The graveyard was dusted with snow. Freezing winds raked the bleak headstones and made the gaunt trees shiver.

A small crowd of dignitaries stood before a newly erected monument, a grandiose affair of polished stone three times the height of a man. It took the form of an obelisk, with a black marble apex and a flowing, gold-leaf inscription carved on its face. Above the inscription was an engraved coat of arms showing a rearing white horse, one of the emblems of the paladin clans. Bouquets of flowers were heaped at the obelisk’s base.

Two uniformed figures, draped in cloaks, detached themselves from the crowd and discreetly withdrew, taking a path leading to the cemetery’s exit.

‘A moving speech, if I may say so, sir,’ offered the younger of the pair.

‘You may, Meakin.’

‘I’m sure your uncle would have appreciated your eulogy, and the memorial.’

‘Perhaps. But if I knew Ivak he’d have preferred being in the old burial ground, out on the periphery.’

‘Where High Chiefs are traditionally laid to rest.’

‘Yes. But I’m damned if I’d put him in that decaying boneyard. No one ever goes there these days. I certainly don’t intend ending up in it myself.’

‘New leadership, new traditions, eh, sir?’

‘It’s past time a fresh broom swept through the clans,’ Devlor Bastorran replied, ‘and I’ll be wielding it.’

Bastorran, recently installed Clan High Chief of the paladin order, was impeccably turned-out, as was both his custom and that of the clans. His black hair was styled in a close military cut, and his dress uniform always looked freshly pressed. The immaculately tailored tunic he wore was scarlet, which distinguished the paladins from any other fighting force, and bore the various insignia of his exalted rank.

He was a man who harboured few regrets. Certainly he felt none in respect of how he’d gained his present position. To his way of thinking, speeding up the succession by clandestinely arranging his uncle’s murder was a small price to pay.

At around twenty years old, Bastorran’s aide was his junior by more than a decade. He was blond and clean-shaven, and though Lahon Meakin’s duties were basically administrative, physically he could have passed for a fighting man. Unlike Bastorran, he wore a black tunic. Triple red piping at its wrists, and a circular red patch on the left breast, told the world he served the clans while not born a clansman. The lack of a suitable bloodline meant a limit to how far he could rise, but further advancement was of no concern to Meakin. His ambitions lay elsewhere.

As they trod the gravel pathway, Bastorran’s slight limp was apparent, a constant reminder of his greatest humiliation.

‘I feel as though a chapter has closed with the paying of this final tribute,’ he said, tilting his head at the monument they were leaving. ‘The end of one era and the beginning of another.’ He seemed lost in reflection for a moment. ‘But dwelling too much on the dead neglects the business of the living.’ He was back to his normal brisk efficiency. ‘Any news of the woman?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

If the aide was expecting a rebuke, it didn’t come.

‘So it appears that she had help from the Resistance?’

‘Almost certainly, sir. She could hardly have got away without it, particularly given her condition.’

‘Well, she’ll have little joy in their company.’

‘Should we step up the hunt?’

‘No. Keep her on the list of most wanted. Otherwise you can scale it down.’

‘The man she was with wiped out practically a whole patrol, sir.’

‘I know that, Meakin. And it’ll go on the balance sheet for when we have our reckoning with them. For now there’s no point wasting resources looking for one man. As to the woman, she’s served her purpose. She had nothing else important to tell me. I’d already loosened my leash on her, in fact. That’s how she gave us the slip in the first place.’

Meakin was impressed by a rare show of culpability in his superior. ‘Naturally I wouldn’t presume to ask about this woman’s identity, sir…’ He saw Bastorran’s quick, suspicious glance. ‘But I’m intrigued as to why anyone would betray their own like that.’

‘Love.’

‘Sir?’

‘Love, along with the application of pressure that played on her dotish affection. She thought she could regain something it was never really in my power to give her. Nor would I have done so, even if I could. People are slaves to their emotions. It makes them weak. Exploit them properly and there isn’t anything they won’t do.’

The road was in sight, with its fleet of waiting coaches and milling guards.

‘Anything else I should know about?’ Bastorran asked.

‘Mostly routine matters, sir. Nothing too pressing. Oh, Aphri Kordenza was in touch again. She wants to see you.’

‘That damn woman’s proving a nuisance.’

‘I’ll make your excuses, sir. Keep her out of your way.’

‘No. I’ll take care of the meld. She could still be of use to me. Have her come in to headquarters some time tomorrow.’

‘Very good, sir.’

They were through the gates now. As they neared their waiting carriage, Meakin spotted someone hurrying their way, cape flapping.

‘That looks like Commissioner Laffon, sir.’

‘So it is.’

They waited for the head of the Council for Internal Security to catch up with them. A man of perhaps sixty, Laffon was tall and skeletally thin, with slightly hunched shoulders. Completely bald, he had rangy, bird-like features, accentuated by a hook nose. His lips were thin to the point of non-existence, and his deep blue eyes hinted at a sharp intelligence.

‘I’m glad I caught you,’ he called out, panting faintly as he approached.

‘Commissioner,’ Bastorran greeted him.

‘Excellent eulogy, High Chief. Quite moving.’

‘Thank you. If, er, that was all you wanted to say, I trust you’ll forgive me if I don’t linger. I have matters that need-’

‘I’d appreciate a moment of your time. I’ve one or two things to discuss, and a possible piece of news.’

‘Then perhaps you’d care to ride with us?’

The trio climbed into the carriage. It pulled away, and two other carriages fell in, one ahead, one behind, containing an armed escort. Mounted paladins rode at the front of the convoy, making sure the streets were clear.

Laffon said, ‘I’m pleased to tell you, Bastorran, that preparations are in hand for the new series of raids on the insurgents. My people are ready whenever you are.’

‘That’s gratifying, Commissioner. But it’s hardly news.’

Laffon smiled. ‘News, in the sense of hard facts, is a flexible term, as I’m sure you’re aware. What I have is a deduction based on intelligence, and a rumour.’

‘Let’s have the deduction first, shall we?’

‘I think Reeth Caldason’s on the Diamond Isle.’

Meakin reckoned his master did a good job of disguising his fury at mention of the Qalochian’s name.

‘I suspected as much,’ Bastorran replied.

‘Really? I was under the impression you were expending a lot of resources searching for him here in Bhealfa.’

‘It’s necessary to explore all avenues, Commissioner. Anyway, what makes you think that’s where Caldason is?’

‘We’ve had reports both of his departure from these shores and his presence on the island. Or at least someone bearing an uncanny resemblance to him.’

‘I’m not surprised he’s run away. Any man who could stab another in the back, as he did to my beloved uncle, is nothing short of a coward. Why someone like that should have a special dispensation from our rulers is something I’ve never understood.’

‘You know it isn’t an exemption as such. It’s more an instruction that he should be handled with particular care. I have no idea why these rules were devised, but our betters have their reasons, I’m sure.’ Laffon shrugged.