chambers, then left, with the news that Lord Dunstany would be arriving presently.
Not twenty minutes later, Lord Dunstany arrived with his travelling bags and, after going to his chambers, sent for Fyn to welcome him. Fyn was there in the background as one of Lord Dunstany's spies reported that Isolt and her maid had been seen disembarking that morning. They had been escorted to Duke Palatyne's mansion and, as yet, had not come out. Meanwhile, the captured Rolencian king had been hanging in the square outside the palace for several days now, and the spy had arranged for food to reach him once a day.
'But they doubled the guards, after someone was caught talking to him during the night.' The plump middle- aged man, who looked like a friendly baker, sniffed in disapproval. 'That person made it much harder for us to reach him.'
'Who was it?'
'Had to be one of King Byren's supporters. The local people hate him. Palatyne has them convinced he hid while his family were killed, then tried to take the crown for himself.'
Fyn stiffened, but said nothing.
Lord Dunstany thanked the spy, then dismissed him and stared out the window at the Landlocked Sea, which sparkled under the midday sun.
Even though Fyn knew Lord Dunstany was Tyro, a youth not much older than Byren, the greying hair and dignified bearing made Fyn instinctively treat Dunstany with the respect due a grandfather. And he caught himself waiting for Lord Dunstany to speak.
Reminding himself, yet again, that it was only Tyro, Fyn paced. Byren was safe for the moment. It was Isolt he worried about. 'If only I could get inside Palatyne's mansion.'
Dunstany pulled a bag out from under his desk and tossed it to Fyn. 'With the contents of this bag you can go anywhere.'
Fyn caught it eagerly, opened the drawstring and sniffed. 'Grease paint?'
'Player's make-up, but we can disguise the smell. From candle maker to tanner, every trade has a smell.'
'Then I can get into Palatyne's mansion, but how will I get Isolt and Piro out again?'
'He will bring them out and deliver them to us. I have spies in the palace. This morning I want you to reach your brother.'
'Right. I'll free him and — '
'No. Give him food and water. We'll free him when the moment is ripe.'
'Why not now?'
Tyro studied him. Fyn tried to see the mage's agent, behind Lord Dunstany's disguise, but failed. 'Do you trust me, Fyn?'
That was a difficult question. It was not in Fyn's nature to lie. 'To a certain extent.'
Tyro smiled grimly. 'Then trust me on this. It is not enough to free your brother. Palatyne has convinced the people that Byren is a coward. To defeat Palatyne, we must restore Byren's reputation and win over the people of Merofynia.'
Byren's stomach rumbled. Since Orrade came two nights ago, the guard had been doubled and only one food parcel had reached him. He longed for a wash, a shave and a change of clothes. Above him bees hummed, busy in the flowers of the linden tree. The blossoms' scent made the air fragrant and reminded him that summer's cusp was drawing close.
Over near the fountain, the guards chattered and laughed, their voices a fraction too loud. From the market beyond the wall, Byren registered a subtle change of tone, a suppressed excitement mingled with bravado. He pressed against the bars of his cage, trying to make out individual words from the marketplace. Could Orrade be making his move?
'Ready for your bath?' Three guards approached with buckets of ice-cold water. 'After all, we don't want you stinking up the palace courtyard.'
As they tossed the first bucket of water over him, Byren opened his mouth to get a gulp of fresh water. It was so cold he gasped.
'Not with the kingsdaughter due back today,' the next guard said, as a second bucket hit Byren full in the face. 'Can't have your stench offending her pretty nose.'
Byren flicked water from his hair and eyes.
'Rescued her, Palatyne did, all the way from Ostron Isle. Bet those merchants didn't know what hit them!' The third bucket sluiced over him and the guards marched off, their duty done.
Byren shivered, creeping to the far corner of the cage where a patch of sunlight filtered through the tree's canopy. The dappled spring sun hardly warmed him. But now he understood why the market bubbled with repressed excitement, and why the guards were so edgy.
Soon he would see the young woman Lence had been betrothed to, the young woman who, despite anything Palatyne might say, was legally betrothed to him. She would ride by in a gilt carriage, while he hung in a cage. If he was lucky, she probably wouldn't even look at him.
Dressed as a beggar, wearing a moth-eaten wig, Fyn limped through the crowd, leaning heavily on a staff. People jostled him, eager to see Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter pass by. They spoke of how she had been rescued by Duke Palatyne, who swore revenge on the wicked mage and arrogant elector for this insult to Merofynia.
If Palatyne was planning to invade Ostron Isle, as Tyro had suggested, he had primed the people well.
Mingling with the crowd, Fyn worked his way into the courtyard, where Byren's cage was suspended from the branches of a huge linden tree. A long avenue of these trees led across the courtyard to the palace steps.
Bored with waiting, people had gathered around the cage, throwing rubbish through the bars. Guards looked on, enjoying the sport. Byren huddled in the far corner, shielding his face. His clothes were tattered, his hair in tangles, his face half-hidden by a beard. He seemed utterly beaten and dejected.
But he was alive, and Fyn's heart leapt with fierce joy. While the Merofynians taunted Byren, he kept his eyes down, waiting for the right moment.
'She comes!' someone cried. 'The kingsdaughter comes!'
The crowd rushed to see, including Byren's tormentors. For a few moments the guards were also distracted. Fyn drew out food and a water-skin from under his rags. Before he could approach, another beggar pulled a knife from his rags and rushed towards the cage. Fyn intercepted him, grabbing the knife, twisting his wrist, and only just preventing himself from breaking the assassin's wrist as he recognised Orrade.
'Orrie?'
'Orrie?' Byren echoed, having come to the very edge of the cage. 'And Fyn?'
All the while, people cheered and called out to the Merofynian kingsdaughter. Fyn released Orrade and helped him to his feet. 'I thought — '
'I came to free Byren.'
'We can't — '
'Fyn, I thought you dead.' Byren's eyes gleamed with unshed tears and he reached through the cage to catch Fyn's arm, pulling him into a hug.
Fyn thrust the food in through the bars. 'Take this.'
Byren accepted the food. Meanwhile, Orrade put his knife to the cage lock, trying to pry it open.
Fyn glanced over his shoulder. Any moment now, the guard could look this way. 'Put the knife away, Orrie.'
'Not on your life. I'm setting Byren free. I may not have another chance.'
'We can't free him yet. It must be done right.' Fyn saw Orrade did not understand. 'If we free Byren now, the people of Merofynia will always believe him a coward.'
Orrade stiffened. 'I've heard what they're saying. It's not true.'
'I know. But it is what they believe. There's a better way,' Fyn said, hoping Tyro would prove him right. He was very aware of Byren's gaze on his face, weighing what he'd said. 'Trust me.'
'What better way?' Orrade asked.
Fyn hesitated.
'I'm ready,' Byren said. 'I'm stronger than I've made out. Someone's been slipping me food — '
'I know,' Fyn said. 'That's Lord Dunstany's doing. I'm working with him to free you. But not just yet. It must be done in such a way that it clears your name.'
