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Medalonians! Of course, the Hythrun!”
    Brak shook his head emphatically. “Oh, no! Zegarnald would just love that.”
    Chyler looked at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”
    “Tip off the Hythrun about the invasion and they’ll be waiting for Hablet the moment he breaks through the pass.”
    She raised a brow questioningly. “And this is bad because … ?”
    “Because it’ll give Zegarnald a real war,” he explained. “Right now, the chances are good Hablet will move through the pass as soon as spring arrives and be in Greenharbour before the Hythrun can say ‘Oh my god! We’re being invaded! ’ As you say, they’ve been decimated by plague and Lernen Wolfblade couldn’t win a battle if it was between two toy ships in his own bathtub. With luck, this war might be over by the end of summer.”
    “But if the Hythrun get enough warning and find themselves someone capable of actually mounting a defence,” Chyler concluded, “it might drag on for years.”
    “And the God of War would like nothing better.”
    “I thought you liked the Hythrun, Brak.”
    “I do. But I don’t like pandering to Zegarnald’s ego.”
    “But the Hythrun are bound to put up some kind of fight. How do you think the Fardohnyans will get past Winternest?”
    “Don’t know. Don’t really care, either.”
    The bandit leader looked at him curiously. “Are you really going to stand by and do nothing about this war?”
    “There’s nothing I can do, Chyler.”
    “But you’re Brakandaran the Halfbreed.”
    “I’m Brak the Bandit,” he corrected. “I wish you’d give up this notion I’m anything more than that. It’s not my responsibility to put the world to rights.”
    Chyler sighed. “You’re rather disappointing for a legendary hero; you know that, don’t you?”
    “Then stop thinking of me as one. I’m really nothing of the sort.”
    Chyler slipped her arm through his and smiled. “I’m happy to keep your little secret, Brak, but no matter how much you try to forget it, you’re still the Halfbreed. You’re a legend, whether you want to be or not.”
    “Look, I’ve been here for the better part of twelve years, Chyler …” he began. It sounded a long time but to Brak it meant very little. Twelve years for a man who had lived for more than seven hundred was barely any time at all.
    “Ever since I hauled you out of that pile of corpses they tossed over the wall at Westbrook the night we first met,” she reminded him.
    “Exactly. And in all that time, have you ever seen me do anything that might lead you to believe I have any sort of magical powers?”
    “No,” she conceded. “I believe it was releasing all the prisoners in Westbrook while looking for a child rumoured to be a sorcerer that convinced me. Or it might have been you making a hidden gate appear in a solid stone wall that you knew about because apparently you were at Westbrook when they built the place six hundred years ago. Or maybe it was the fact you survived being run through and tossed over the walls of Westbrook? Or the fact you seem to be able to speak to the gods at will. Should I go on?”
    “That doesn’t prove anything,” he insisted. “Other people speak to the gods.”
    “But you’re the only person I’ve ever met who gets a response.”
    “Maybe I don’t,” he suggested with a thin smile. “Maybe I’m just some lunatic who hears voices in his head and thinks the gods are talking to him.”
    “Maybe. But that wouldn’t account for Wrayan Lightfinger telling me you were the Halfbreed.”
    “You shouldn’t believe anything a thief tells you, Chyler.”
    She laughed. “That’s a bit rich, coming from the man who claims he was just talking to the God of Thieves.”
    Brak smiled. “Exactly my point. Never believe anything a thief tells you.”
    She looked at him curiously. “Does that mean I shouldn’t believe you, when I ask if you’ll keep an eye on things here for a while?”
    “You’re going