Dark Moon

'I love her,' said Duvo simply. 'But she and I have spoken of this. I cannot wed. There is much that I cannot speak of, Ceofrin. I would be a danger to her.'

'You are a spy?' Ceofrin's voice dropped to a husky whisper, fear shone in his eyes.

Duvo shook his head. 'No. This . . . petty war means nothing to me.' He leaned forward. 'Listen to me, Ceofrin, I would never willingly do anything to harm her. And I have not . . . nor will I ... take advantage of her love. You understand that? I'll not be leaving her with a swollen belly. But I will be leaving come the spring.'

Ceofrin was silent for a moment. When at last he spoke his voice was edged with bitterness. 'A curse on love!' he said. 'Like life, it always ends in unhappiness.' Pushing himself to his feet, he strode away towards the kitchens. Duvo hefted his harp and lightly ran his fingers over the twenty-five strings. Light notes echoed around the room and a host of dust motes, lit by a sudden shaft of sunlight, seemed to dance in rhythm to the sweetness of the sound.

'No man should curse love,' said Duvo. 'Ultimately, love is all there is.'

Brune had never been in a city as large as Corduin, and as he walked along beside Tarantio's horse he tried to remember landmarks. There were scores of roads and alleys, crossing and re-crossing wide avenues, lines of shops and stalls, and beyond them workplaces and factories. There were, it seemed to Brune, hundreds of statues, most of them portraying lions - some with wings, some with two heads, some wearing crowns.

They had journeyed less than a mile and Brune was hopelessly confused. Confusion was a major fact of Brune's life, and it scared him. He glanced nervously up at Tarantio. 'Do you know where we are?' he asked.

'Of course.'

The answer reassured Brune, and his panic vanished. 'There are lots of lion statues,' he said.

'It is the symbol of Corduin's ruling house.' Tarantio swung the horse to the right, down a narrow cobbled street. Brune's boots were thin, and the cobbles dug into the soles of his feet.

'Are we nearly there?'

'Nearly,' agreed Tarantio, turning left into an even narrower alley which opened out into a circular stable-yard. Several horses were in their stalls: others were being exercised in a field nearby. A short, wiry, elderly man with a drooping grey moustache approached the two men. Tarantio swung down from the saddle.

'A fine beast,' said the newcomer, eyeing the horse. 'Just a small cow-hock short of greatness. My name is Chase. What can I do for you?'

'I'd like to winter him here,' said Tarantio.

'There are cheaper places, my friend,' said Chase amiably.

'The best rarely comes cheap,' said Tarantio. 'What down payment do you require?'

'Who recommended you to me?'

'The merchant, Lunder. I came here last year to view his prize mares. Liked what I saw.'

'Will he guarantee your payment?'

'I need no guarantees. My word is iron.'

Chase looked hard at him, his flinty eyes raking Tarantio's lean face. 'I think that's probably true, warrior. Therefore, from you, I'll take two gold pieces. That will keep him in grain and grass for two months. Then I shall require a further five to last until the spring.'

Tarantio opened his coat and reached inside, producing a small pouch from which he took seven small gold coins. Each was embossed with two crossed swords on the face, the reverse showing a spreading oak. He passed the coins to Chase.

'You are a trusting man, I see,' said Chase.

'Indeed I am. But not blindly so. You say your name is Chase. Once you were called Persial, the Fleet One. For twenty-five years you were the finest horse-racer in the Duchies. Your career ended when you were fifty. Someone offered you a fortune to lose a race, but you refused. Your hands and feet were broken with hammers. Now you are Chase, the horse-trainer.'

Chase smiled grimly. 'Men change, stranger. Perhaps now I am wiser.'

Tarantio shook his head. 'Men don't change. They just learn to disguise the lack of change. I'd like him grain-fed, and I shall be visiting regularly.'

'Whenever you like.'

'Can you recommend a place to stay for a few nights?'

'There's a tavern close by. They have rooms, and the finest food you'll ever eat. They also have a musician who plays the sweetest music I ever heard. The place is called the Wise Owl. Turn south outside the entrance and it's in the third street on the left. You'll not find better. Mention my name to Ceofrin, the owner.'

'Thank you,' said Tarantio, turning to lift his saddlebags and blankets from the gelding.

'Do you have a name, son?' asked Chase.

'I am Tarantio.'

Chase grinned. 'I'll have the gelding's saddle close by him, day and night.'

Hefting his saddlebags to his shoulder, Tarantio strolled away, Brune following. 'That was a lot of money,'

said Brune. 'I have never seen seven gold pieces together before. I saw one once. Lat had one; he let me hold it. It was heavier than I thought it would be.'

'Gold is a heavy metal,' said Tarantio.

They reached the Wise Owl just before dusk and tapped on the main doors. 'We open in an hour,' a tall, burly man shouted from an upper window.

'We are seeking a room for a few days,' Tarantio told him.

'I'm not letting rooms at the moment.'

'Chase sent us to you,' said Tarantio.

'Well, why didn't you say that in the first place? Wait there and I'll be down.'

Two log fires had been recently lit, one at each end of the wide dining area inside, and two serving girls were cleaning the wicks on the wall lanterns. There was a raised dais to the right of the long bar, upon which a blond young man, dressed in a shirt of green silk and leggings of brown wool, was tuning the strings of a hand harp. 'I have just the one room,' said Ceofrin, ushering the two men inside.

'Two beds and a good fireplace. It overlooks the main square. The price is a quarter silver a night, but that also buys you breakfast and an evening meal. Wine or ale is extra. How many nights are you staying?'

'Probably no more than four. I'm looking to rent a small house for the winter.'

'There's lots empty in the North Quarter. That's where the Eldarin Plague hit hardest.' Suddenly a series of shimmering notes filled the room and Tarantio jerked as if stung. Brune looked at him quizzically, but nothing was said, and the two men followed Ceofrin up the wide staircase. 'Do you want to book a table for tonight? It'll be busy and if you don't book you'll miss the music.'

'Have some food brought to the room,' said Tarantio. 'I am not in the mood for music.'

'I am,' said Brune. 'He sounds very good.'

'You'll not believe it until you hear it,' said Ceofrin confidently.

As they moved along an upper corridor, a beautiful, dark-haired girl stepped out of a room and walked towards them, limping heavily. 'My daughter, Shira,' said Ceofrin, pride in his voice. 'She will be cooking tonight.'

Tarantio bowed. Brune stood, mouth open, as Shira smiled at him. His mouth was dry, his mind reeling. In that moment he realized his hands were dirty, his clothes travel-stained, his hair a tangled, greasy mop. 'Hello,' she said, holding out her hand. Brune looked at it, then realized with a jerk that he was supposed to shake it. He glanced down at his own grubby palm, and wiped it quickly down the side of his leggings. Then he took her hand and gently squeezed it. 'And you are?' she prompted.