‘No. The best protection the Source has is that extracting its secrets will prove an almost impossible task. Except for Covenant, which has studied practically nothing else for centuries.’

‘I hope you’re right, Phoenix. For Reeth’s sake if nothing else. He’s gambling a lot on the Clepsydra being found.’

‘Understandable. But I wish I’d never told him about it.’

‘You know he’s refusing to deliver the gold to Darrok?’

Phoenix nodded.

‘I can’t blame him. Like he said, he didn’t sign on for a war with pirates.’

‘I think he’ll come round. If he doesn’t, there are others in the movement who could carry out the mission. No one’s indispensable, Kutch, not even a man with such extraordinary talents as Caldason.’

‘I don’t know if he’ll change his mind or not. He’s very unpredictable in some ways. Everybody’s worried about Serrah, too.’

‘Another troubled soul. Magic isn’t

her

problem, that’s for sure. We could do without all this, Kutch, with the move not so far off.’

‘What can I do?’

‘About Caldason and Serrah? Very little, I’m afraid. Except continuing to give them your friendship unstintingly. Which isn’t so little after all, really.’

‘And my visions?’

‘That’s something I’m going to have to give a lot more thought to. Meanwhile, follow the exercises I’ve given you. Meditate. Breathe. And no more spotter training for you for a while, that’s certain. Oh, and there’s some reading you might find beneficial. I’ll give you a list.’

Kutch pulled a long face. ‘More studying?’

‘There’s nothing like the sustenance a good book can give you, boy, believe me.’

‘There’s nothing like a clean kill to lift the spirits, boy, take it from me,’ Ivak Bastorran enthused.

His nephew grunted and nocked an arrow.

They were on a balcony of a building at the paladin compound. Bundled against the autumn chill, Devlor Bastorran sat in a chair not unlike a throne, his bound leg supported by a footstool. Chair and stool had been elevated with wooden blocks, allowing him a clear view over the balcony’s low wall. He held a short bow, and a quiver lay across his lap. His uncle stood beside him, spine straight as a spear, hands clasped behind his back.

Several storeys below, neatly trimmed lawns spread out. They ran a considerable distance before reaching a border of mature trees. Beyond the trees stood the compound’s lofty walls. Nearest the building there was a natural, grassy amphitheatre of perhaps half an acre, with sloping sides. It was this area that the Bastorrans looked down on.

To their left, and almost out of sight, was an elongated wooden building resembling a stable. Ivak lifted a hand and signalled, and an unseen minion heeded the sign. Bolts were thrown, hinges squeaked. The sound of cracking whips could be heard.

A fawn stumbled into view. It had a whimsical way of walking, its slender, uncertain legs almost crossing with each step. Tan, with white mottling and underbelly, it had the tiny beginnings of horns. Its eyes were dark and soft.

An arrow struck the fawn’s neck. The animal went down, so light it seemed to bounce when it hit the green sward. Its legs convulsed, twitched. Were still.

‘Too easy,’ Devlor muttered, reaching for another shaft.

Three or four rabbits scurried into the amphitheatre. He got one square in the head, the force knocking it several feet.

‘Good shot!’ his uncle exclaimed.

Devlor didn’t bother with the other rabbits. Something more challenging had appeared. A snorting boar charged through; head down, tusks close to ploughing the earth, mad as hell. It took an erratic path around the grassy basin. So much so that Devlor’s first shot flew over the boar’s back and ran into the ground. The creature turned to look in his direction, clouds of huffing breath issuing from its flared nostrils.

Re-nocking quickly, Devlor fired again. His bolt pierced the squealing boar’s forehead. It collapsed and went into spasms. Seconds later the vigour had gone from its eyes and it gave up the struggle.

The animal’s death throes were of no interest to the younger Bastorran. His attention was on a stag entering the killing ground. The beast was in his prime, chest thrust out, head raised nobly. His off-white, faintly yellowish antlers made for a magnificent display. With the smell of blood in the air the stag was skittish, and he obeyed the instinct to flee. He ran in circles, tossing his head from side to side, intuiting the nearness of death.

Devlor’s arrow winged in and pierced his flank. The stag kept going, leaving a trail of blood on the grass.

‘Again, again!’ Ivak urged.

The stag headed for the slope and began climbing. But men were stationed at the lip. Yelling and waving pikes, they forced the stag back down. Stumbling, almost falling, it was in a state of panic. It turned, ready to make another assault, when Devlor’s second arrow slammed into its side. Its legs buckled and it collapsed, finished.

‘Well

done

, boy!’ Ivak gave his nephew’s shoulder a congratulatory punch. The sort men who otherwise never touched gave each other.

Devlor put on a frigid smile and drew yet another arrow from the sheath.

The prey was still coming, shooed and whipped from behind. A gazelle. A pair of speckled pigs. A slinking fox, three grass snakes, a llama. A trotting buffalo, looking to charge something. Animals that might otherwise be antagonistic, weaving around the bodies of fellow creatures and united in fear.

While Devlor was taking his pick, someone discreetly cleared their throat. Lahon Meakin stepped forward, bowing first to the uncle then, just slightly less deferentially, to the nephew.

‘Yes?’ Devlor said.

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but you asked me to remind you about your meeting with the armourers’ guild. The delegation’s just arrived.’

‘Damn it, yes. I’d forgotten. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

‘Very good. I’ll send someone to assist you, sir.’ Meakin showed them obeisance again, turned and left.

Ivak Bastorran watched him go, sour faced. ‘I’ll never understand why you couldn’t have chosen someone of the blood for an aide.’

‘I tried several. Clansmen are better at fighting than administration, perhaps. None of them was up to muster.’

‘I’m sure I could find you a suitable-’

‘Thank you, uncle, no. I’m satisfied with Meakin. Best adjutant I’ve ever had. So far I’ve not regretted taking him from the army.’

‘The army? He’s a Bhealfan?’

‘Yes. And why not? Should I question his origins when we have no state to boast of at all?’

‘He isn’t a paladin born. We don’t usually allow outsiders such familiarity, you know that.’

‘There’s a limit to the licence I grant him. Be assured I know what I’m doing, uncle.’

Ivak smiled. ‘It’s good to see your old spirit returning. You’re healing well, getting stronger. And I’m delighted, of course I am, but…’

‘But?’

‘I’m worried that you might do something foolish to even yourself with Caldason.’

‘

Even

myself? I should better him, at least. Annihilate him, for preference. After the hurt and humiliation he subjected me to, not to mention the affront to the honour of the clans-’

‘I know, I know. And I share your hunger for revenge. When he came out best from his engagement with you-’

‘I think you’ll find, uncle,’ Devlor replied frostily, ‘that it was the wagon crashing that prevented me from finishing him. Besides, he caught me on the raw.’

‘Of course, and he’ll pay for it. Dearly. But you’re aware that certain rules apply to our dealings with the man.’

‘Not that you’ve ever explained them to me, or why we should adhere to them.’

‘All you need to know at this stage is that they’re rules we can’t change, and that breaking them could be very detri

mental to clan influence. I wouldn’t like to think you’d imperil our standing with higher authority because of an obsession with the Qalochian.’