contact with Inurian’s history. Now, nothing was so simple.
“There’s one more thing you should know before you decide,” Yvane said. She nodded to Bannain. He leaned forwards a little.
“A surprise to me. I thought nothing of it, until talking with Yvane today. This woman — Eshenna — at Highfast, who knew Aeglyss all those years ago. She has mentioned someone else, also from Dyrkyrnon; has told the Council that there is some… some bond between Aeglyss and a woman named K’rina.”
Orisian recognised the name instantly. It was the name that Yvane had teased out of the Shared, when she had struggled with Aeglyss.
“I don’t know whether it has any significance, but Eshenna, just the day before I left Highfast, was claiming that this woman K’rina was… moving. And rumours have reached us — faint, unreliable little rumours — that there are White Owl bands on the move too, in the western reaches of Anlane,” said Bannain.
Orisian looked to Yvane. She shrugged and raised her eyebrows.
“I don’t know. I’ve dug up as many answers as I can. Something’s happening. What, I can’t say. Perhaps Highfast can tell us.”
“Is there a road from Highfast to Kolglas?” Orisian asked Bannain.
Bannain pursed his lips. “To call it a road might be to elevate it beyond its true worth,” he said. “But there’s a track — a good one — to Hent, and thence to the coast road at Hommen.”
Orisian nodded. He wondered briefly, as he had done more than once in the last few days, what Croesan or Naradin, Kennet or Fariel would do. Any of those who should have been Thane before him, but for the blind savagery of chance and misfortune. Inurian would have chided him for letting such distractions intrude, he knew. Anyara might too, if she could see what thoughts murmured inside his head. And they were right enough. For good or ill, the decisions were his to make. Nothing, and no one, could relieve him of that.
The air inside the warehouse was laden with aromas: spice and fur, oil and timber all ran together to make the darkness heavy with strangeness. The roof timbers creaked in the night wind. Somewhere up there, in the shadowed intricacies of the beams and planking, there was the chatter of rats’ claws.
Ammen Sharp cupped his hand around the tiny flame of a candle. The two men on watch outside had warned him not to make any light in here, fearful of a fire that could consume the whole building, but it was too dark and unfamiliar a place for him without it. He crept amongst the great towers of boxes and bundles, exploring the unearthly landscape of this treasure house. There were clay jars almost as tall as he was, their stoppers sealed with wax; crates stood one on top of another like cliffs; long rolls of fabric were piled up as if the trees of some soft forest had been harvested; strange powders and dusts covered the floor, releasing bursts of scent when his feet disturbed them.
For all his nervousness, Ammen found it exciting. Here, it seemed to him, was all the world, all its most distant and marvellous lands, collected together in this great stone ship of a building. Hidden away in here might be pots of carmine Nar Vay dyes, cloths from far-off Adravane, whale oils from the wave-lashed Bone Isles.
He clambered up over a mound of what he guessed were seal pelts, and onto a stack of crates. He squeezed into a space between two of them. He felt more secure now that he had a corner to call his own, hidden from view, and blew out the candle. He listened to the rats running, the faint knocking of anchored boats outside at the quay, the rattle of a loose shingle somewhere in the roof far above. He rested against one of the crates and imagined what it would be like on the road with his father, and in Skeil Anchor. People would know Ochan the Cook, he was sure. In the roadside inns and the fishing villages they would know Ochan, and they would see Ammen at his side and soon know him too.
A scraping sound disturbed his reverie. He shifted onto his knees and peered out over the bare expanse of stone floor towards the front of the warehouse. The little door by which the guards outside had let him in earlier was open once more, admitting a shaft of light from their lanterns. A thickset figure with a staff and a huge bag slung over his shoulders was stepping in. It was his father.
“Ammen,” hissed Ochan. “Ammen Sharp. Where are you, boy?”
“Here,” Ammen called, rising up and waving even though he was unsure whether his father would be able to see him.
“Quiet!” Ochan snapped. “Keep your voice down, you idiot.”
The door closed behind him, and the warehouse’s secretive gloom was restored. Ammen heard his father curse, and there was a thump as he dropped his bag to the ground.
“I can’t see a thing in here,” Ochan the Cook complained. “Have you got no light, boy?”
“They told me not to, but yes, I’ve got candles. I’ll light one.” He ducked down again, scrabbling about in search of the candle he had put out earlier. A splinter stabbed into one of his fingers and he gave a soft yelp.
“Oh, don’t bother,” Ochan muttered down below. “I’ll get a lantern from the watchmen.”
There was shouting then, and a sudden clatter of running feet.
Ammen sprang to his feet, but his father snapped, “Stay down, boy,” and he did as he was told.
He heard the door smash open once more, saw sudden bursts of torchlight rushing across the walls, careening through the roof beams, as men came in out of the night.
“What do you want here, you little…” he heard Ochan rasping.
“Hold your tongue,” came Urik’s sharp, agitated voice.
Ammen Sharp could not resist the temptation to poke his head around the edge of his sheltering crate. To his horror, he saw his father facing half a dozen men, the squat shape of Urik the Wardcaptain to the fore. They all carried the iron-banded cudgels of the Guard; three of them held torches, the flames stretching out and crackling in the wind from the open door. Wild shadows spun crazily around the warehouse.
“I’ll hold your tongue for you, if you come any closer,” Ochan said, and Ammen clearly heard the danger, the threat in the words.
“Be still,” cried Urik, raising his cudgel.
He sounded almost frantic to Ammen, on the verge of panic. This could not be what the Wardcaptain had wanted. He was surely too afraid of his own corruption being exposed to willingly allow Ochan to be cornered like this. Something must have gone wrong, Ammen thought as a cold, fearful anticipation ran through him.
“You’ve been followed half the day, Ochan Lyre,” Urik was saying. “Don’t think you can escape now.”
“Escape? Escape?” Ochan’s voice was rising, his anger with it. “And do they know about you, these thugs you’ve brought with you? Do they know-”
Urik howled and rushed forwards. Ochan was fast, though. He snapped the tip of his quarterstaff down and landed it square on Urik’s forehead, sending the stocky little man staggering. Had it only been the two of them there in the warehouse, there would have been no doubt about the victor. But Urik was not alone. The other Guardsmen closed in on Ochan at once, cudgels flailing.
A cry lodged frozen in Ammen’s throat as he watched the blows rain down. He wanted to leap out of his hiding place and fly to his father’s aid, but his legs were locked as if his knees had rusted in place.
Ochan had gone down on his hands and knees. Urik stamped up to him, blood running in rivulets down his face.
“You bled me!” the Wardcaptain screeched. “You bled me!”
He hit Ochan once, hard, on the back of his head with his heavy iron-clad club. Ammen saw his father fall to the ground and knew in that instant, from the leaden slackness of his limbs, the wet limpness with which his head smacked onto the stone, that Ochan the Cook was dead.
The other Guardsmen restrained Urik, who was still shouting furiously. Ammen shrank back, trembling, into his little dark corner. He closed his eyes, held his hands to his face, pressing down on his mouth and the moans that were rising towards it. Lights were dancing inside his eyelids.
“Drag the body out,” he heard someone say far, far away. “We’ll get a wagon to take it.”
And then, soon, they were gone and the door had closed behind them. And Ammen Sharp was alone with the dark, and his horror.
VII
“Aewult will not be happy when Taim marches,” Lheanor oc Kilkry-Haig was saying softly. The Thane seldom
