The stormcaller

coming from within. This was a poor district nowadays; the warehouses and workshops meant few people actually lived here. The patrons of the tavern would be labourers and wagon-drivers, men without homes who followed the work. They were always amongst the first to hear news from abroad.

He eyed the drab, graceless tavern. It backed up against a larger

building and faced into a crossroads, a good position even in this mean

quarter of the city. A statue stood at the centre of the crossroads, prob-

ably for no reason other than that there was space. Bahl wondered

how many men these days would recognise that the statue before him

was a monument to Veriole Farlan, the first king of their tribe. How

many would truly care? The city was covered in statues of lords and Cods as well as scowling faces said to ward off evil spirits. Though there were very few creatures like the gargoyle watching the people below, the city's grim and ancient grandeur meant tales persisted.

Taken by a sudden thirst for beer and cheerful voices on such a dismal night, Bahl drifted towards the tavern, changing his appearance as he did so. He felt the clammy night air on his scalp as he pulled off the close-fitting silk mask he wore. A simple glamour gave him dark hair with three copper-bound plaits. No magic could alter the colour of his eyes, but a mercenary white-eye would probably be ignored. Lifting the hem of his cloak, Bahl gave it a quick violent twitch; when it fell back to touch his calves it was a dull green – only the rich wore white cloaks. The simple enchantments left behind a familiar rushing tingle, a seductive reminder of how little he used his prodigious skills.

The combination of age and dirt obscured whatever picture adorned the sign that moved stiffly in the night air, but if Bahl's memory served correctly, this was The Hood and Cape. At least it was not one of the many taverns in Tirah that liked to have his head swinging in the breeze. The tavern was dingy, but light shone merrily enough through the window, an invitation to passers-by to leave the chill open air. Bahl didn't think the welcome would extend to him, but he thumbed the latch and pulled open the door anyway.

Pipe smoke tickled at his eyes as he ducked through the doorway into a large room illuminated by two fires and several oil lamps. Rough tables stood in no real order and the ground was sticky with spilt beer and mud. A short bar opposite the door was manned by a drowsy man who had a paunch fitting to a barkeep and a scowl for the new arrival.

A man of about fifty summers sitting by the fire was apparently the centre of attention in the room. Rather dirty, with unkempt hair and his right leg resting on a stool, he was obviously in the middle of regaling his audience with a story, something about an encounter on the road to the Circle City. The tall white-eye kept his head bowed as he crossed over to the bar. He picked up the tankard of beer that was placed wordlessly before him and dropped a silver coin in return. The barkeep frowned at the coin for a moment, then swept it up and went in search of change.

Bahl hunched down over the bar, leaning heavily on his elbows to make his great height less obvious and facing away from the focus of the room. When the barkeep returned with his change, a motley collection of copper pieces, Bahl gave the man a nod and found a bench on the furthest side of the room from the storyteller. There he could sit and listen in peace.

Bahl almost laughed at himself. Here he was, sitting and sipping at his beer – surprisingly good for such an establishment – but what was he doing? Sitting alone in a tavern in one of the city's less salubrious districts, scarcely half an hour's walk from his palace – perhaps he'd finally gone mad? Then he heard his own name mentioned by the storyteller, and Aracnan's, and every nerve in his body came alive. He'd not been paying the man much attention, so all he caught was that Aracnan had demanded to speak to the teller's son. Now why would that be?

He sipped the beer, no longer tasting it. There was something in the air that disquieted him: first the seeker, following his death to Tirah, then the casual mention of Aracnan. Bahl could almost see a thread weaving its way through the streets, snagging on his shoulder and drawing him into its web. It was a string of unlikely or inexplicable events… some agency was at work here.

The man holding court claimed that he had seen the mercenary slipping into the palace when he had been a member of the cavalry there. Then, with a self-important ring to his voice, he added that he had been told to forget the whole incident by the Chief Steward himself when he raised the matter with him.

Bahl wrinkled his nose, unconvinced. He doubted even the most alert guard could notice Aracnan's passage if Aracnan didn't wish to be seen, and his Chief Steward tended to threaten his subordinates in a more direct fashion. It was strange to hear the storyteller use Aracnan's name, though: Bahl had been acquainted with Aracnan for more than a hundred years, yet he knew almost nothing about the man. Even the rumour that Aracnan had been the one to teach Kasi Farlan, the first white-eye and last of King Veriole's line, how to use a sword was unconfirmed. That was before the Great War, seven

thousand years ago. Bahl could believe it. Immortals kept their secrets close, and no mortal had eyes like Aracnan's.

The little Bahl had picked up about this current story was enough for him to want to meet the boy Aracnan had apparently wanted to talk to. Aracnan had his own agenda, but sometimes he was commanded by the Gods themselves; whatever his purpose, it was always worth investigating his actions.

An old man sitting by the fireside coughed obviously. Bahl guessed he was the usual storyteller in this tavern, and had not taken kindly to some dirty wagoner taking centre stage. A love of stories and mysteries was at the heart of Farlan culture: a Farlan liked nothing so much as to tell all manner of grand tales, washed down with a drink or four. It was a poor tavern indeed that couldn't afford a resident storyteller to entertain the customers.

The elderly man smoothed his beard and shuffled in his seat as he played his audience. Bahl smiled inwardly; Aracnan's greatest feats were known to only a handful of people, and there might well be even greater exploits that had gone completely unnoticed by history.

'Aracnan is as mysterious as the Gods themselves,' the old man began, his voice pitched low to make his audience listen the more closely. 'Some say he fought at the Last Battle. Perhaps he is one of the cursed Vukotic family.'

He paused, allowing a mutter to pass around the room as men frowned and gestured and murmured incantations under their breath, invoking protections against the cursed. Superstitious fools, Bahl thought to himself, only daemons are attracted by speaking their name.

The old man cleared his throat again, regaining his audience's attention. 'Maybe he's a daemon that wanders the Land. Nothing is known for sure, except that he appears without warning, often just before a battle. He commands his own fee and takes no argument. Do you remember the late Duke Helrect?'

I he one who killed his wife and became a monk?' asked one of the more vocal listeners.

I he storyteller nodded gravely. 'He did become a monk, but I heard rom the Captain of the Guard there a darker tale. It was rumoured

at his wife was a sorceress who consorted with daemons and wanted

enslave the city. The duke's mage tried to denounce her, but she struck him down before he could reach the palace.'

Bahl grimaced at that. The woman had been ambitious, true enough, but hardly a creature of evil. The mage had been more than a match for her mean abilities, just not impervious to arrows. He said nothing. Stories had a life of their own. Sometimes in a land of magic there were forces that changed even truth. He turned his attention back to the old man, who was imbuing the story with high emotion now.

'Then she barricaded herself in her tower, and any man who neared it fell dead. The captain told me that he was taking counsel with the duke when, despite the locked doors, a daemon appeared in the chamber – to kill them all, or so they thought. The daemon named himself Aracnan, and said he had been sent to their aid. He told the duke to enter the tower at first light – and then he was gone. The duke broke down the tower doors at dawn and found his wife, torn into a thousand pieces, and all of those pieces scattered over the room.'

The storyteller paused with a theatrical shudder. The duke went to offer thanks at the Temple of Death and was told by the priests that the price of their master's aid was that he must renounce his title and become a monk.'

He turned back to the wagoner and addressed him directly: 'You're wrong. Aracnan doesn't work as an agent