and waited. From time to time a clerk would hurry through the door, stamping the snow off their boots, and head off to their office without even a glance at the soldier guarding very little in the dim hallway.
After the best part of an hour Dancer heard neat little footsteps patter down the corridor towards him. He remained at attention until he was sure the Chief Steward was alone. When at last Dancer did turn to face his employer he realised the man was even paler than usual, a rare sign of strain.
'You look ridiculous,' Lesarl grumbled.
Dancer bit back a comment about the way Lesarl's coat hung on his spindly frame. 'He's coming.'
'The High Cardinal can't stop it? What damn use is the man then?'
'It's out of his hands, as you well know,' Dancer said firmly. The Chief Steward's mood had been foul of late, but Dancer didn't have the luxury of time to coax him round from whatever bee was in his breeches. 'We need to find a way to stop it.'
Lesarl nodded. 'I spoke to Whisper earlier, but she had pressing business and couldn't wait for you.'
'Gods, I never expected this when Lord Bahl offered the man sanctuary. He was supposed to be a boon for the tribe! Have you come to a conclusion?'
The question prompted a scowl. Despite everything, Dancer had to keep himself from laughing; Lesarl, the hunched, glowering minister stalking the corridors of Cold Halls reminded Dancer of a play he'd seen some years back, portraying King Deliss Farlan, father of the first white-eye, Kasi Farlan, as a scheming tyrant degenerating into syphilis-induced madness. The actor had somehow managed to capture the essence of Lesarl in his portrayal, much to the amusement of most of the city.
'A conclusion of sorts,' Lesarl said eventually. 'Far from one I like however – it's a bad sign when even the theory leaves a bitter taste in one's mouth. How I will persuade Lord Isak I cannot even begin to imagine.'
'You can't kill him?'
'If we could manage that,' snapped Lesarl, 'there wouldn't be a problem in the first place!'
'But how do we deflect his attention?'
The clatter of something falling echoed down the corridor and Lesarl held up a hand to silence his companion. It was a full minute before he continued, 'I have received a letter from Duke Lomin. The man is keeping a careful distance from Lord Isak, as you might expect, but he's a loyal soldier all the same. He gave me advance warning of this. The only way we can deflect this is to offer the fanatics something they would prefer, and sooner or later, for fanatics, that comes down to a sacrifice of some sort.'
'I don't follow.'
Lesarl shook his head, lips pursed in anger. 'Bloated beasts of hatred and petty jealousy; a murderer for a sire and a fool for a shepherd,' he said, more to himself than Dancer.
The nobleman frowned, recognising the words but taking a moment to place them. When he did, the enormity of Lesarl's decision took his breath away. The words were a playwright's; spoken by the last great Litse lord, Yanao Tell, when he was told Deverk Grast had mustered the entire Menin tribe.
'How?' Dancer croaked.
'You must persuade Suzerain Torl to gather his Brethren and make a declaration.'
'Torl?' Dancer said. 'You want the Dark Monks involved?'
'Hardly.' Lesarl paced the stone-paved floor. 'But they are the only way. Tell Torl you are speaking with my authority. I cannot go myself- Lord Isak cannot be seen to be involved. The declaration must come from an independent group.'
Without waiting for a reply Lesarl turned back the way he'd come.
Dancer listening to the sound of his footsteps even after the man had turned the corner. Even when he could no longer hear Lesarl, Dancer found himself unwilling to leave his post. The chill in the air no longer mattered. It had paled in comparison to the emptiness in his stomach.
I'll just stand here a little longer. Just a few more minutes, and then I'll go and ask the finest man I know to commit suicide, just a little while longer.
Isak sat up suddenly, drawing in a deep breath, as if he'd suddenly come up from under water. He looked around, blinking in moment' ary surprise. It was a rare thing for him to be so absorbed in a book that his senses withdrew from the Land around him.
The palace library was still and silent aside from the lazy crackle of the fire opposite. Isak sat facing the fire – and the door – at the huge partners' desk that stood in the very centre of the room: a nearly square block of red- tinged wood and gleaming brass fittings. The room was softly lit by a heavy-based lamp sitting in the middle of the desk, and by the brass oil lamps on the ends of the bookshelves which extended from three walls into the room.
Most of the palace must have turned in for the night, Isak guessed, though something must have started him out of his reverie. 'Probably Tila, slamming doors again,' he muttered. His eyes drifted longingly towards the massive padded armchairs flanking the fireplace. There was something irresistible about a comfortable chair beside the fire – but he'd be curled up like a cat and asleep before he'd turned a page.
He stretched and was about to return to his book when the door opened. Isak relaxed when he saw Mihn enter.
'The Chief Steward is looking for you, my Lord,' Mihn said, his voice indicating that Lesarl was right behind him.
'And the last place he expected to find me was the library, no doubt,' Isak said with a smile. His eyes narrowed. 'What's that on your neck?'
Mihn's hand flew to his neck, where a dark mark was visible over his collar. 'Nothing of importance, my Lord.'
'I don't believe you. Very little of what you do is unimportant.' He pointed at Mihn's neck. 'Show me.'
'Yes, do show us,' said Lesarl as he walked through the door.
'Lesarl, give us a moment, please.' The Chief Steward's eyes glittered at the command, but he bowed and retreated without a word. Isak was very protective of his unusual bodyguard; now that Lesarl had accepted Mihn would never be an agent of his, he avoided conflict on the subject.
'It is just another tattoo,' Mihn replied once Lesarl had shut the door behind him, a flicker of discomfort in his eyes.
'Like the ones on your hands?'
'Exactly, my Lord.'
'Tattoos of what exactly?' Isak urged.
'Leaf patterns, nothing more.' Mihn walked up to the desk and turned his head to look at the book Isak had been reading.
'Last Days of Darkness,' Isak said. 'Stories from the end of the Age of Darkness.'
'Your reading tastes have become somewhat morbid of late,' Mihn noted.
'You're the one who started me on that path,' Isak protested. 'You told me to accept everything about myself, including my dreams of death! If I am to accept something I must understand it better. I…' Isak hesitated. 'I'm not entirely sure what I'm looking for, but I need to know what the dreams mean.'
'Then I suggest you try Cardinal Jesher's collection of parables, most specifically the one entitled 'The Moneylender'. It is the story of a moneylender who dies, but is so obsessed by his trade that his spirit visits his debtors after he is dead, trying to collect what he was owed.'
Isak thought for a moment. 'Sounds like you've just ruined the story for me, but I'll give it a try, I suppose.'
Mihn smiled. 'Jesher was a theologian of great note in his time, and his parables are characterised by the depth of his insight. You will find his work instructive on the subject of death – you might also try a Menin play called The Stargas. The Menin style of declamation may amuse you, and the character of the Prophet Dirik is beautifully written, however inaccurate.'
'I think I've heard of that one. Doesn't he pray for death each morning?'
Mihn's eyebrows rose. 'I'm impressed, my Lord. Dirik prayed for death, for then he would be relieved of the burden of prophecy.'
The white-eye grinned. 'Don't be impressed; I just remember Tila saying I make her say a prayer for Dirik some mornings. I didn't
understand the reference so I made her explain it.' He slammed a palm down on the desktop. 'Damn you! I
