of Bahl; he is older and more powerful than even our Lord. It's said that he is a messenger of the Gods. You should have sent the boy with him, rather than cross him.'
The wagoner belched his opinion of the storyteller. 'Perhaps, but I don't believe that my son has any destiny except to cause me trouble and carry cloth for the rest of his life. He's no good for anything else, that's for sure – can't take orders that don't come with a whip, so not even the Swordmasters will want him. At least the scroll your daemon wanted to give the boy will fetch a few coins, though less than he has cost me over the years, more's the pity.'
'I still say he wanted nothing good with that boy,' a voice broke in. Bahl turned to look towards the new speaker, but kept from meeting his gaze. The man wore white on his collar and Bahl had no wish to be recognised yet.
'Carel, Nyphal is not watching over the boy, so keep your fool mouth shut,' replied the wagoner. Bahl assumed they were good friends for no one spoke to a former guardsman like that, no matter how silver his hair might be, unless they were close.
'What did the scroll say?' someone called out.
'Can't open the damn thing. Carel here reckons it's magical, that
only the boy can read it, but the lanky bastard won't touch it. There are some symbols on the outside, but what they mean, Death only knows.' He belched again and sat back as he felt the beer rising in his throat, then wiped his cracked lips while looking expectantly at the
crowd.
After a few moments Bahl signalled the bartender to give him another. 'And what price for the scroll?' he enquired. This way was worth trying first.
'To you? More than you could afford. I have enough trouble with my son; the thought of having to deal with another white-eye makes me more than thirsty.' The man glanced over to his friend, the former Ghost, and Bahl saw he was flanked by four armed men, no doubt wagon-train guards.
A bulky mercenary sitting off to the left chuckled, and eyed Bahl's fine armour with the smile of a thief. With a nod to his companions he stood. His thick jaw marked him a half-breed: Farlan mixed with one of the nomadic peoples, maybe. The Farlan were an elitist people, but even those regarded as inferior stock could look down on a white-eye.
'Perhaps you should buy us all drinks, white-eye. Or donate those fine gold rings at your waist. Very exclusive tavern this is; not just anyone drinks here – not unless they're stupid, or willing to pay for us all.'
Bahl looked down and realised his cloak was open enough to show the dragon-belt at his waist. Four thick gold rings hung from it, worth far more than their weight. The man couldn't take his eyes off them; his stubby fingers stroked the hilt of his dagger. Before anyone could blink, Bahl had drawn his broadsword and levelled it at the man's throat. Crackling threads of light danced up and down the five-foot-long blade before fading to nothing around Bahl's glove.
The mercenary looked deep into Bahl's colourless eyes and utter panic showed on his face. A bolt of lightning leapt from the blade and the mercenary spun in the air as it threw him backwards. He hit the edge of a table and crashed down on the floor. Sparks and tongues of flame danced around the room so ferociously that even the fires and lamps shrank back in fear.
No one else moved. They all averted their eyes, desperate not to be next to attract Bahl’s attention. Bahl's free hand bunched into a fist, and he sought to compose himself. Tonight more than ever, his rage was close to the surface; it felt like a red mist of violence lurking at the edges of his vision. He drove it back down, and as he calmed himself he noticed how the new odours of burnt flesh and urine cut through the air.
'I will take the scroll now.'
The cowering wagoner scrabbled it out of his bag, dropped it, picked it up again and gave it to Bahl, retreating hurriedly back to his seat. The giant looked at the scroll in silence, a puzzled expression on his face, and then passed his hand over it, muttering wordlessly.
'Lord Bahl,' said a voice. Bahl turned to see the Ghost – Carel? – down on one knee, eyes on the ground.
'My Lord, I would swear on the name of the Palace Guard that Aracnan meant to kill the youth. It was the sight of Nyphal that held him back.'
Bahl nodded, to himself more than anyone else. It was true only the youth would have been able to open the scroll, and probably fortunate that his instincts had stopped him, though it wasn't intended to kill. He tucked it into his belt. The College of Magic would no doubt enjoy prising its secrets apart.
'Bring the boy to the palace. I will take him off your hands.' The offer surprised him as much as the wagoner.
Abruptly Bahl froze, like a dog catching a scent on the wind. The tavern and its occupants faded from his awareness and instead he felt the city around him, stone houses and damp streets and gutters clogged with rubbish, and a mind like his own. Aracnan.
He sheathed his broadsword and made for the door. As he pulled it open, the sensation grew stronger. Aracnan was on a rooftop ahead, masked by shadows. Somehow he'd been able to conceal himself from Bahl until now, perhaps just to prove he was more skilled in magic than Bahl would ever be.
The Duke of Tirah stepped out and pulled the door closed behind him. He took a moment to check for curious faces, then, when he was certain he was alone, he walked left to an alley until he was out of sight of the tavern. Then he waited.
'Surprised, my Lord?'
Bahl hadn't even seen the mercenary cross the rooftops to reach him
It was disconcerting that Aracnan could get around him so easily.
'Impressed. But also curious. You've never needed to hide yourself
in Tirah before.'
'Times, it seems, are changing. Someone doesn't want me in this 'tv so I shall be brief. It was hard enough to find you without inviting another attack.'
'Attack?'
That is my problem. Your beloved city is safe. What I came to tell you is that the boy is to be your Krann. I was told to bring him to the palace, but he would not come.'
'My Krann… So that's what the Siblis had sensed; they were following the call of his gifts. And the tavern, did you encourage me to go there?'
'I did, but only gently. You'd have noticed if I'd had any ill intent
towards you.'
Bahl paused, about to speak, then shrugged and returned to more important matters. The boy refused? How is that possible?'
'With this one there'll be no simple answers. The boy's trouble, but now he is
Isak stumbled on down the street, stubbing his toe on the cobbles, but there was no chance of a rest. He'd been drifting off to sleep in the warmth of the stables, soothed by the comfortable sighing of horses, when the door had burst open and his father appeared, his face contorted into a mask of terror and rage.
'You've done it now,' Herman screamed, 'and you'll get what's coming to you, white-eye bastard! Soon I'll be rid of all your trouble at last. You're going to the palace, and I hope you rot there!'
Before Isak had been able to say a word, a mob of drunken men had set upon him with drink-fuelled passion, and with so many of them, there had been no chance of fighting back. Instead, Isak took a deep breath and forced his way out through them, then took to his heels
and ran, not caring where he was headed. The cobbles were painful against his bare feet so he turned into the nearest alley and hopped the fence at the end, picking a direction at random. His mind was racing:
he’d received; they were going to kill him if they caught him. Isak had to escape – or find a patrol – so he headed for where most of the towers were situated, where the rich folk must live. There'd be guards there, surely. Soon he found himself on the long avenue leading up to the palace. The moons escaped the clouds for a moment and shone down on to the smooth walls and the Tower of Semar, which loomed out from behind them.
