It was as well he stopped his reckless career when he did, he realized. Even here he could feel a tension in the passers-by. Somewhere that screeching Kyrosdyn and his guard might still be looking for him – making more din than a mother looking for a lost child! He’d like to choke the creature on his damned crystals! He’d got them back, hadn’t he?

Then, as if unleashed by this near-disaster, for the first time ever he wondered why the Kyrosdyn were the way they were. The crystals were valuable, some much more than others, with their many tints and hues, and valuable things made some people very strange. But why should the Kyrosdyn – to a man – have such fanatical regard for them?

It was rumoured that in the Vaskyros they had a great hoard, even of the most precious of all – those with that faint and subtle green glow at their heart. He had seen few worthwhile crystals in his life, and he had never seen one of those – very few had. Occasionally, in some drinking hole frequented by his own kind, boastful tales would emerge of green crystals won and lost, but such stories were usually worth no more than the ale that was creating them. Only once had he felt himself on the edge of the truth when, in the middle of such a yarn, an old man, sullenly silent until then, had suddenly snarled out a drunken oath and accused the teller of being a fool and a liar. By way of emphasis, he slapped his hand down on the table, palm upwards. It was withered and dead and the fingers were curled into a painful grasp.

‘That’s green crystals for you, lad,’ he said. ‘That, and nightmares for the rest of your life.’ He tapped his head and sneered. ‘You’ve seen nothing. Still less touched.’