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  ‘The gods wait for no man. Not even a king.’ Lanta’s voice was honey and poison and Corvus noted how the other war chiefs froze at its sound. ‘There is much to discuss.’

  Edwin, Liris’s second, jumped up. ‘I’ll go, Blessed One,’ he said and scuttled down the longhouse to the king’s quarters at the end, his relief palpable. They all wanted to settle this and get out from under the Blessed One’s eye. Bana’s death hung in the air like the scent of blood.

  Corvus had completed two more circuits below the dais before the yelling began. By the time the others had struggled out of their chairs, he was at Lanta’s side with drawn sword, ready to defend her.

  ‘The king,’ Edwin screeched as he shoved back into the longhouse. His hands were bloody. ‘The king has been murdered. Liris is dead!’

  For a moment Lanta’s calm cracked, and Corvus would’ve missed it if he hadn’t been looking at her instead of Edwin squawking like a chicken on the block. But then the mask was firmly back in place. Corvus’s sword tip drooped on to the dais as Edwin’s words sank in. Corvus opened his mouth, closed it again, and looked at the men gathered like a gaggle of frightened children below him, backs to the dais, eyes on the far door. They were bursting with questions for Edwin, but none seemed keen to approach him.

  Lanta picked up her skirts and strode the length of the longhouse, bursting through the door to the king’s quarters and slamming it behind her before anyone could see. Edwin stood outside it, staring at his hands in disbelief.

  Liris is dead and the Blessed One is with the body. Eagle Height has no king. Eagle Height is vulnerable.

  ‘Gosfath, God of Blood, Dark Lady of death, I thank you,’ Corvus whispered. ‘I swear to be worthy of this chance you have given me. All I do is in your honour.’ One of the chiefs turned at the sound of his voice, his mouth an O of curiosity.

  ‘My feet are on the Path,’ Corvus said, completing the prayer. He took three steps forward, raised his sword, and started killing. The king was dead. Long live the king.

  CRYS

  Eleventh moon, seventeenth year of the reign of King Rastoth

  North Harbour docks, Rilporin, Wheat Lands

  ‘I will have you know I am the most trustworthy man in Rilporin. No, not just in the capital, in all of Rilpor. And these cards are brand new, picked up from a shop in the merchants’ quarter a mere hour ago. Examine them, gentlemen, hold them, look closely. Not marked, not raised, even colouring, even weight. Now, shall we play? A flagon, wench.’

  Crys clicked his fingers at the pretty girl hovering in his eyeline and plastered a wide grin across his face. He’d been watching this pair for the last hour, and now they were just drunk enough to be clay in his hands.

  The men watched suspiciously as he cut and shuffled the cards, fingers blurring, and dealt them with a neat flick of the wrist only slightly marred by the fact the cards stuck in or skittered over the spilt beer. They’d be ruined, but he’d just buy more. What was the point in gambling if he didn’t spend the money he won? He slapped the remains of the deck into the middle of the table, scooped up his cards, examined them, swallowed ale to hide his glee and breathed thanks to the Fox God, the Trickster, patron of gamblers, thieves and soldiers. He was all three, on and off.

  The faces of his fellow players were so wooden Crys could have carved his name into them, but the man to his left was tapping his foot on the floor. Man to his right? No obvious tell. No, wait, spinning the brass ring on his thumb. Excellent, he’d dealt the cards right.

  ‘Five, no, six knights.’ Crys opened the betting and tinkled the coppers next to the deck. He smiled and drank.

  ‘Six from me,’ Foot-tapper said.

  Ring-spinner matched him. ‘And from me.’

  Crys made a show of looking at his cards again, squinting at the table and his opponents. ‘Um, two more.’ He added to the pile with a show of bravado that sucked them right in. He leant back in his chair and scratched the stubble on his cheek, fingernails rasping. He’d better shave before tomorrow’s meeting. He’d better win enough to buy a razor.

  ‘So, you fresh in from a Rank, Captain? The West, perhaps?’ Foot-tapper asked.

  Crys hid a grimace behind his cup: always the West. City-folk were obsessed with the West, with tales of Mireces and Watchers and border skirmishes. The crazy Wolves – civilians no less – were Watchers who took up arms to guard the foothills from Raiders and protect the worshippers of the Gods of Light from the depradations of the bloody Red Gods.

  Crys didn’t reckon half the stories were true, and those that had been once were embellished with every telling until the Watchers and Wolves were more myth than men and every soldier of the West Rank was a hero. They’re soldiers watching a line on a map for two years, interrupted with brief bouts of fighting against a couple of hundred men. Yeah. Heroes.

  Crys snorted. ‘The North, actually,’ he said, swallowing his frustration. ‘Finished my rotation there. Palace Rank next.’

  ‘Palace, eh? Two comfy years for you, then, eh? Must be a relief. But I’m Poe and this is Jud.’

  Crys nodded at them both. ‘Captain Crys Tailorson.’

  ‘Captain of the Palace Rank? I’m sure no one deserves it more. I imagine King Rastoth is in the very safest of hands now you’re here, Captain.’ Poe watched him closely, looking for tells. Crys made a show of thumbing one card repeatedly. Deserved? He’d be bored out of his mind for two years, more like. Still, there were likely a lot more idiots prepared to lose their money here than in the North Rank and its surrounding towns. Few men had dared gamble with him towards the end of that rotation. Not to mention Rilporin bred prettier lasses.

  Jud brayed a laugh. ‘You hear about those Watchers? Ever met one? I hear the men all stick each other up there. Ever see that?’

  ‘I haven’t served in the West Rank yet,’ Crys said, uncomfortable. It was all anyone could talk about of late, the rumours coming from the west; General Mace Koridam, son of Durdil Koridam, the Commander of the Ranks, increasing patrols and stockpiling weapons and food. ‘And that sort of business is against the king’s laws,’ he added belatedly.

  ‘Strange people, those Watchers. Civilians, ain’t they? Take it upon themselves to patrol the border. Why? They don’t get paid to do it, do they? Why risk your life when the West’s there to protect you?’ Poe asked. He seemed in no hurry to get on with the game. ‘I mean, West’s best, or so they say,’ he added with an unexpected touch of malice.

  ‘I know why,’ Jud said, laughing again. ‘It’s ’cause their women are all so fucking ugly. That’s why they fight, and that’s why they stick each other. Nothing else to do.’

  ‘Wolves fight, Watchers don’t,’ Crys explained. Jud frowned. ‘They’re all from Watchtown, it’s just they call their warrior caste Wolves and the Wolves have little or no regard for the laws of Rilpor. As you said, they take it upon themselves to fight. And there are Wolf women as well, I hear,’ Crys said as he flicked his cards again, letting the happy drunk mask slip for a moment. West is best? Maybe you don’t need all that coin weighing you down, Poe. ‘Fierce and just as good as the men,’ he added.

  ‘She-bears. ’Bout as pretty too, they say.’ Jud emptied his cup, helping himself to more as Crys eyed him. ‘They’re all touched with madness, those Watchers. Fighting for no pay, letting their women fight. Women! Can you imagine? What’d you do if you had to fight a woman, Captain?’

  Crys licked his teeth. ‘Try not to lose,’ he said. ‘It’d look awful on my record.’

  Poe laughed and slapped the table, but Jud had lost his sense of humour all of a sudden. ‘Look at his eyes,’ he hissed, waggling a finger in Crys’s direction and heaving on Poe’s arm.

  Fuck’s sake, and it had all been going so well. Crys put his palms on the sticky table and leant forward, opening his eyes wide and staring them down in turn. ‘One blue, one brown, yes. Very observant.’

  He sat back and folded his arms, the soggy cards tucked carefully into his armpit where they
couldn’t be seen. Old habits. ‘But I had thought you wealthy, sophisticated merchants of this city and as such not susceptible to the superstitions of countryside fools. Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps I’ve been wasting my time here tonight.’

  Jud and Poe eyed each other, clearly uncomfortable. They were nothing of the sort and all of them knew it.

  Poe’s foot tapped and he managed a nonchalant grin. ‘But of course. A topic of conversation only. You must hear it a lot in the Ranks, no?’ He drained his mug and ordered a flagon. About fucking time, too.

  Crys forced a mollified note into his voice, at odds with the irritation mention of his eyes always engendered. Splitsoul, cursed, unlucky. He knew them all. ‘I do, sir. Men either stick to me like bindweed thinking I’m lucky, or they refuse to be anywhere near me. It’s a real pain in the arse, has dogged me all my life.’ Poe tutted in sympathy. ‘Still, what can a man do?’

  ‘Cut one of them out?’ Jud honked and laughed into his cup, spraying Crys with froth. Crys unfolded his arms and watched him.

  Poe thumped him in the arm. ‘Forgive my friend, Captain. Too much ale. He’s got a sword, you fucking idiot,’ he hissed to Jud, who was clutching his arm and whining.

  Crys drew out the moment, but decided against it. ‘Come on then, let’s play,’ he said and Poe slumped in relief, thumping Jud again for good measure.

  ‘You heard the good captain. Play.’

  ‘Two,’ Jud said sulkily.

  Excellent. And about bloody time. ‘I call,’ Crys said and plopped his cards face up, watching the others reveal. He’d lost by a dozen, as expected. Poe had the winner and scooped coins and ale to his side of the table, baring yellow snaggle-teeth in something that might have been a smile. On a bear.

  Crys groaned and drank; he topped up the cups of his companions with fatalistic good cheer. Poe collected the cards and Crys watched him shuffle: not even an attempt to separate the already played cards through the deck. He dealt and Crys knew he’d have a poor hand. No matter, he wasn’t ready to win just yet.

  Gods, that meal was heavy, he thought as he made his first bet, but it was doing its job of soaking up the ale. Jud was red in the face and giggling, superstitions forgotten against the prospect of winning Crys’s money. He’d be the first to get sloppy and Crys and Poe could clean him out in a few hands. But then they’d need another third. No, better to bide a while longer and then take them both for a little too much instead of everything. Crys had no need of an enemy on his first day in Rilporin, and some men preferred to blame the man instead of their luck when it came to cards.

  Plan decided, Crys sucked down some more ale and proceeded to lose another three hands.

  Crys had found a lucky streak from somewhere. Strange, that, how his fortune had changed so suddenly. He’d won back most of what he’d lost but was still some way behind the others. Still, it was all running smooth—

  ‘I’ve been watching you. You’re a cheat.’

  Crys lurched up from his chair and fumbled for his sword as Poe and Jud gawped, faces twisting with drunken outrage. The light fell on the speaker and Crys gasped, released the hilt and dropped to one knee. ‘Sire. Forgive me, Your Highness. You startled me and I – I simply reacted. I beg your pardon.’

  Poe and Jud grabbed their coins and fled, not looking back, leaving Crys to the mercy of the Crown and seeming glad about it.

  ‘Shut up, stand up and pour me a drink.’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness.’

  ‘Sire or milord will do, soldier.’ Crys straightened and Prince Rivil took the proffered mug and sipped, made a face and sipped again. ‘Awful. I note you haven’t denied my accusation.’

  Crys’s knee buckled again but he hoisted himself back up. ‘Your High— Milord may say and think anything he wishes, Sire,’ he said in a rush, staring anywhere but into Rivil’s face and so looking at his crotch instead. He blushed, straightened and snapped into parade rest, staring over the prince’s left shoulder and through the man behind him, one-eyed, well-dressed, a lord if Crys was any judge.

  ‘Oh, for shit’s sake, man, stop that. You think I’d be in a dockside tavern if I wanted pomp and ceremony? Sit the fuck down and have a drink. I’m here for relaxation, not to have my arse kissed.’

  ‘I – yes, Your … Sire.’

  Rivil folded long legs under the small table and leant forward, oblivious to the ale staining the elbows of his velvet coat. ‘This is Galtas Morellis, Lord of Silent Water,’ he said, jerking a thumb at the man seating himself beside him.

  Crys’s head swam. Galtas, Rivil’s drinking companion and personal bodyguard. Crys was in it up to his neck and it didn’t smell sweet.

  ‘Teach me your version of cheating at cards,’ Rivil said abruptly. ‘I’m not familiar with it.’

  Oh, holy fuck. A bed and a razor, that’s all he’d wanted. All right, maybe a woman, but was that so much to ask when you’d been stationed in the North Rank for the last two years, negotiating border treaties?

  Crys swallowed ale, wetting his throat, giving himself time to think, not that he could see a way out. ‘It would be an honour, Sire. Would you care to use my cards?’

  Crys’s stack of coins was dwindling fast. At this rate he’d be sleeping in the gutter and shaving himself with his sword come morning. Or just using it to slit his own throat; the Commander didn’t listen to excuses, even ones about meeting a prince in a grimy tavern.

  ‘Oi, rich man. You’re fuckin’ cheatin’. I been watching you, you lanky bastard. You’re doing our brave soldier out of his hard-earned coin. He risks his life on those wild borders and comes here for a bit of ease and rest, and you’re fuckin’ doin’ him out of his money like you don’t have enough of it already? Fuckin’ nobility.’

  Crys was suddenly and entirely sober. Galtas had swivelled in his chair and then risen to his feet. Rivil remained seated, his back to the speaker and his cool gaze resting on Crys. The message was clear: get off your arse and help, Crys Tailorson. Crys got off his arse.

  ‘Sir, I assure you nothing untoward is occurring here. I am merely experiencing bad luck with the cards. It happens – a lesson from the Fox God. Your concern is touching—’

  ‘Never fear, soldier, we’ll have at him for you. Fuckin’ lords comin’ in here and screwin’ over decent hard-workin’ folk. Honestly, you’re doin’ us a favour if you let us have ’im.’

  ‘Really, I don’t—’ Crys began into the heavy silence of dozens of men readying for a brawl.

  The man was already swinging at Rivil’s unprotected head and Crys could do nothing but bite off the words and make a desperate lunge over the table. Galtas caught the attacker’s wrist, twisted it up and into an elbow lock, and threw him back into the press. He drew his sword, useless in the crowd but an effective deterrent to unarmed men.

  ‘City guard’s comin’. Scarper,’ a voice called before anyone had a chance to react. Rivil’s eyes snapped to Crys. The aggressors melted away and the rest of the patrons settled down, buzzing with conversation. Many slipped out, not eager to meet the Watch. Crys sat back down and emptied his mug.

  Galtas remained on his feet, scanning the room for long moments, and then sat. Rivil jerked his head at Crys. ‘You did that? Those words? How?’

  ‘A knack,’ Crys said. ‘I can make my voice come from somewhere else.’

  ‘Sounds like witchcraft. And with eyes like that, I’m not surprised,’ Rivil teased. Galtas frowned, a dagger appearing in his hand.

  ‘No. Just a knack, like I said.’ Crys had both hands palm down on the table, as unthreatening as he could make himself. Rivil scraped all of his winnings, and Galtas’s, over to Crys’s side of the table.

  ‘My thanks,’ Rivil said, ‘but why bother? I’m not exactly popular with the Ranks. Why not let that man kick the shit out of me?’

  ‘You are my prince, Sire,’ Crys said, dropping the coins into his pouch, ‘even if you are a better cheat than me. No one kicks the shit out of the prince while I’m with him.’
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br />   ‘I’m glad to hear it. Come and find me when you’re off-duty tomorrow. I might have a use for you.’

  DURDIL

  Eleventh moon, seventeenth year of the reign of King Rastoth

  The palace, Rilporin, Wheat Lands

  ‘Where is His Majesty?’ Durdil asked. The throne room was empty but for guards, the audience chamber vacant too.

  ‘The queen’s wing, Commander Koridam,’ Questrel Chamberlain said with an oily smile and the corners of Durdil’s mouth turned down. Third time this month.

  Durdil’s breath steamed as he ducked out of the throne room and into a courtyard and took a shortcut through the servants’ passages. Winter was coming early this year, and the preparations for Yule were increasing apace.

  Servants flattened themselves against the rough stone walls as he passed, ducking their heads respectfully. He nodded at each in turn. Durdil knew every servant in the palace; it made it that much easier to identify outsiders, potential threats to his king.

  A guard stood in silence outside the queen’s chamber. Durdil slowed. He straightened his uniform and scraped his fingernails over the iron-grey stubble on his head.

  ‘Lieutenant Weaverson, is the king inside?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did he speak to you?’

  Weaverson was impassive as only a guard can be. ‘Not to me, sir. He was conversing with the queen.’

  Durdil paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. Nicely phrased, no hint of mockery. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant. As you were.’

  ‘Sir,’ Weaverson said and thumped the butt of his pike into the carpet.

  Durdil moved past him and pushed open the door to the queen’s private chambers. He hesitated on the threshold, bracing himself, and then stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Rastoth was in the queen’s bedroom, staring at the empty bed in confusion.

  ‘Your Majesty, you shouldn’t be in here,’ Durdil said quietly, and Rastoth looked over his shoulder, his eyes wide and watery. Durdil was struck by his gauntness. Where had that muscle and fat, that ruddy good humour, gone? This man was a shadow of himself.