Vance flashed sudden anger. He brought his fist down hard on the table, jangling the dishes. ‘Own be damned! He as good as stole it from me!’

Kinsel thought that unlikely, but judged it best to stay silent.

‘Darrok and I share a history,’ Vance continued, calming somewhat. ‘We worked in harness to forge a dominion in these waters, and further afield.’ He adopted a theatrically hurt look. ‘I thought we were friends. Then he stabbed me in the back. It was a grievous betrayal.’

‘I don’t see what it has to do with me.’

‘Then you lack imagination, singer. That island rightly belongs to me, and to the alliance I’ve built with my fellow merchant adventurers. We need it as a base, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get it. If that means using you any way I see fit, I will.’

‘They won’t trade, if that’s what you’re thinking. And I wouldn’t want them to.’

‘How noble of you,’ Vance sneered.

‘Look at it from their point of view. My well-being or all their futures. It’s no contest.’

‘We’ll see.’

‘This whole thing is insane, Vance. You’re wasting lives in pursuit of…what? A rock in the middle of the ocean. There are other islands. Why not settle for one of them?’

‘Lives are just another overhead in my business. The men who threw in their lot with the alliance did it willingly, and they knew the risks. Lives are nothing. It’s my honour that counts.’

‘So your honour demands such carnage? Surely it’s better to come to some accommodation with the rebels. They might even-’

‘Enough! Your…reasonableness vexes me.’

Kinsel braced himself for a blow. Or worse. It didn’t come. Instead Vance leaned back in his chair and thumped his feet on the table. He supported his head with laced fingers at the back of his neck.

‘Sing for me,’ he said. ‘The way you did the other day, after the raid. Soothe me.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘You’re so concerned about lives. The fate of the next…oh, let’s say ten prisoners who fall into my hands will hang on what you decide now. And so will the prisoners.’ He laughed at his little joke.

‘Very well,’ Rukanis replied quietly. He stood, doing his best to prepare himself for what would be an ordeal.

‘Make it something restful,’ Vance ordered. ‘All this talk sets my nerves jangling.’

Given that his captor displayed the volatile emotions of a child, Kinsel decided on a lullaby.

He began to sing. The air he chose wasn’t particularly doleful, but his interpretation lent it a certain melancholy, and inevitably it brought Tanalvah to mind, and the children. The thought of them was all that kept him going. Now he was performing a lament for their loss, and found a kind of solace in it.

His thoughts turned to the world of normality he’d been forced to leave behind. Its familiarity, its certainties, seemed so distant and unreal to him now.

Kinsel Rukanis longed for his old life. He craved the sanity of Bhealfa.

Somewhere in the backwoods of western Bhealfa, Prince Melyobar was attempting to eat a raw chicken.

He sat at a small dining table in the spacious wheelhouse of his palace, wearing a look of distaste as he chewed unyielding, rubbery flesh.

‘Urgh!’ He spat out the meat, grimacing. ‘This is disgusting! Whose idea was it to serve me such muck?’

An alarmed manservant hurried forward, bowing low. ‘Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but…you ordered it that way.’

‘What?’ He blinked at the man, perplexed.

‘You said…that is, Your Royal Highness commanded that your food be served uncooked in future. In order to foil poisoners.’

‘When?’

‘You were gracious enough to issue the order to your chef yesterday, Highness.’

‘Nonsense!’

‘But, Your Eminence-’

‘Claptrap, I say! The fool misheard me. Or somebody’s being deliberately wayward.’ His plate and cutlery went flying. ‘Take it away!’

The servant bent to retrieve the debris, then scurried off, trying to bolt and fawn simultaneously.

‘Flog the cook!’ Melyobar shouted after him. ‘And have yourself flogged for insolence!’ Contemplating the empty table, a suspicion dawned. ‘Gods,’ the Prince muttered. ‘Guards! Guards!’

A pair of sentinels rushed to him, drawing their swords.

‘Sire?’ the sergeant enquired.

‘I’ve reason to believe he could be on board.’ They had no need to ask who their monarch referred to. ‘I think he’s using his shape-changing powers. Sound the alert. Comb the palace for someone impersonating me.’ The guards seemed confused, then stared quizzically at him. ‘Well it’s not me, obviously! Dolts. Now get on with it!’

The duo retreated. Further instructions were unnecessary. They were called on to search for Death at least once a day.

Tense at the best of times, the incident did nothing to steady Melyobar’s nerves. Although barely into middle-age, he looked much older, and his thinning hair had greyed early. His shaved face was bulbous, with a sallow complexion; his body was flabby, running to stout.

‘Your Highness!’ the steersman hailed from the wheel. ‘We’re approaching the valley!’

Melyobar rose and went to join him, the episode of just seconds before forgotten. The brevity of the Prince’s attention span was legendary.

The upper half of the wheelhouse consisted of an expanse of precious clear glass. Melyobar took in the scene. Ahead lay the mouth of a deep valley, though it was hard to see in the driving snow. A trail could just be made out snaking through the valley’s floor, edged with snow-laden trees.

Had an observer been stationed on top of either cliff-like wall, enduring the blizzard, they would have witnessed an awesome sight.

The Prince’s floating palace was enormous, beyond ostentatious in its embellishments, and now the whole prickly confection bore a coat of sparkling white. Moved by magic whose cost took a sizeable bite out of Bhealfa’s gross national product, the palace glided under the direction of a team of top-grade wizards.

Equally impressive was the court’s entourage. Several dozen lesser castles and mansions, owned by leading courtiers, and similarly powered, followed in its wake. ‘Lesser’ in comparison to Melyobar’s gigantic folly, that is. They would still appear remarkable if seen without the contrast.

As it drifted regally, the whole procession was bathed in a crackling discharge of magical energy. Dazzling tendrils leapt from one structure to another, like blue lightning, connecting them in a glittery, ever changing web.

Down below, on mere ground, an army kept pace. In fact, two armies; one a military force deserving the name, the other a ragbag of civilian camp followers, tens of thousands strong. They travelled in a multitude of every conceivable wheeled transport, or rode herds of horses. The lowliest plodded on foot. All were stung by driven snow and cut by icy winds.

‘Why are we moving so slowly?’ Melyobar demanded, slumping into his throne.

‘The weather, sire,’ the steersman explained nervously. ‘This is about as fast as we can go in these conditions.’ He pointed to the glass. ‘And that valley is very narrow, Highness. Getting us through will be like threading a needle.’

Melyobar snorted.

The steersman, along with his superiors and all their subordinates, would much rather have gone another way, but the Prince insisted on this route; and to fly above the gorge would have taken a ruinous amount of magic.

They entered the valley’s entrance carefully, well above the treetops. On both sides the sheer cliffs seemed to press in. Beads of sweat appeared on the burly steersman’s brow as he gently manoeuvred his titanic charge. The navigation took every ounce of his skill, not least because his commands had to anticipate the great bulk he was trying to control. It was like steering a mighty ship at sea; there was a lag of some seconds before its phenomenal weight sluggishly responded.