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the estate now, the people who watched my mother and brother burn.”
    Rugal hesitated and Corlek waited. Then the old man leaned in close.
    “They are the dor-Galyn, a powerful family and close favourites of Crown Prince Ilgarion. Their eldest son was recently sent up to the Iron Guard as a captain.” He place the grass plug side down by the gap in the earthwork. “Have a care, young master. May the Light reveal your path.”
    As Corlek moved into the dimness he heard the hatch thud into place, plunging him into utter darkness. A moment later he pushed open the log section on the other side, crawled out and wiped his muddy hands on his equally muddy robe, then replaced the log door. Leaning against the wall he stared into blackness for long moments, then sighed and pushed through the bushy undergrowth, westward away from the estate. Nearby was a road that led into the commercial district of Sejeend’s north bank. He thought of the address and name Rugal had entrusted him with….then lingered on that other name.
    Dor-Galyn,
he thought.
I need to know more about them…

Chapter Two
    He gathered all the world onto a stage,
Rivers, forests, cities, all,
And let the savage capers of heroes,
Tell a timely tale of truth
    —Epitaph on a poets tomb in Adnagaur
    The smoke of a hundred pipes and the main hearth’s leaky flue hung in a grey veil across the high, crossbeamed common room of the Four Winds Inn. The place was warm and busy with evening custom and many drinkers were standing near the tap counter or in clusters by the massive fire, or along the balcony that hung off the streetside wall, right above the main entrance. Scores of conversations merged into one, continuous din of voices punctuated by laughter and coughing while in one corner a couple of musicians were playing requests on fiddle and whistle.
    The Four Winds lay at the one of the main crossroads in north Sejeend, between Blueyard Market and the Earl of Westerbow dramahouse. Thus many trades had their representatives among its customers, farmers and merchants from the plains of eastern Khatris, drovers from further along Gronanvel, fur-trappers back from the shadowy gorges of the Rukang mountains, fishermen and oystercatchers, weavers and carpenters, soldiers and scholars. All were watched over by the senior tapsmen and a brace of brawny, hard-eyed men carrying weighted bludgeons.
    Another observed the noisy crowd from a small table beneath the balcony, glancing up occasionally when those above stamped or danced or did something to cause the woodwork to creak audibly. Attired in a long, dull green coat over well-worn travelling clothes, Tashil Akri drank sparingly from her jack of small beer, lending an ear to some of the chatter going on nearby while keeping an eye on the main door. She had a mask, little more than a plain eyemask in red cotton, but it was pushed up to sit on her tangled brown hair just as several people within sight had done. In fact, almost no-one in the tavern was actually wearing their masks, apart from a tall gaunt man she glimpsed across the crowded room.
    As people came and went, the big door swung open and banged shut repeatedly, admitting frequent gusts of cool air, but Tashil stayed where she was to be sure of catching Calabos as soon as he arrived. She had been at the safe house at Vannyon’s Ford, having just returned from the Honjir Wall, when she received mindspeech contact from Dardan who was passing on an urgent message from Calabos recalling the senior Watchers to Sejeend. Dardan had not mentioned the reason for this, but since Magramon had died only a few days ago Tashil guessed that the two were not unrelated.
    With her wicker-seated stool making cricking sounds, she took a generous mouthful of beer and leaned back against the wall, feeling the aches in her limbs. Without really trying she focussed her underhearing on the Treemonks kneeling by the fire, hearing their murmured rumours of the persecutions in north Anghatan