From the top of Anhem's Tower, the tallest building in Scree's north¬eastern corner, Rojak watched the first shadows of evening steal over the Land, catching men and beasts unawares, wrapping them in deepening threads of twilight. He looked back at the city, where he could see a squad of brutal Fysthrall soldiers chopping their way though a crowd of locals. The rusty-skinned foreigners were worried these people were working themselves up into a frenzy, as had happened half a dozen times over the last few days, but in truth this lot were crying out for food, not slaughter. The Fysthrall didn't understand their language.
The minstrel smiled. 'Misunderstandings cause such misery, more than ill will could ever manage.'
Is that a challenge?'
Rojak gave a strange, girlish laugh. 'Perhaps not tonight,' he told his master.
Beside him, Ilumene pointed out over the fields, at a towering column of dust they'd been watching as it drew closer. 'It'll be a close-run thing. Who will bother to ask why we have a Devoted army outside the walls? How many in this city would believe that they're here only to protect the sanctity of Scree's temples, as they claim, and not in fact waiting like jackals to feed on the spoils of a failing leader?' He jabbed a thumb to the north. There were parallel thin red scabs running down the thumb from nail to wrist, and he curled it to ensure the cuts remained open. Against the clear pale blue above the horizon a dirty smear indicated the presence of another army. North, where every road led to Farlan lands.
'If those Farlan come any closer, the Devoted's commander will be forced to turn and face them; he'll have to dig in, or risk being raided by the Farlan cavalry every hour. The Farlan will interpret digging in as a gesture of intent and act accordingly.'
'And now it is time for us to give a helping hand, llumene, our favourite son; find us another priest for tonight's entertainment.'
'The show must go on, eh?' Ilumene's weathered face lit up with malicious mirth.
'There will be an audience. The good folk of Scree are consumed by their hatred of everything around them; they have passed the point of no return now,' said the minstrel, dismissing him with a gesture.
llumene ran lightly down the thick stone steps to the street below, past the Hound that Rojak now needed to help him get about. It was obvious to all concerned that what they sardonically called their theatrics was taking its toll on the minstrel, who was becoming in¬creasingly brittle with every passing day.
Rojak looked down at the little finger of his left hand, inspecting his most recent injury. He'd scraped his hand when he'd lost his bal¬ance on the steps, and a good inch of papery skin had been shredded, revealing desiccated grey tissue that did not belong in a living man. As Scree failed, so did he – but the knowledge that this was one more victory he would steal from King Emin elicited a chuckle from his wasted throat. He winced and fumbled for the flask of brandy he carried at all times.
'Now for the ill will I promised you,' said Azaer, an icy breeze sliding gently over Rojak's ear. 'Send Flitter and Venn to the camp of the Second Army; tell its commanders who their mistress truly is.'
'Will they be believed?'
'Belief is a fickle creature. Those who believe do so because they wish to. Bane and Veren's Staff could no more restrain themselves than King Emin could when he heard llumene had been seen, lronskin is the voice of reason in that camp. His unique affliction was punishment for offend¬ing Karkan. I'm sure he will be keen to follow his comrades to please the Gods.'
'Should we not wait until we see Siala's reaction to the Devoted?'
'The Devoted are in no rush to fight; they have yet to decide who their enemy is. When they see the Circle's mercenaries fighting each other, they will stand back and watch; as llumene so aptly said, their nature is that of jackals. The Second Army will march on the Greengate, as that is where the vampire's troops are. Every other gate is already barricaded, so this will bottle them all up together. Let them squabble amongst themselves, and turn on each other just as their Gods do.'
'Their weakness is our power,' intoned Rojak.
'Certainly, but let no one claim we are cruel; they shall be warned that their own flaws betray them.'
A new play for tonight?'
'The last play. After tonight we will retire to the wings and the theatre will be no more. We shall have nothing more for them but our final curtain call'
'So which is it to be for our last performance, my Master?'
'Twilight reigns, the gates are locked and within, the city burns. What could it be but "The Shadow Crucible"?'
'Tell me again why we're here?' asked Morghien through gritted teeth. He strained to pull himself up to the next branch. The trip had been an arduous one, despite Mihn's many talents, and for once Morghien was feeling his age.
'The answer to that hasn't changed,' Mihn said softly from the branch above. His attention was occupied by the earthwork ramparts surrounding a hill less than a mile away. The smooth sweeps of dark slope were illuminated by paper lanterns of yellow and red.
Morghien gave a grunt and finally pulled himself up. Once he'd found his balance, the man of many spirits turned his head up to see Mihn, who was standing nonchalantly on a slim bough, his staff rest¬ing across his shoulders and his arms hooked over it.
Morghien knew better than try to keep up with a former Harlequin when it came to acrobatics so he made sure of his grip before speaking again.
'I actually meant, why are we climbing this bloody tree?'
'Ah, I apologise,' said Mihn. 'I'd assumed you were continuing the litany that started as we crossed the Green Sea, but now I realise it was a whole new complaint.'
'Tsatach's balls, I'm here as a favour to your master. I've got every right to complain if I want to,' Morghien muttered.
'I'm sure the magnanimous Lord Isak will be pleased you're taking every opportunity to exercise your rights,' Mihn said cheerily.
Morghien scowled at him. 'Now we're here, what can you see?'
'Much of the estate, all nicely lit up for our benefit. It is Meqao's Day today. Of all of Amavoq's Aspects, Meqao – Hunter of the Silent Wood, as he's known in these parts – is the most beloved by the Yeetatchen.'
'He's the one wilb the antlers and the huge-'
'No, that's Bohreq, the Herdfather. I thought you'd had an edu¬cation?' Mihn scratched at his ankle absentmindedly for a moment, before feeling the bandage on it and withdrawing his hand. Two days back he'd been bitten by a hunting hound on the loose, and though the wound was minor, he'd bound it to keep it clean. 'Meqao has the head of a silver-furred wolf and carries a spear in one hand, a brass bell in the other.'
'Brass bell? What damned use is that to a hunter?'
Mihn looked down and Morghien thought he could see the man's eyes glint in the gloom. 'I would be happy to recount the full saga of "Meqao and the Lady of the Bluebells" – of course, it will require a gong, a bell and a jug of water, and three hours of your close atten¬tion.' He smiled.
'Perhaps later then?' Morghien sighed. 'Wouldn't it be easier to get in to Lord Ajel's home if we dressed you as a Harlequin and got you to recite the saga?' He'd not meant it seriously, but he realised he'd over¬stepped the mark when Mihn tensed. The cool evening grew frosty.
'Don't suggest that again,' Mihn said eventually, his voice tight and quiet.
'I am truly sorry,' Morghien began. 'I didn't mean-'
'I know, but best the conversation goes no further.' After a moment of quiet, Mihn said, 'That is how we'll get in: if we run along the ditch bounding the meadow until we reach that dip, we'll come up behind those trees hung with lanterns.'
'Lanterns? Can you see if it's a sacred grove dedicated to Amavoq, or an Aspect that lives on the hill?'
'Not from here, no. You think an Aspect would notice you?'
Morghien gave a low whistle. 'Hard to tell, but last night Xeliath told me Lord Ajel has made a local Aspect of the hill protector of the compound.'