The stranger put his saddlebags on the floor and laid his pack on the bed. He left the door open and, after a brief struggle, managed to open the various shutters – one on to the balcony and one overlooking the inn yard. The brilliant redness of the setting sun was fading to a dusty ruddiness, though there seemed to be no lessening of the day’s heat. He took off his hat and the long coat and laid them carefully on the room’s one chair. Then he unbuckled his belt and, carefully placing his sword by his side, lay down on the bed, his hands behind his head.

His eyes moved slowly and methodically about the room, noting the old workmanship and the scars of many years of usage. The room, like The Wyndering as a whole, had the air of a fine old gentleman fallen upon hard times but now revelling in it. His study was punctuated by occasional sounds from the yard and the drinking room below.

‘What’s it to be tomorrow?’ said his companion. ‘Arash-Felloren, or the Wilde Ports?’

Chapter 2

Gasping for breath, but made even more vigorous and fleet than usual by the angry cries following him, Pinnatte ran frantically along the crowded street.

He had made a mistake – a serious one – but it was not until after he had snatched the man’s purse that he realized he had been one of the Kyrosdyn. Worse, the wretch had been a full Brother too, perhaps even a Higher Brother, judging by the quality of the crystals marking out the emblem on his purse, and the size of the guard who appeared from nowhere at his master’s cry.

Pinnatte swung round a corner.

And that cry had been another thing – it was still ringing in his head – that peculiar blend of fury, disbelief and throat-wrenching petulance. It had confirmed the man as a Kyrosdyn even as Pinnatte was registering the emblem and its implications for his immediate future.