whether what I've made of it is even correct.'
Lord Styrax raised his eyebrows. 'Your own puzzle of the heart?'
'The duchess has a bodyguard, a new sergeant in the Ruby Guard called Kayel. He bears a basic similarity to me, nothing more, and yet it even brought me up short. For a moment I thought I had looked into the mirror, and Nai felt the same. He didn't have time to investigate but he confirmed there was some sort of trace magic linking us.'
'And you've not met him before?' Lord Styrax mused. 'A pretty little puzzle indeed; do you have a solution to it?'
Amber shifted uneasily. 'Perhaps. That is- I don't really know.'
'Tell me.'
'King Emin's agent, Doranei – he came to Zhia Vukotic to ask about the prisoners she'd taken after the fight at the necromancer's house: us. Afterwards, he kept a watch on me out of the corner of his eye, even though she'd proved it was impossible for him to have known anyone there.'
'And so you are thinking, what if he was reminded of Kayel because of this link?' Lord Styrax continued. 'A good deduction. You said the Farlan knew nothing of the necromancer, nor did Narkang?'
'Exactly, and Zhia wouldn't have been playing those games, which leaves only Azaer's disciples in my mind. They were the ones intent on stirring up chaos in Scree, after all, and to hear Doranei tell it, King Emin's been waging a silent war with the shadow for years.'
'Azaer,' Lord Styrax breathed, as though savouring the word. 'That would make times interesting. You think the lovely duchess is under Azaer's control?'
'From what I saw, she's not all there these days. It's as if she's too wrapped up in that child she's adopted. She brought it with her today,' he added.
'A child?'
'A boy, Ruhen she called him. About five winters, I'd guess. Haven't heard the brat say a word myself, it just stands there and watches in silence.' Amber scowled. 'Something not right with him either,' he added. 'Too quiet for a child, too still.'
'A good vehicle for exerting influence over her,' Lord Styrax mused, 'but to what end?'
'Sounds like she's tearing apart the cults in Byora; the situation looked worse than even our reports had suggested. Folk are scared in that quarter, and her troops are on the street corners, not the walls.'
Lord Styrax exhaled slowly, deep in thought. 'It would then follow that Azaer's intent is drive a wedge between the Gods and the masses. Perhaps it went too far in Scree and couldn't control the storm it had created, so it's trying again here, with a little more subtlety. My concern with that theory is that it's a time- and disciple-consuming process, considering what you said about the minstrel dying with the city. Does this shadow really have the power to run such an operation in every city of the Land?'
'Couldn't it be working one by one?' Amber asked. 'The shadow seems to be immortal, so time isn't against it. Why doesn't it trot along quietly, running the operations and recruiting in parallel? Could that be the purpose of the Azaer cult they were talking about, a recruiting ground?'
'I think you're right there, yes. But King Emin is a mortal and running against the years,' Lord Styrax pointed out. 'Given the chance to tackle the same tactic from a different angle, the man would surely find a way – especially since Azaer is taking a rather prominent position in Byoran politics. Every report we've had from Narkang has stressed we do not underestimate King Emin's intellect, no matter how unlucky we were sending the White Circle after him.'
Styrax looked thoughtful for a moment, the hint of a smile on his face. 'I suspect this shadow has a little more imagination than to use the same trick twice, and it lacks the strength to risk being so predictable. The powerful man can batter down the doors of his enemies; the weak man must find a new ploy for each.
'I think we should go and meet this little scamp who looks like you.' He clapped a massive hand onto Amber's armoured shoulder. 'Time for lunch, Major.'
CHAPTER 30
The Scholars' Palace, more than fifty yards wide and eight storeys high, got even more impressive the closer Amber got. It was built of white limestone set against the black rock of Blackfang's cliffs. The upper six levels had open walkways at each end, connected by a communal balcony from which Amber could see more than a dozen men and women from different nations watching them approach. Dark-haired Farlan in traditional wide-sleeved shirts stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Chetse scholars wrapped in furs, but he couldn't identify more than half of those watching him. The few that were blond didn't look like Litse bloodstock; western states most likely. It appeared the tribe charged with protecting the library didn't much value its knowledge.
He walked in silence with Lord Styrax, their winged escorts trailing along behind. Other than the cries of birds high in the air above there were no sounds of life here. Looking around, Amber saw white specks, sheep or goats, maybe, in the furthest corner of the valley, and a double bank of what he guessed were chicken coops tucked into an overhang of the rock. With a few acres of land penned with lines of stone where crops would be grown, the Library of Seasons was more self-sufficient than he had expected.
Or perhaps they can't rely on Ismess to keep them fed.
The living quarters for guests of the library were in the upper six levels of the Scholars' Palace. Doors placed at short intervals opened onto each storey's balcony, indicating small, austere rooms for each visitor. The ground floor looked to be given over to kitchens; it was more than double the depth of the other floors and supported an enormous terrace which had been decked out in all the colours of those who would he attending the strange luncheon Lord Styrax had announced.
Surrounding the terrace was a balustrade made entirely of white stone, the pillars of which were all human or animal figures in a variety of actions. Death and Hit were at the corners, their outstretched hands holding up a fat rail beneath which the mortals lived and died. Unlike most statues of the God, which were either painted or carved from black rock, the cowled figure of Death was as white as the rest, something that looked oddly disconcerting to Amber.
The Fanged Skull of Lord Styrax presided over the centre of the balcony, facing into the valley, flanked on the left by Lord Celao's Bundled Arrows and on the right by the Ruby Tower that was Natai Escral's family crest. Opposite the Fanged Skull was the Runesword of the Knights of the Temples, unadorned by any personal symbols. Amber frowned when he saw that: did the Knights of the Temples not use personal crests, or had Cardinal Sourl's position changed recently?
Below each crest was a long table, forming a square that did not meet at the corners. Litse servants busied themselves setting the tables for a formal meal, and Amber's heart sank when he counted the number of places laid at Lord Styrax's. Unless Lord Larim joined them, something he doubted a mage would willingly do, Amber thought he knew who would be filling that seat.
As though reading the soldier's mind, Lord Styrax pointed towards the nearest of the open stairs, where a servant was watching them, long golden hair tied neatly back and a set expression of welcome on his face.
'Your clothes have been taken to a room; go and make yourself presentable for lunch. I don't believe Cardinal Sourl has arrived yet, so you have a little time.'
'Yes, my Lord,' Amber said. He looked up at the sky, trying to discern the position of the sun.
'It is time, yes,' Lord Styrax confirmed. 'The army will have arrived by now.'
Amber nodded. 'Doesn't do a man's appetite much good,' he muttered with a sour expression before bowing and trudging off.
'These are the sacrifices we make,' Lord Styrax called after him. Amber didn't dare turn and show his expression to the lord he worshipped.
Put it out of your mind, he thought to himself, there's a job to be done.
A deep bellowing voice echoed through Fist, causing Major Teral to jump with alarm. He looked up from his soup, for a moment not hearing the words, as more voices took up the cry, confusing the message even further, but the urgency was unmistakable. Teral was on his feet and reaching for his swordbelt before he translated the words in his head. 'To arms, to arms!'
