Wagons rattled across the bridge, halted to pay their dues and voices drifted down to us, arguing the rights and wrongs of Soluran duties levied by the wheel rather than by the axle. Understanding them was some reward for spending the endless walk back down the length of the Pasfal badgering Sorgrad to teach me what he knew of the Soluran tongue and extending my knowledge of the Mountain speech. It had given me something to concentrate on when my impatience with Usara threatened to boil clear over into rage.

’Gren looked at the muddy path beneath the nearest arch of the bridge with disfavor. We’d kept reminding each other to look to the long game but I wasn’t going to do that for much longer and nor was he. “So when did Usara say this mysterious person was due?”

In unspoken agreement we turned back up into the little town and I remembered again I needed to find someone hereabouts to resole my boots. “He said the Solstice holiday.” I paused at the edge of the street, hard-packed earth without so much as a cobblestone. That was no particular problem with the summer sun keeping it dry, but come the autumn rains it would be axle-deep in mud. Well, whichever way the runes fell, I would be long gone by then. Frustration surged up within me; this was like a bad dream I’d once had, being stuck in a game where for every winning throw I lost twice the coin on the next hand, but for some reason I’d never quite grasped I couldn’t just throw in the runes and walk away from the table. No, it was more like being stuck in one of those pointless mazes that were currently all the rage for the Tormalin nobility. Or had that fad passed? Fashions could change a great deal in the quarter-year I’d been on the road, couldn’t they? I suddenly found myself missing Ryshad horribly.

“This friend of your boy had better bring something useful to the party,” muttered ’Gren. “We’ve come a long way from the uplands for nothing, if he hasn’t.”

“He says this person will know how to contact Anyatimm in the mountains south of Mandarkin and make inquiries of the Sheltya up there.” My calm reply was a notable achievement given I’d argued the point with Usara all the way from the uppermost tributaries of the Pasfal down to this broad and barge-laden waterway.

“Who’s to say that Sheltya woman hasn’t warned every rekin, fess and soke against us from the Gap to the Wild-lands?” retorted ’Gren.

“You go and convince Sorgrad then,” I snapped. “As long as he’s backing the wizard, we either go along with him or strike out on our own.” Sorgrad had been adamant with all the authority of an elder brother that we retreat long enough for the echoes of our precipitous expulsion to die away.

I felt an odd qualm of fear, and not for the first time, as I contemplated going back to the mountains. Was I turning coward? Was it the lurking realization that if I found myself facing Saedrin’s questions at the door to the Otherworld Ryshad would be left on this side, grieving for me?

’Gren was muttering, hands shoved crossly in his pockets.

“Come on, maybe it won’t be so bad spending the festival here.” I turned down the broad street, the gables of cruck-framed and thickly thatched houses on either side. Shops and workrooms were set nearest the roadway, households living in the next room back, kitchens and the like beyond. A few of the long low buildings had clouded glass in their windows, but most simply had wooden shutters and none looked very secure; I doubted if anyone had anything worth stealing though. We skirted around a noisome heap of plaster being mixed with dung where some keen peasant was mending his mud and wicker walls.

Soluran notions haven’t progressed as far as inns. Anyone with money or influence stopping here stayed in the castle; the more important, the closer they lodged to the keep where Lord Pastiss and his family held court. Everyone else had their choice of the various houses that sold ale, offered food or let out rooms. Solurans patch together a living in many and varied ways.

I pushed open the door to our lodging. The stale and sweaty odor of the dim interior told me our hostess had acquired another lot of discarded clothing from somewhere. She made most of her coin begging worn-out garments from her neighbors, washing and mending them and then selling the shoddy goods back again. For all that, she reckoned herself comfortably off. She had proudly explained to me that what I had taken for oddly shaped cobbles underfoot were in fact the joint ends of cattle bones, split and driven into the earth. It was a hardwearing surface apparently, warmer to the touch than stone and for these parts reckoned luxury.

There was no sign of Sorgrad or Usara so I shut the door and looked at ’Gren. “Where do you suppose they are?”

“Getting some food?” he suggested hopefully.

“Livak!”

To be hailed by name so far from home instantly turned my head. A heavily built man rode up on a stubborn-nosed black horse. The man’s close cropped hair and full beard were much the same color as his steed’s and his neck about as thick. He wore a scarlet cloak over a chainmail hauberk, shoulders massive with the padding of his arming tunic, but the size of his hands on the reins showed most of his bulk was honest muscle. A few peasants glanced incuriously at him; men in mail, long swords at their belt were a common enough sight in and around the castle.

“No wonder Usara wasn’t telling.” And I’d just thought the wizard was enjoying having the whip hand for a change.

“So who’s the dancing bear?” ’Gren was ready for any amusement this new turn of events might offer.

“His name’s Darni.” I laughed at the notion of the burly warrior with a ring through his nose, capering to the goad of a stick. “But you don’t get inside the reach of a bear’s chain, do you? This one’s just as dangerous.”

“Livak,” Darni greeted me with a curt nod, as if we’d spoken no more than a few days since. “Or are you going by something else? Terilla, wasn’t it?” His slab of a face was as hard to read as ever beneath the obdurate beard but this was as close as he was going to get to a joke.

I smiled back thinly. “Livak will do.” Terilla was the name I’d given this charmless bastard when I’d been pretending the valuable tankard I was selling was my own and he’d been pretending to be an honest merchant buying it. “ ’Gren, this is Darni, agent to the Archmage. He’s the one who gave me the choice of working for Planir or being chained up and handed over to the Watch.”

’Gren grinned up at Darni. “Looks like you owe our girl then, pal.”

Darni looked down at him. “Besides saving her life?”

“You and half the wizards of Hadrumal,” I scoffed. “Anyway, we’d already escaped from the Elietimm before you turned up.” As I spoke, something teased at my memory but fled before I could grasp it.

“So where’s ’Sar?” Darni turned in his saddle and I realized he had a companion. The second man urged his horse forward. He was of common height and build with middling brown hair and the pale skin of someone used to an indoor life. His eyes were large, liquid brown, a shade darker than his hair and wide-set beneath high, arching brows. His undistinguished face was adorned with luxuriant mustaches, chin clean-shaven apart from a tuft of beard.

“So who’s your friend?” I countered.

“My name is Gilmarten Forn,” the stranger replied obligingly, a Soluran lilt to his words. He swept off his lavishly plumed hat and made a creditable bow for a man on horseback. “I am of the fifth order of Eade and professed to Lord Astrad of Castle Stradar.”

“Good for you,” murmured ’Gren.

“A pleasure to meet you.” I was about to say I had no idea where Usara was when I saw the mage hurrying toward us, Sorgrad walking more slowly behind him. “There’s your wizard.”

Darni dismounted and accosted a rather vacant-looking boy, giving him a couple of coins. “Here, you, take these horses up to the guard stables at the castle. Tell the commander to stable them on Lord Astrad’s authority.” The boy gaped. “Just do it.” Darni unhooked his saddlebags and glared at the lad. “What are you waiting for?”