‘The Wesmen, if they are massing, are doing so in their Heartlands in the south-west peninsula. Sorry to disappoint you.’

‘But that was six months ago.’ Gresse sat beside him, choosing the softer grass and heather over a slab of stone.

‘Granted, but Baron Blackthorne is not, to my knowledge, concerned about a Wesmen invasion,’ said The Unknown. He sifted briefly through his pack and pulled out a small leather bag, stoppered at its neck. ‘Hey, Sirendor, salt.’ He tossed the bag at the warrior, who jumped to catch it one-handed. ‘And use it this time. It makes your soup just about drinkable.’ Hirad laughed. Sirendor swore.

‘Then he should be concerned.’ Gresse was thoughtful for a while. ‘And what about the pass itself?’

‘Well guarded. Tessaya is not a fool. He gets good revenue from the pass and isn’t about to give it up to the KTA or a rival tribe.’ The Unknown scratched his nose.

‘The barracks?’

‘Boarded and empty.’ The Unknown shook his head slightly. ‘He had a significant guardpost at either end of the pass but was not shoring up for siege.’

‘Thank you,’ said Gresse. ‘Both of you. Sorry to press.’

Talan shrugged. ‘No problem. You have other sources, I take it?’

‘More recent and no less reliable. The pass is reportedly closed to the east, full of Wesmen, and war parties are emerging from the south-west. If it’s true, we’re in trouble. We have no organised defence and neither Blackthorne nor the Colleges are strong enough. Just keep your eyes and ears open is all I ask.’ Gresse sighed. ‘I haven’t a hope in hell of persuading the Barons to ally at this meeting, not without Blackthorne. I only hope it’s not all too late.’

Talan raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s that serious, you think? What about the Wytch Lords rumours?’

Gresse snorted. ‘Yes, it is that serious. We could all be in a fight for our country very soon. As for the Wytch Lords, if by some appalling miracle they are returned, we can kiss Balaia goodbye.’

The fire crackled into life, flames casting pale shadow on the sunlit walls of the pass. The men lapsed into silence, each preferring his own thoughts on the exchange as he stared into the hypnotic flickering. It was a good time for a little quiet, and Sirendor’s meat broth, when it arrived, tasted fine.

The Raven rode through Korina’s East Gate as the sun began to be lost behind some of the City’s few tall buildings. Where some were stopped and questioned, if not searched, The Raven were, as always, simply waved through to the crowded cobbled streets of Korina’s late afternoon trading.

‘Now that’s an advantage of being us,’ remarked Sirendor. ‘And there aren’t as many as you’d think.’ Denser said nothing.

Shortly after their entry into the City, Gresse and his men made their goodbyes and headed south towards the offices of the Korina Trade Alliance and the tightly guarded apartments the Barons found it necessary to maintain.

Korina was the Capital City of Eastern Balaia, boasting a stable population of somewhere around two hundred and fifty thousand, which swelled to as many as three hundred thousand at festival and principal trading times. Most of the latter were dictated by the arrival of merchant fleets from the lands to the east and south of the Northern Continent. Korina sat at the head of the River Kour estuary and had developed safe deep-water ports that attracted southern traders away from the shorter but less profitable journey to Gyernath.

The City was characterised by its sturdy sprawling low buildings, a legacy of the high winds and hurricanes that periodically swept along the estuary as the season changed from winter to the warmer weather of spring. In three places, connected by streets packed with businesses and shops, inns and eating houses, brothels and gambling dens, markets bustled with life every day of the week.

Beyond the triangle, and closer to the port, heavy industry boomed, clanged, fired, sawed and moulded, producing goods for home and across the seas. And in every gap between the places of entertainment, trade, officialdom and work, people lived. Some in squalor, some in luxury undreamed of by those who saw nothing but the dirt on their hands, and most in a state of perpetual shift on a line between the two.

Slowing their horses to trotting pace, The Raven moved towards the western market on the north side of which sat The Rookery. The streets were full of people, carts and animals; and mixed with them, the fresh, foul and fetid smells blew with the noise of the City on a steady inshore breeze. Stalls, wagons, hand baskets and shoulder-slung trays offered everything from fine cloth shipped in from the distant elven southern lands; through pottery, iron and steel wares forged and cast in the foundries and kilns of Korina and Jaden; to meats, vegetables and pastries prepared in kitchens scattered all over the City, some clean, many squalid and filthy. The barrage of trade was held in the single language of hard currency, and everywhere, silver and bronze glinted in the reddening sunlight as it changed hands.

Mercifully, much of the traffic was moving in the opposite direction to their travel as the trading day waned. But the cobbled market square itself was packed with stalls between which The Raven had to pick. Speech was pointless and The Unknown led them in single file towards The Rookery and the quiet of the inn’s back room that was their sanctuary after battle.

Tomas’s son, Rhob, a youth forever in awe of the mercenaries, took their horses to the stables and the saddle-stiff companions went inside.

‘Hello, boy!’ Tomas’s shout greeted The Unknown from behind the bar. It was what the innkeeper always called him, saying that ‘Unknown’ made him sound like a stranger. The Rookery was perhaps a quarter full, reflecting the time of day. It was a large inn, thirty tables spread widely around a low-roofed, oak-pillared room. The bar was directly opposite the door and ran in a quarter-circle from right to left, finishing by doors to kitchens, back room and the upstairs. On the right was The Rookery’s open fire. Books ranged over the walls on three sides and reds and greys complemented the lanterns to give a warming atmosphere.

‘Hello, Tomas.’ There was a weariness in The Unknown’s tone.

‘Go straight through,’ said Tomas, a tall, balding man in his late forties. ‘I’ll bring in some wine, ale and coffee. Maris is just firing the ovens. I—’ He frowned, stopped speaking, his eyes flicking over The Raven, pausing briefly on Denser, then moving on. The Unknown nodded, walked to the bar and laid a hand on Tomas’s arm.

‘There’ll be a party in here tonight. We have much to celebrate, much to remember and Ras to mourn.’

Nothing more was said and The Raven filed past Tomas into the back room, each man nodding or smiling his greeting.

Three things characterised the back room: the Raven symbol and crossed short swords above the fireplace; its long banqueting table set with seven places which stood by large double doors in the far wall; and its exquisitely sewn soft chairs and sofas. It was into these that The Raven sank, their grateful sighs giving way to silence.

Denser hesitated. There were ten seats in all. Eventually he moved to a plainer, red-upholstered chair nearest the unlit fire.

‘Not there.’ Talan’s voice stopped him in his tracks. ‘Ras sat there. Sit on Tomas’s sofa if you must. I expect he won’t mind.’

Denser sat.

‘Now then,’ said The Unknown, turning to the Dark Mage. ‘First things first. How long before we are likely to see payment?’

‘Well, as I explained to Ilkar, the amulet is primarily a research tool and we won’t be looking to sell it for some months. However, we will set a minimum price and I can advance you five per cent of that figure, say two hundred thousand truesilver?’

The Unknown glanced quickly around The Raven. There were no dissenters.