It was unlike his nephew to play stupid tricks on him. He felt there had to be some kind of mistake. Perhaps Devlor had accidentally given him the wrong envelope. But why he should be carrying around a sealed envelope containing a blank sheet of paper was beyond Ivak’s understanding. There was nothing for it but to go back downstairs and get it sorted out.

As he rose from his chair he heard a faint noise behind him, and started to turn.

He almost managed it.

Downstairs, Devlor was finishing an elaborate tale about a paladin campaign from a century before when Meakin appeared at his shoulder and politely coughed.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s almost midnight, sir.’

‘Nearly time to toast our guest. Uncle’s the one for that.’ He looked about the room. ‘Where is he?’

‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea, sir.’

‘Ah, I remember. He said he was going up to his study. Probably engrossed in some paperwork or something and forgot about his guests. That’d be typical of Uncle Ivak.’

‘Would you like me to go for him, sir?’

‘No, don’t worry yourself, Meakin. I’ll pop up there myself.

You all keep yourselves amused,’ he told the guests, ‘charge your glasses, and I’ll be back down with him in a minute.’ He headed for the stairs, walking casually and exchanging smiles with everyone he passed.

When he got to the first landing, and was sure he couldn’t be seen, he flew up the steps two at a time. Arriving at the study door he rapped on it and called his uncle’s name, just to be sure the meld had done her job. There was no reply so he got out his spare key and let himself in.

Kordenza

had

done her job, and a thorough one at that. His uncle was slumped over his desk. He had multiple stab wounds in his back and there was blood everywhere. There was no question that he was dead. Devlor went over, snatched the envelope and blank sheet of vellum, which were speckled with crimson, and stuffed them in his pocket.

Items of furniture had been overturned, and various bits of bric-a-brac were scattered around. The meld had made it look as though there had been a fight, as instructed. He moved to the alcove, where the curtain had been left open, and saw that the door beyond was smashed. Way down at the bottom of the back stairs lay the body of the guard. So far, so good.

Now it was his turn, and there was no time to waste. He unsheathed the ceremonial sword he wore, and which he’d had sharpened to a razor keenness the day before. Steeling himself, he ran it swiftly across the outside of his left thigh, cutting through uniform fabric and skin. Blood began to flow. Changing hands, he did the same with his right arm. Then he gulped a breath, raised the blade to his cheek and slashed it. Not deep enough to leave a scar, but sufficient to draw blood copiously. He was proud of not crying out when he did it.

After a quick look around to make sure everything seemed right, he ran to the door.

‘Murder!’

he yelled from the landing.

‘Help! Murder! Call out the guard!’

Within seconds there was a thunderous sound on the stairs as a mob ascended.

He slumped against the doorframe, sword dangling from his fingers, blood dripping from his wounds and streaming down his face.

Meakin appeared, with Laffon close behind. Following them came a mix of guests and paladins, weapons drawn.

‘Sir!’

his aide exclaimed. ‘What happened?’

‘Murder,’ Devlor croaked, letting the sword fall from his grasp. ‘In there. Murder.’

Laffon plunged into the study, three paladins at his heels.

Meakin stayed with his master. ‘You’re hurt, sir. Let me see.’

‘I don’t…think it’s…too…bad.’

‘Let’s get you sat down, sir.’ He steered Devlor to a high-backed chair standing against the landing wall, and carefully began tearing the cloth away to expose the wounds.

Laffon reappeared. ‘What happened?’

‘When I…got up here, the door was…locked. No…reply. Fortunately I had a key. Found…Uncle Ivak.’

‘Take it easy, sir,’ Meakin said.

‘No. Must…catch him.’

‘Who?’ Laffon asked. A number of shocked, white faces were staring down at Devlor now.

‘We fought. I got in…a couple of…blows, I think. But he…took me…unawares. Must go…after him.’

‘Three men have just gone down those back stairs in pursuit,’ Laffon told him. ‘And it looks like there’s another dead man at the bottom of them.’

‘The…guard. Poor devil.’

‘But who

was

it, Bastorran? Who did this?’

‘Caldason. The outlaw…Reeth Caldason.’

‘He did this?’

‘Yes, and nearly did for…me, too.’

‘I don’t think these wounds are too serious, sir,’ Meakin reported, dabbing with a cloth. ‘Lots of blood, but not too deep, thank the gods.’

‘I’ll be…all right. Just a…shock.’

‘Was he alone?’ Laffon said.

‘Far as I could…tell, yes.’ Bastorran’s breathing was more regular, and a little colour was coming back to his cheeks.

‘Funny thing, someone battering their way in like that. You’d think your uncle would have been alerted and put up a fight, or raised the alarm.’

‘Perhaps Caldason did have somebody…with him. But I only…saw him.’

‘Well, it’s a damn audacious thing to do.’

‘That’s what these people…are, Commissioner. Brazen. Reckless. And they’ve taken my…uncle, the bastards.’

‘If this just happened, hopefully they haven’t got far. We could catch them yet.’

‘You know what this…is about, don’t you, Laffon? Rukanis. It’s revenge for that damn

traitor

.’

‘The timing certainly seems indicative.’ He stared at him. ‘You sure you’re going to be all right?’

‘I’ll be fine. I’ve taken worse knocks than this.’ He was calming. ‘But suppose this is part of a…general uprising? The first blow of many?’

‘I suppose we should be alive to that possibility. You’re the Clan High Chief now, Bastorran. What do you want to do?’

‘Come down hard on them.

Really

hard. Make them pay. Do I have your backing?’

Laffon glanced at the open study door. ‘You do.’

Somewhere outside, a bell was chiming midnight.

At dawn the following morning a number of covered wagons converged from different directions on a hidden cove on Bhealfa’s south-eastern coast. Their journeys had been risky, both in terms of what the wagons carried and because they’d had to defy the curfew to arrive so early. But sound planning and good luck served them well, and they made their rendezvous without incident.

Resistance planners had been working for years on the logistics of moving thousands of people and all manner of cargo from diverse parts of Bhealfa to the new island state. Having six wagons reach the same patch of seashore at approximately the same time was child’s play by comparison. So it was that they all rode onto the beach within a space of less than a quarter of an hour.

A ship was anchored not far offshore. The sea was choppy and the vessel rolled slightly as it breasted the foam-flecked waves. In the grey sky, dark rain clouds were forming, and clumps of grass on the edges of the sandy beach were flattened by a brisk wind.

Caldason, Serrah and Kutch disembarked from various of the wagons, along with most of the three-score strong band

of Resistance fighters Reeth captained. They were met by the ship’s skipper and a handful of his crew, who’d ferried themselves across in a large rowboat.

The last wagon to arrive bore Quinn Disgleirio and the remainder of the band.

He hurried to the others. ‘Have you heard the news?’

‘What news?’ Serrah said.

‘We’ve been travelling all night without a stop,’ Caldason explained.

‘Well, we

had

to stop,’ Disgleirio told them. ‘Nearly lost a wheel about halfway here, not far from a village. They’d even heard about it there.’