‘I’m just a traveller,’ the man replied. His voice was high-pitched but not unpleasant – indeed, it had an almost musical lilt to it. And he had an accent such as Ibryen had never heard before.

‘You’re not Dirynvolk,’ Ibryen said, instead of the question he had intended.

The little man craned forward a little as if he was having difficulty in understanding the remark, then he smiled. His smile was full of white teeth that seemed to glint in the sunlight, and his eyes sparkled. It was a happy sight, but it was not the smile of an old man. Ibryen tightened the grip on his sword to keep at bay the softening that he was beginning to feel. Though they had long discarded any pretence, the Gevethen had won as much through smooth speech and manners in the early days as through the brutality and terror they now exercised and, even before his flight into the mountains, Ibryen had long schooled himself to be wary of smiles and bland, assuring speech.

‘No,’ the man was replying. ‘I’m far, far away from where I was born.’

‘You have a name though?’

The man nodded and said something. This time it was Ibryen who leaned forward, frowning, to catch the words.

The man noted the movement and repeated his name.

Ibryen shook his head as the sound eluded him again.

‘You’re not Dirynvolk,’ he announced with finality. ‘I’ll call you Traveller.’

‘As you wish.’

‘What are you doing here?’ Ibryen returned to his earlier brusqueness. ‘Who sent you? How did you get here?’

A flicker of irritation passed over the little man’s face. ‘I don’t think I wish to be spoken to like that,’ he said. ‘Least of all at the end of a sword. I’ll go on my way if my presence offends you so.’ He made to move away. Ibryen stepped forward and placed the point of his sword on the man’s chest.