteen suits of consorting with daemons in the past two weeks and twenty-eight charges of impropriety and impiety? The cardinals have declared war on us!'

'You tell the Archmage to exercise restraint before he fights back,' Lesarl said firmly. 'The last thing we need is battle-mages reacting to provocation – or any other more subtle measures of retribution. Some of your brothers rival Larat for a twisted sense of humour.'

'And if the priests have a second focus of their complaints, that does the nation no great harm,' Dancer agreed. 'It will take a long time before people turn against the mages, they're too fearful for that. The College can instruct its members to maintain a low profile for the meantime.'

'Lesarl, how soon can the trial start?'

The Chief Steward shrugged. 'Four or five days. There are formalities to deal with, but the evidence is collected so the judge is ready. There are a number of ways the defence can prolong matters, hut that can only last so long.'

'Good, so let's announce the trial date and set up a quiet meeting with the dukes of Merlat and Perlir.'

'And you'll bring along your choice for Lomin as well?'

'Yes, I want Lokan and Sempes to have a chance to object. I'm making enough enemies without consulting with the two most

powerful people i-' A spark suddenly flared in his mind, stopping Isak mid-word. A trickle of magic swept the room, prickling and questing over his skin. He looked at Conjurer, but the woman showed no reaction. A shiver ran down his spine like the touch of a girl's fingertips and a voice whispered in his ear.

Isak.

Without thinking he turned back to the window. Xeliath was out there, the young brown-skinned woman who'd been tied to his fractured destiny. It looked like Morghien and Mihn had been successful in getting her to Tirah before any of the power-players in this game tracked her down and killed her. Lesarl caught the movement and shot an enquiring look towards his lord. Isak nodded.

'She's here; just about to enter the city,' he murmured.

It was clear from their faces that Lesarl hadn't yet shared that interesting piece of information with them. Isak managed to produce something approximating a grin as he pictured their reaction.

Heading towards the door he said, 'Those of you interested in what my foreign policy is to be will be delighted to hear that I've added a new complication.' He stopped as he reached the door, Lesarl on his heel, and turned back to the coterie. 'There'll be a new guest at the palace tonight, a young white-eye.'

'And how exactly does that affect the nation's foreign policy?' Dancer asked, voicing the question on the lips of all the faces turned in his direction.

'Her father didn't exactly give permission for her to leave, and he's a lord – one of our not-so-friendly neighbours, the Yeetatchen.'

Their protestations and questions floundered in his wake as he left the room. Outside, the narrow stair was lit only by what faint light crept up from the floor below, where a single lamp cast its light over the first-floor corridor, barely illuminating the three doors there. The two bunkroom doors were propped open; he glanced inside as he passed them and saw the usual labourers' junk in each: canvas bags, the odd oilskin coat and a pervasive smell of sweat and mud.

At the end of the corridor a second stairway led down to the ground floor. It was a little too narrow for his massive shoulders, so he had to turn slightly sideways to get down them. Stationed at the bottom was Citizen's eldest daughter. The girl, who shared her mother's build, heard him coming and started to open the alley door on her left, giving it a shove when it stuck a little, swollen with damp and lack of use.

Isak knew she had a long knife concealed in her right sleeve, and not one just plucked from the kitchen's rack, but the blade made no appearance as she stepped out and scannedthe street. The door on her right led into the tavern – Isak could hear an argument going on just the other side – but right now it was bolted shut.

Isak didn't wait for Lesarl. He pulled his hood low over his face and stepped cautiously out into the street. Citizen's daughter may have checked, but that was cold comfort: she'd neither notice nor be able to do anything about that which Isak was looking out for. Two strides took him to the corner of the building, and from there he could peer around the tavern and survey the length of the street whilst concealed in the tavern's shadow.

But it looked empty; his sharp eyes and ears caught nothing untoward beyond the occasional drip of water.

A glassy sheen had covered the cobbles as the night-time temperature fell. The day's rain had given way to a faint mist hanging in the air, catching the yellow-tinted moonlight of high Alterr. Isak was about to move off when he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head left, looking down the route he had intended to take home now that the streets were deserted. In the darkness, a good hundred yards off, something stood.

A crawling dread slithered down Isak's neck. No man stood there; its body was entirely black, and almost invisible in the fog, but he could guess something of the stance – it was on all fours. Visions of the Temple Plaza of Scree flooded back to him: the terrible slaughter done in the firelight, the towering figure of the Burning Man illuminating the terrified figures around him and in the distance, the humped back of the Great Wolf, stalking.

Now Isak could make out little more than a shape and a pair of burning eyes in the dark. It was untouched by the moonlight and aImost hidden in the fog. Shadow upon shadow, imagination or not, the black dog did not move an inch. It simply stood there with its baleful gaze fixed upon him.

'My Lord?' Isak jumped at the voice, his heart giving a lurch until he realised it was only Lesarl standing behind him. Lesarl gave him a quizzical look.

'Look,' Isak said quickly, pointing down the street, but when he looked back to where the black dog had been standing, the words died in his throat. The street was empty, and silent. Isak stared at where the creature had been, then searched all around in vain for it.