The Twilight herald

'I, disapprove?' The minstrel smiled, showing bright white teeth in his tanned face. 'Not at all. Wolves were made into dogs to serve a purpose, and it is those who control the purpose who are to blame for whatever may happen, not the animal. All things change over the course of time. Those who fight it are shouting without air in their lungs.'

'You mean silent?' Mayel found himself asking, almost hypnotised by the minstrel's voice.

'Drowned.'

Mayel felt himself being drawn into the minstrel's dark, piercing gaze. The minstrel was just a man, from the south somewhere, Mayel guessed, but like his albino, his eyes were devoid of humanity. 'But where did your dogs come from?'

'I have travelled far, even into the Waste. It's a stranger place than folk would like us to believe. Change there is a harsh master. Only the strong have survived.'

'Wait a moment,' Shandek interrupted, 'my name-?'

'How could one not have heard of you?' the minstrel broke in smoothly. 'You are the man who is lord of this manor.'

'Knowin' my name's one thing, recognisin' me's another. As for this bein' my district, that's close enough, and 1 don't like new folk in it who I don't know.'

'Yet you come with only one thug in tow. That young man doesn't look much of a threat.'

'Never mind him. Who're you?'

'I'm sure you know what reception we gave the last man who marched in here. You're being a little demanding, don't you think?' The minstrel slipped his feet off the barrier and stood as though to leave the box, but he remained in the shadows.

'I'm not here to break heads until we get tribute, that's the Spider's domain. I'm just lookin' to see that there's no trouble in my district – and per'aps to see whether there's business to be done here.'

'Ah, a man of enterprise. Excellent news. Someone who under¬stands the value of things, of people. In that case, this conversation might just be worth continuing.' The minstrel tipped his peaked hat. 'My name is Rojak. Join me in a drink.'

He produced a fired-clay bottle and set it on the barrier. Mayel noticed the paint was worn and cracked – clearly the painter had more menial work to come once he'd finished the magnificent gates. Three small cups, half a finger-length in size, followed the bottle.

Rojak pulled the cork and poured a clear liquid into each cup, then offered one each to Shandek and Mayel. Mayel sniffed: it smelled sharp, a rough-edged brandy laced with something, peach, maybe. The taste was sickly, but he swallowed it down as fast as he could and ignored the sting.

'Wonderful. Now we're friends.'

'It seems we are,' Shandek replied. He cast his eyes around the theatre. 'So, you the owner of the company?'

'The leader. Our owner is, well, here only in spirit.' Rojak gave a sly smile. 'I am the playwright. The actors are engaged in various pursuits in the city until we have prepared the theatre.'

'Commissioned by Siala?'

'Why do you think that?'

'She's just taken control o' the city. Don't sound like the White Circle is so popular as she'd like t'believe. Maybe she's tryin' to get the support of the city, in case the Farlan attack, or somethin'.'

Rojak raised an eyebrow. 'For a man some might describe as a "local criminal", you have an astute mind. We have not, in fact, been com¬missioned, no.'

'So why Scree?'

'It was felt that our talents could be well employed here.'

'By someone who'd never been here?' snorted Shandek. 'I don't mean to be rude, Master Rojak, but I don't think Scree was the best choice. This city ain't rich or cultured, not compared to some. I hear you're taking the theatre for the rest of the year, but few folk'll pay to see your plays. If it does come to war, things will be even harder for you.'

'Your concern warms my heart. I, however, keep my faith. We have a number of plays to show. Our work will be tested out and refined as the weeks pass. Once this summer is over, we shall be ready to move on to the rest of the Land.' Rojak's eyes gleamed. He stared straight at Mayel, who recognised that look of contained savagery; he'd seen it in the eyes of one of the brothers at the monastery, a man who'd preyed on the youngest novices. But he thought this was worse: this minstrel was no slobbering coward, and his avarice was for the whole Land. His pleasure would be in the pain of nations. Amidst the wreckage of civilisation and cowed peoples, that soft smile would grow ever broader. Mayel tried not to shudder visibly.

'A strange time for showin' plays at all,' Shandek said. 'These are dark times, accordin' to what I've been hearin' on the street.'

'Then they will need diversion from the cares of life.'

'Can't see many goin' to the expense. If we war with the Farlan, as I've been hearin', folk'll need every penny just to buy food, and they'll likely get taxed for half of that too. I'd say you'd get better money as soldiers, or bodyguards to a merchant. Your dogs could guard a man as easily as a theatre, and they'd be more willin' to pay.'

'My dogs are as devoted to our art as I am.' Rojak inclined his head towards the albino, hovering in the shadows like a ghost. 'The petty squabbles of the powerful are not our concern. Our place is here, and here we will stay, to spread our message to every man, woman and child of Scree. We will witness the changes that are to come, changes I have foreseen in the fall of coins, when the storm comes to Scree, commissioned by a calling greater than the White Circle.'

Mayel took a tentative step back. The minstrel's voice had risen above a whisper for the first time and his hands, once piously clasped, now flew about, gesticulating sharply. He slipped over the rail.

Rojak's words echoed inside Mayel's head, trembling his bones like the crash of falling tombstones. Alarmed by the minstrel's sudden animation, he cast a look at his cousin, who was equally startled.

And then it was over. Suddenly still once more, fingers again inter¬locked, Rojak peered down at the ground, as though saying a silent prayer, not blinking, hardly breathing. He appeared oblivious to their presence.

Shandek was as confused as Mayel. Had those last few moments been a piece of drama, an indulgence by a playwright, or was it some¬thing more? Mayel bit his lip, worried.

Twenty heartbeats passed. Still Rojak didn't move, though his head and shoulders were now bathed in sunlight too bright for Mayel's eyes.

Finally: 'Power has come to this city,' he murmured abruptly.

Mayel recoiled at the sound of his cruel, velvety lilt.

'Slipping furtive and fearful, it comes in the night. There are games being played here – plots to be acted out, blood to be shed. There will be a spring torrent of cleansing, and those born will emerge in the blood of others.' Rojak's head snapped up, the black irises burning like acid into Mayel's skin.

Mayel felt a twist of terror in his bowels, as though that corrosive gaze had seared his gut.

'Take care what games you play, young sparrow. Eagles soar above these streets and vultures watch from the trees. They will prey on you and your like.'

Mayel staggered back as though he'd been struck. His mouth opened, but all sound was stolen from him. In the corner of his eye he caught a movement, a dark flutter in the deep wings of the stage. The memory of Prior Corci's tattoos rose unbidden, the stain of feathers on Jackdaw's cheeks and forehead like a painted helm.

Mayel turned to flee. Shandek called his name and reached out, but Mayel, filled with the fear that had been his constant companion for the last few weeks, slipped through his cousin's fingers. Despite the ghastly spectre of pursuit, he couldn't help but look back. There was nothing in the pit beyond empty shadows. The deep steps leading down to it were all in sun, except the very top, which was cut through by the straight line of the roof's shadow.

Something caused Mayel to hesitate. The worn step with a chipped edge. The unbroken line of shadow. The shadow of the building be¬hind Rojak. He looked up again. The minstrel had not moved. His head was still bathed in the clear morning sun that rose behind his head and left his face in shadow.