After a long pause, he said gruffly, 'Well, we'd better not keep Lord Bahl waiting.'
Amanas nodded and rose to lead his guest to the library, a dark room panelled in old oak, with scroll-holes down the left-hand side and two rows of reading shelves on the right. A number of lecterns stood in the centre. Some huge books, obviously valuable, were chained to the reading shelves, but the Ke/master ignored these and instead shuffled along to the door at the far end which opened into something that looked like a jeweller's strong- room.
Once Amanas had unlocked it and retrieved a lamp from one of the lecterns, the guardsman could see neat piles of paper on the narrow shelves that lined the cabby – and on one shelf, something large, wrapped in some sort of dark cloth.
Amanas moved some of tie papers out of the way and reverentially withdrew the object. He leaked over his shoulder and glared at the guardsman. 'Do you know why two of your comrades stand guard outside my office door?'
'No, sir, only that Chief Steward Lesarl ordered it.'
'Ah yes, the Chief Steward; a man of remarkable insight. This library is more precious thar most people realise. It was all I could do to keep it from being moved to the palace or Cold Halls once Lesarl realised that. Our nobility is a
'Even the Dukes of Perlir and Merlat travel to Tirah to present their heirs to me; they all understand the need for such a tradition, and it has become a rite of passage nowadays. I suspect white-eyes have less of a care for such things though, hence my summons.'
Gathering up the corners of the material, Amanas balanced it precariously in the crook of his arm while he wrestled with the lock. When the guardsman offered to help he gave the man a grim look in reply and struggled on by himself, careful not to expose any part of the object to the man's view.
He hugged it protectively to himself as they walked down the street side by side. The Heraldic Library was in the oldest district of the city, surrounded by the tall, ancient buildings where the oldest families lived and the richer dukes and suzerains had their – now much-neglected – court residences.
Cutting through the merchants' quarter took the pair on to Hunter's Ride, the road that ran from the river to intersect Palace Walk where it began its gentle climb towards Tirah Palace. The day was wet and dull; a scattering of early snow had briefly clothed the city in white, but it was too warm for the flakes to settle. Many of the innumerable statues that lined the city streets were crying tears of melted snow, which struck the Keymaster as a poor omen.
It was market day in Irienn Square up ahead so the guard nudged Amanas right, down Hunter's Ride, and the noise and bustle of the docks fell away behind them. Folk kept a respectful distance, standing aside to let them past, and one woman with a basketful of eels afforded Amanas a sympathetic look, assuming the worst.
Everyone was out today, going about the ten thousand different tasks that keep any city running smoothly. A portly man stamped heavily down the other side of the street from them; the thick gold chain around the man's neck and clerks scuttling in his wake marked him as a successful merchant.
Then Amanas caught sight of a gutter-runner moving along the edge of the tiled roof high above the merchant's head. Like all those who lived above ground, he was dressed only in rags and had little meat on his bones. They were scavengers who used the network of
rooftops to travel quickly across the city. People often used them as the quickest way to get important information to its destination. The gutter-runners had a fierce code of honesty that ensured they were tolerated – even somewhat fondly – by Tirah's citizens. It was perfectly possible that the merchant was the child's employer that
morning.
Amanas and his escort were waved through the barbican gate by the pikemen flanking it. When they emerged back into the daylight, Amanas hissed in irritation at the mud caking his boots. He insisted on stopping to scrape off the worst of it before he was ready to labour his way up the open stairs to the Great Hall.
Finally he stepped over the threshold, squinting, and for a brief moment he felt like a fish out of water; foolish and delicate in a world that was not his own. He could hear the laughter of men ringing in his ears. He had dreamed of this scene several weeks past, and though dreams themselves usually meant nothing, dreams of the Chosen before they come to power were different: they spoke of the Gods. He remembered her emerald gaze – eyes that could pierce the darkest recesses of the soul. He knew of only one Goddess whose eyes were green, and Fate was not a patient mistress.
The Keymaster tightened his grip and entered the hall. It was years since Amanas had last come here, and in the intervening period it had hardly changed: it was still a dark and smelly army mess, lacking even the meagre dignity one might hope for in an elite legion. Groups of men were clumped around the two rows of tables that led up to the high table at the far end. Even that was hardly grander than the others, just a little longer and set on a raised platform.
Amanas moved into the centre of the room and paused briefly to look around at the fading heraldry and flags that hung from the root beams. Then he advanced a little further until Lord Bahl looked up-He stopped and waited to be addressed, but the old white-eye did nothing more than tap the young man beside him and return to his conversation with Chief Steward Lesarl.
The youth was clearly the new suzerain, a white-eye who towered over Amanas when he stood, but still conceded both height and weight to the Duke of Tirah. The Krann stared at the Keymaster tor a few moments, then stabbed his eating dagger into the table top and walked around the table to reach the man, licking his fingers as he did. Amanas gave a short bow, cut short as his eyes reached the sword
at Isak's hip. Wnen he saiw that he gave a slight sqawk, prompting a smile to-appear on the Krrann's face.
'Something wrong?'
'Certainly, my Lord Suzerain; that sword that you are wearing is not your sword.'
'So?'
'So it belong to the Klnight-Defender of Tirah and should only be worn by him.'
The Krann looked back towards the high table in confusion. 'I thought it beloiged to Kerin? He's the one who lent it to me'
Amanas winced at the informality. 'Swordmaster Kerin is the Knight-Defender of Tirahi – that is the full title of the man who commands the Swordmasters…'
'I still don't understand.'
The question in Lord Isak's voice attracted Lesarl’s attention.The Chief Steward spoke up before Amanas could reply. ‘He means, my Lord, that it's a gross breach of protocol to wear a ceremonial weapon belonging to arother man.'
'Kerin didn't seem to mind,' Isak countered sharply.
'Unlike some present,' replied the Chief Steward, gesturing to the newcomer.
'Enough. Argue when you're elsewhere.' Bahl didn’t look up, but gestured for Lesarl to continue their conversation.
'Well,' continued Isak after a careful pause, 'if you have nothing more to criticise about my attire, Lord Bahl said you needed to speak to me about my crest.'
'Normally, yes my Lord Suzerain. In this case, however, it will not be necessary.' With a flourish, Amanas slipped the covering from the shield and held it up to the light.
A gasp ran sound the; room as the Keymaster held up a polished silver teardrop shield and turned almost a full circle to show everyone present Isak's crest embossed in gold.
Isak gaped at the shield. It was the work of a jeweler rather than a blacksrnith. Even in the faint light, the glitter of the gold momentarily dazzled him. It took him a while to properly take in the image on the shield itself, the crest that he would wear on his clothes for the rest of his life and would fly from his banners when he rode to war.
