elbowed Doranei. 'All the more for us, then.'
Sebe's jocular familiarity seemed to decide it and five people emerged to join them around the fire. Three were members of the Brotherhood, which annoyed Doranei even more. How could his own comrades be wary around him? Why was it so hard for them to get a handle on the strange relationship he had with Zhia Vukotic?
Mind you, I've no bloody idea what's going on there myself. But they should have worked out by now that nothing's really changed. I thought we were supposed to be able to adapt to anything.
Tremal was the oldest of the three. The wiry little man had proved himself a useful addition to the Brotherhood over the last few years. He was, most obviously of all the Brotherhood, an Ascetite, and the life of a thief had honed that latent magical potential into a skill that couldn't be taught – but his cat-like reactions and thieving instincts had made him permanently wary, so perhaps his reticence was just normal. Janna, Sebe's lover, always said Tremal was a few meals short of being handsome, but she'd never managed to feed the man up enough to make him worth the effort, or so she maintained.
The other two Brothers, Firrin and Horle, were both young enough to make Doranei wonder if he was getting old. They were dressed in identical brigandines. Have to have a word about that, it's looking too much like a uniform, he thought.
He looked at the woman with them, Hirta, who stared straight back at him. As prickly as a hedgehog, that one – although she'll have to be if she does end up staying and joining the Brotherhood.
Hirta was even smaller than Tremal, but she looked like she had Chetse blood in her, for she was powerful with it. She wasn't quite twenty summers, but she was already older than most when they joined up – although the commander wouldn't send a woman out with them until he was sure she could cope. Most men weren't tough enough, so it was rare a woman was even put up for membership.
'Get yourselves some food,' Doranei growled at last. 'We'll be leaving at dawn.'
'Where to?' Beyn asked.
'You're taking him to Sautin first, then Mustet,' Doranei said with a nod towards the fifth member of Beyn's troupe. Eyl Parim flinched at the movement and kept his face low. The demagogue was doubtless hating life out on the open road; winter was never fun, and the Brotherhood travelled harder than most, no matter what the conditions.
Parim was something Doranei couldn't classify, somewhere between an Ascetite and a minor mage. He could use his voice to be preternaturally persuasive, and as a result was more used to enjoying the hospitality of rich benefactors than travelling with a band of rough-living men. Beyn had tracked him down two years ago and reminded the man of past infractions; they had been waiting since then for a real challenge for Parim's rare skills.
Never mind how little you enjoy Sautin and its enthusiastic approach to crowd control, I'd trade in a heartbeat, Doranei though sourly. His own mission was to start looking for Zhia Vukotic in the Circle City, which was presumably her nearest bolt-hole to Scree.
'Keep it quiet and keep it subtle,' Doranei continued. 'Sautin is the priority, so get there and start stirring up ill-feeling against the Menin- and any appeasers. Once established, Beyn, you take Hirta to Mustet to lay the ground there. Once Beyn's gone on, Horle, you're calling the shots in Sautin, understand?'
'Yes, sir.'
Doranei's face darkened. 'Cut that out,' he snapped, 'we're not bloody soldiers. You answer to one man alone, remember?'
'Right, yes, sorry.' Horle managed not to flush at his mistake, but his embarrassment was plain to see and Sebe chuckled merrily. Doranei glowered at his Brother, but that was ignored. Sebe too had been cautious around Doranei for a bit, but now he'd taken on the role of ensuring his best friend looked like any other Brother. Doranei might be first among equals now, but he wasn't going to get the respect Ilumene had been granted – something he was profoundly grateful for.
'And you – until you stop looking like a kitten you shouldn't be laughing at anyone,' Doranei said, earning himself an idle cuff around the head. Sebe'd shaved his long black hair off the previous summer and it had only just started growing back.
'Beyn, take this with you and only to be used when absolutely necessary.' He handed over a small wrapped object.
Beyn frowned at it for a moment before taking it. He disliked surprises. Inside the leather wrapping he found a large hooked claw.
Doranei felt a flicker of pleasure at the confusion on his supercilious comrade's face. 'Something Endine prepared for us,' he said by way of explanation.
Tomal Endine was one of King Emin's most trusted mages; while his magic wasn't particularly powerful, his knowledge and skill had few rivals in the whole of Narkang and the Three Cities.
'Is that supposed to fill me with confidence?' Beyn muttered, turning the claw over to see the sigils that had been scratched into its surface and filled with silver, the substance best suited for magic. 'Are these the wyvern's claws?'
Doranei nodded. 'One for you, one for me. If you're desperate to send me a message, trace it out on your arm – or any piece of bare flesh. As long as I'm carrying the other claw it'll scratch out the message on my skin.'
'Sounds painful,' Beyn said before a dark grin crept across his face.
'Don't even think about that,' Doranei warned. The same thought had crossed his mind too. 'Anything that's not urgent, you'll be getting a nice long reply, I promise.'
Sebe sniffed disapprovingly. 'Sounds dangerous. What if this ends up in the wrong hands – Ilumene's, for example? If tracing over the skin is enough to scratch, what happened if he pushes it into the flesh? How far would he need to go before he hits your artery? Remember the state of his hands? Bastard wouldn't even hesitate.'
'It won't work like that,' Doranei said, raising a hand to stop Sebe. 'The claws came from our wager in Scree; the only people who can use them are those who were part of that wager. It's how Endine managed to bind the spell, so he says.'
'The three of us and Coran, then?'
'That's the lot. Coran's got the remaining claw, messages go to both.'
'Will we be hearing from him tonight?' Beyn asked, suddenly grave.
Doranei grimaced and felt an unexpected urge for a strong drink.
He thought for a moment. Morghien had visited their agent in Tor Milist a few weeks back, and been summoned to Narkang with all haste.
'Probably not. If he's lucky he'll be there by now, but the king's too cautious; he'll wait until tomorrow evening at the earliest. I'd guess there's some preparation required and this isn't something you want to screw up.'
Beyn and Sebe looked at each other; the others just looked puzzled. The king had many secrets, and not even the men of the Brotherhood got to hear them all.
'Not something I'd want to do at all,' Sebe muttered. 'Piss and daemons, there are some enemies you just don't want to make.'
Doranei didn't reply. He was painfully aware of the hard look Beyn was giving him. Gods, he's right too. Might be I've already made that enemy. 'Any of you got any brandy?' he asked, pulling his coat tighter around his body. 'Think the night just got colder.'
There was an orange smear across the eastern horizon as the fading sun dropped behind a crown of clouds. From one of the silver-capped towers of King Emin's palace Morghien had an unpar-allelled view of the sunset. For a minute or two he followed the progress of a local mage illuminating each of the night spheres in the wealthier streets, leaving stepping-stones of pale bluish light in her wake.
'Is it time?' called a tired voice from within the tower.
Morghien checked the sky again and turned back. 'Close enough to begin.'
King Emin was sat on a three-legged stool, the only seat in the room. The open arrow-slit windows meant it was freezing in there and Morghien felt a pang of sympathy for his friend, wrapped only in a white linen sheet in anticipation of the ceremony to come. He at least had his heavy leather coat and gloves to ward off the cold. Beside the stool was a bundle of clothes and a long pair of iron tongs Morghien had brought from the fireplace in his room.
The king was hunched over, hugging to his stomach a smooth, rounded object. He looked as tired as he
