couldn't remember her name; she was a friend of Tila's, the daughter of some local marshal. He knew Tila had told him – but he'd been told a lot since returning to Tirah.
'How is he?' he asked eventually.
'Still weak, my Lord.' Her voice reminded him of Tila's, less melodious, but with that same crisp intonation common to those of the landed gentry; it was traditional for the maids in the main wing to be drawn from the upper classes. 'Your father's injuries have not opened up again, and there's still no sign of infection.'
'But they're still not healing right?'
'No, my Lord.' She lowered her eyes, her hands clasped tightly together over her stomach.
'The priests of Shotir came again?'
'Yes, my Lord. Only one of them was crying when he left today.'
Isak forced a smile. 'So they're toughening up at least.' The smile faded. 'I might be calling on that soon enough. He's asleep?'
She nodded.
'Good. Please light the lamps and have the kitchen send something hot up, enough for several people.'
While she went about the lamps Isak looked in on his father. Horman lay on his back, his head turned towards the door. His face was half-obscured by his ragged hair. He had always slept in an awkward sprawl of limbs, but now he was constrained by bandages and was lying as though fighting them. The pungent smell of sweat hung in the air, for the heavy drapes covering the window to keep in the warmth also kept the air close and stale.
Guilt slithered down Isak's spine again. Horman's left hand had been amputated at the wrist and the wound refused to heal fully. His right elbow had been repaired after a fashion, and the old injury to his knee was only marginally worse, but it was the overall effect of a daemon's possession that had taken the greatest toll on his father's health. He had wasted away in the weeks following the fall of Scree until he looked as pale and weak as la corpse. The effort required for eating proved too much for him most days and he rarely managed more than a couple of mouthfuls.
'Is this how they'll all end up?' Isak muttered, 'all broken and beyond the help of healers? Maybe tonight's death-omen will be the saving of my friends.'
Outside the door he heard the sharp click of halberds on the stone floor: his guards were letting him know that a friend had arrived; anyone else would have warranted a verbal greeting. He shut the door to his father's room and rubbed his hands over his face to wake himself up.
'My Lord?' Tila said as she entered cautiously, Count Vesna at her elbow. Both were still in their formal clothes, although Tila had a thick woollen blanket draped over her layered grey silk dress now. She'd taken out the gold flower-head pins she'd used to put her hair up and the long dark tresses now spilled down to her waist.
'You were waiting up for me?'
'The guard on the gate let us know when you returned,' Tila said, coming into the room and casting a glance towards Horman's door.
'He's fine.' Isak could see she was itching to ask about where he'd been, but she understood her position within his inner circle. As Duke of Tirah, Isak's word was law, and they all had to adjust to that.
'My Lord?' Vesna echoed Tila, his eyes also fixed on the white-eye.
The maid caught the count's tone and, with a curtsey to Isak, hurried out without even waiting to catch Tila's eye. When the door was shut, Isak removed his tunic and Eolis before throwing a lew more logs onto the fire.
'Isak,' Vesna said, dropping the formality once they were alone, 'you look troubled.'
'My friend, when can you last remember me any other way?'
'Enough of that,' Vesna said firmly. 'What happened at your meeting?' The count was without his broadsword but his tunic was fastened up to the neck, as it had been earlier.
The white-eye paused; there was something different about the famous warrior. He thought for a moment. 'You're not wearing your earrings,' he commented, pointing to Vesna's left ear where the count normally wore his two gold earrings of rank. 'I hope my return didn't disturb anything important?'
'No, my Lord,' Vesna said in a flat voice.
'Good. She's still unmarried, you remember?'
'Yes, my Lord,' Vesna replied, refusing to rise to Isak's needling.
'Isak, what's happened?' Tila asked, firmly changing the subject. 'Is everything all right?'
The white-eye sat heavily into a chair facing the pair. With all the chaos of Scree's aftermath, they had yet to officially announce their betrothal. There was a grim mood throughout the city, made worse by the onset of winter. He knew they would happily forego the state wedding offered by Lord Bahl – and by him – but neither one wanted to broach the subject until the period of mourning had finished. The Farlan had lost many soldiers, men and women, and the urns were stacked high in the Temples of Nartis. There had been no comforting words from the priests to disperse the anger and resentment which lingered like a black cloud.
'You know about my dreams,' Isak said eventually. 'It was a reminder of those.'
'What sort of reminder?' Tila said, suddenly alarmed.
'One that made an impression. But that's not a concern for tonight – more importantly, Xeliath has entered the city.'
'Xeliath? Are Morghien and Mihn with her?'
Isak shook his head. 'Can't tell, but I hope so. It will be good to see Mihn again.' He pictured the tidy little man with his placid expression and acrobatic skills whose failure of memory in the final test had led to his exile from the Harlequin clans. Since coming into Isak's service, Mihn's many abilities had proved invaluable, as had his undemanding friendship. Yes, it will be good to have Mihn in my shadow again.
'Do you want us to sit in on your first meeting?'
'This isn't an arranged marriage; we're not negotiating terms,' Isak said wearily. 'I'm sure they'll all want to sleep for a week – there's no urgent intelligence we need and the journey will have taken a toll on Xeliath's health.'
'Should we leave?'
Isak sighed and stretched his feet out, planting the heels of his boots on a slender mahogany table that wobbled alarmingly under the weight. 'Could you stay?' He stretched his neck and twisted his head to one side and then the other, trying to work out the cricks. 'I don't really want to talk about tonight; I'd like to just sit with my friends and pretend the Land doesn't want me dead, at least until they arrive.'
The guardsman, a lone figure on the drawbridge, took long measured steps back and forth in the quiet cold of night as he waited for life to stir in the city. It was well past midnight and the streets were silent. Alterr was hidden by cloud and Kasi had fallen below the horizon long ago. The soldier resisted the urge to turn his head and glare at the guardroom, where his watch partner was sitting in the warmth. As he reached the end of the drawbridge he started walking backwards immediately, keeping his eyes on the empty roads ahead at all times.
The fact that he was a white-eye and thus not required to walk the freezing streets keeping the peace did nothing to improve his mood. When at last he caught sight of movement in the distance, it was met with a hiss of irritation, one that increased as the horse-drawn carriage made its way up towards Barbican Square at little more than a gentle walk.
There were two figures on the driver's seat and no luggage on the roof. The coach was plain – not a nobleman then, just a merchant with money to spare. Both figures were hooded and cloaked, and hunched over against the cold, their faces hidden. If it hadn't been lor Lord Isak's direct order, he would have summoned the duty squad on principle, but as it was, he stood still and patiently awaited the coach as it rumbled towards him. It stopped at the last moment, the front wheels on the very lip of the drawbridge. The passenger jumped down from his perch on the driver's seat and walked straight up to him, pushing back his hood to reveal a face he recognised.
'Fetch your watch partner and a stretcher, now, please,' he ordered.
The white-eye narrowed his eyes at the foreigner barking orders at him. 'Can't leave the gate unguarded,' he said in response, 'and last I heard, you'd been dismissed from the duke's service.'
'And that would make you wrong on both counts,' Mihn replied. There was no antagonism in his voice but the white-eye bristled anyway, unwilling to be ordered around by a man without position, rank or weapon who stood more than half a foot shorter than him.
'Who's in the carriage?' he asked brusquely.
