Текст книги "Blood Song"

Автор книги: Anthony Ryan

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Vaelin waited until the white-clad man’s sabre was an arm reach away then shifted to the right, diving past the thunderous drum of hooves, rolling to his knees and bringing the sword round to cleave through the charger’s rear leg. Blood bathed him as the horse screamed, crashing to the earth, the white-clad man struggling free of the tangle as Vaelin leapt the thrashing animal, his sword sweeping the sabre aside then slashing down, the enamel breastplate parting with the force of the blow. The white-clad man fell, coughed blood and died.

And the Alpirans stopped.

They stopped. Upraised sabres hovered then fell limply to their owner’s sides. Charging riders reined in to stare in shock. Every Alpiran within sight of the scene simply stopped fighting and stared at Vaelin and the corpse of the white clad man. Some were still staring as arrows took them or the Wolfrunners hacked them down.

Vaelin glanced down at the corpse, the sundered golden wheel on the bloodied breastplate gleamed dully in the gathering dawn light. A man of some importance, perhaps?

“Eruhin Mahktar!” Words spoken by a dismounted Alpiran, stumbling nearby, clutching at a wound in his arm, tears streaking his bloodied face. There was something in his tone, something beyond anger or accusation, a depth of despair Vaelin had rarely heard. “Eruhin Mahktar!” Words he would hear a thousand times in years to come.

The wounded man staggered forward, Vaelin making ready to knock him unconscious with his hilt guard, he was unarmed after all. But he made no move to attack, stumbling past Vaelin to collapse beside the body of the white-clad man, sobbing like a child. “Eruhin ast forgallah!” he howled. Vaelin watched in horror as the man pulled a dagger from his belt and drove it without hesitation into his own throat, slumping across the white-clad corpse, unstaunched blood gouting from his wound.

The suicide seemed to break the spell gripping the Alpirans, a sudden fierce shout rising from the ranks, every eye fixed on Vaelin, sabres and lances levelling as they stirred themselves and began to close, murderous hate writ on every face.

There was a sound like a thousand hammers striking a thousand anvils and the Alpiran ranks convulsed again, Vaelin could see men thrown into the air by the impact of whatever had struck their rear. The Alpirans struggled to turn their mounts and meet the new threat, but too late as a wedge of burnished steel skewered their host.

A hulking figure clad head to toe in armour and seated on a tall black charger smashed his way through the lighter mounts of the Alpirans, his mace a blur as it clubbed the life from men and horses alike. Behind him hundreds more steel clad men wreaked similar havoc, long-swords and maces rising and falling with deadly ferocity. The enraged Alpirans fought back savagely, more than a few knights disappeared under the mass of stamping hooves, but they had neither the numbers nor the steel to stand against such an onslaught. Soon it was over, every Alpiran dead or wounded. None had fled.

The hulking figure on the black charger hitched his mace to his saddle and trotted over to Vaelin, pushing his visor back to reveal a broad weathered face distinguished by a twice broken nose and eyes deeply lined with age.

Vaelin bowed formally. “Fief Lord Theros.”

“Lord Vaelin.” The Fief Lord of Renfael glanced round at the carnage and barked a laugh. “Bet you’ve never been so glad to see a Renfaelin, eh boy?”

“Indeed, my lord.”

A tall young knight reined in beside the Fief Lord, his handsome face smeared with sweat and blood, dark blue eyes regarding Vaelin with clear but unspoken malevolence.

“Lord Darnel,” Vaelin greeted him. “My thanks, and the thanks of my men, to you and your father.”

“Still alive then, Sorna?” the young knight replied. “At least the King will be pleased.”

“Still your tongue boy!” snapped Lord Theros. “My apologies, Lord Vaelin. The boy was ever spoiled. I blame his mother, meself. Three sons she bore me and this is the only one not still-born, Faith help me.”

Vaelin saw how the young knight’s hands twitched on the hilt of his longsword and the red flush of fury that coloured his cheeks. Another son who hates his father, he observed. A common ailment.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lord.” He bowed again. “I must see to my men.”

Striding back towards the beach, stepping over the dead and the dying as the morning sun rose on the field of blood, he reached again for the bluestone, lifting it to let the rising sunlight play on the surface, thinking about the day the king had pressed it upon him, the day Lord Darnel came to hate him, the day Princess Lyrna had cried.

The day the blood-song fell silent.

“Bluestone, spices and silk,” he said softly.

Chapter 2

The inclusion of Renfaelin knightly contests in the Summertide Fair was a relatively recent innovation but had quickly become hugely popular with the people. The crowd was roaring their appreciation for a particularly spectacular joust as Vaelin made his way towards the royal pavilion, his hood pulled over his face to spare himself the burden of recognition. On the field a knight sailed from his saddle amidst a cloud of splinters, his opponent tossing his shattered lance to the crowd.

“That’s one snotty bastard won’t be getting up again!” a florid faced man commented making Vaelin wonder if it was the spectacle of combat they appreciated or the chance to witness the maiming of rich folk.

The guards at the pavilion entrance favoured him with a deeper bow than his rank required and glanced only briefly at the King’s warrant he proffered, pulling the flap aside and bidding him entry with barely a pause. He was only two days back from the north but the legend of his supposedly great victory over the Lonak was already widespread.

After being relieved of his weapons he was led to the royal box where he was unsurprised to find Princess Lyrna, alone. “Brother,” she greeted him with a smile, holding her hand out for him to kiss. He was momentarily disconcerted, this was something she hadn’t done before, a sign of favour rarely bestowed, and made in front of the assembled population of the capital. Nevertheless he went to one knee and pressed his lips against her knuckles. Her flesh was warmer than he expected and he angered himself by enjoying the sensation.

“Highness,” he said straightening, attempting a neutral tone and not quite managing it. “I was summoned to your father’s presence…”

She waved a hand. “He’ll be along. It seems he mislaid his favourite cloak. Never ventures outdoors without it these days.” She gestured to the seat next to her own. “Will you sit?”

He sat, distracting himself with the knight’s contest. Two groups were assembling at opposite ends of the field, about thirty in each, one under a red and white cheque banner with an eagle motif, the other under a flag displaying a red fox on a green background.

“The melee is the climax of the Renfaelin tourney,” the princess explained. “The red fox is the banner of Baron Hughlin Banders, that’s him in the rusty armour, once chief retainer to Fief Lord Theros. The eagle belongs to Lord Darnel, the Fief-Lord’s heir. Apparently the melee will settle a long-standing grievance between the two.” She picked up a white silk scarf from a nearby table. “I have been begged to give this to whichever oaf I think more violent than the others. Apparently the sight of large men in metal suits beating each other senseless is supposed to make my womanly heart swell.”

“A singular misjudgement, Highness.”

She turned to him and grinned. “Not one you are likely to make, brother.”

“I would hope not.” He watched the two sides line out, exchange salutes then charge towards each other at full gallop, swords and maces whirling. They met in such a crash of metal and horseflesh that both Vaelin and the Princess winced. The subsequent fight was a confused morass of tumbling knights and clashing weapons. Vaelin knew the knights were only supposed to strike with the flat of the blade but most appeared to be ignoring this rule and he saw at least three steel-clad figures lying immobile amidst the chaos.

“So this is battle,” Lyrna commented.

“Of a sort.”

“So what do you make of him? The Fief Lord’s heir.”

Vaelin watched Lord Darnel smash his sword hilt into an opponent’s helmet, the man slipping to the churned earth, blood spouting from his visor. “He fights well, Highness.”

“Though not as well as you, I’m sure. And he has none of your insight, or integrity. Women will bed him for the influence and wealth he holds, not for love. Men will follow him for pay or duty, not devotion.” She paused, her expression one of faint irritation. “And my father thinks he will make me a fine husband.”

“I’m sure your father wants the best…”

“My father wants me to breed. He wants the palace filled with the squalling of Al Neiren brats, all of them sharing blood with the Renfaelin Fief-Lord. The final seal on his alliance. All I have done in service to this Realm and my father still sees me as no more than a brood-sow.”

“The Catechism of Joining is clear, Highness. No-one, man or woman, can be forced to marry against their will.”

“My will.” She laughed bitterly. “With every year that passes without a marriage my will erodes further. You have your sword and your knives and your bow. My only weapons are my wits, my face and the promise of power that lies in my womb.”

The openness of their conversation was disconcerting. Where was the tension, the knowledge of shared guilt? Don’t forget, he warned himself. Do not forget what she is. What we did. He noted the way her eyes tracked Lord Darnel in the melee, gauging, assessing, seeing how she barely concealed the sneer of distaste that curled her lips. “Highness,” he said. “I doubt you engineered this encounter to ask my opinion of a man you have no intention of ever marrying. Do you have another theory for me, perhaps?”

“If you mean the Aspect massacre I’m afraid my opinion is unchanged. Although, I have uncovered another factor. Tell me, have you heard of the Seventh Order?”

She was watching his face closely and he knew she would see a lie. “It’s a story.” He shrugged. “A legend really. Once there was an order of the Faith devoted to study of the Dark.”

“You give it no credence then?”

“I leave history to Brother Caenis.”

“The Dark,” the princess tasted the word softly. “A fascinating subject. All superstition of course, but terribly persistent in the historical record. I went to the Great Library and requested all the books they have on the subject. It transpired I caused a bit of a stir since most of the older volumes were found to have been stolen.”

Vaelin thought of Brother Harlick tossing books into his fire in the fallen city. “And how does this legend connect to the Aspect massacre?”

“Stories are plentiful about the unfortunate event. I’ve made it my business to collect all I can, discreetly of course. The tales are mostly nonsense, exaggerations that grow with every telling, especially where you’re concerned, brother. Did you know you killed ten assassins single-handed, each of them armed with magic blades that drank the blood of the fallen?”

“I can’t say I recall that, Highness.”

“I doubted you would. Nonsense these tales may be, but they all share a theme, an element of the Dark colours each one, and the more fanciful include references to the Seventh Order.”

For all his wariness he couldn’t deny the sharpness of her mind. What he had previously taken for low cunning was but a facet of a considerable intellect. Many times over the past three years he had pondered the meaning of Harlick’s confession in the fallen city, trying to draw together the different strands of knowledge. But nothing gelled; the Aspects’ apparent betrayal of the Faithful, One Eye’s power, the familiar voice of whatever had lived behind the eyes of Hentes Mustor. Try as he might he could see no link. There was a continual sense of something hovering out of reach, a profound conclusion even the blood-song couldn’t divine. But can she? And if she can, could she be trusted with the knowledge? The idea of trusting her was absurd, of course. But even the untrustworthy could be useful.

“Tell me Highness,” he said. “Why would a man devoted to learning read a book then immediately throw it on the fire?”

She frowned quizzically. “Is this relevant?”

“Would I ask you if it wasn’t?”

“No. I doubt you would ask me anything if you didn’t need to.”

On the field the number of knights still fighting had dwindled to a dozen or so, Lord Darnel now exchanging blows with Baron Banders, the stiffness of his rust-stained armour apparently doing little to stem his ferocity.

“If such a man were truly devoted to learning,” the princess continued as if her previous comment had remained unspoken, “then the burning of a book would seem to him a terrible crime. Books have been burnt before, King Lakril the Mad once famously made a bonfire of every book in Varinshold, pronouncing any subject who could read as disloyal and worthy of execution. Luckily the Sixth Order deposed him shortly after. However, there was wisdom in Lakril’s madness. A book’s value rests in the knowledge it contains, and knowledge is ever a dangerous thing.”

“So, burning the book removes the danger posed by the knowledge.”

“Perhaps. This man was learned you say. How learned?”

Vaelin hesitated, unwilling to part with the name. “He was once a scholar in the Great Library.”

“Learned indeed.” She pursed her lips. “Do you know I never read a book twice? I don’t need to. I remember every word perfectly.”

Her tone was so matter-of-fact he knew this was no boast. “So a man with the same skill would have no need to keep a book, a dangerous book. Once read he has possession of the knowledge.”

She nodded. “Perhaps this man was attempting to preserve such knowledge, not destroy it.”

So that was Harlick’s mission. He stole the Dark books from the Great Library. Destroying them to hide their knowledge, first reading them to keep it, protect it. But why?

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” the princess asked. “Who he was. Where you found him.”

“Just a curious incident I witnessed…”

“I know my regard for you is not returned, brother. I know your opinion of me is not high. But my opinion of you has always been based on the fact that you do not lie to me. Your truth may be harsh, but it is always truth. Tell me the truth now, please.”

He met her eyes and was shocked to see tears shining there. Are they real? Can they be? “I don’t know if I can trust you,” he told her simply. “We once did a terrible thing together…”

“I didn’t know!” she whispered fiercely. She leaned close, her tone urgent. “Linden came to me with his mad idea for an expedition to the Martishe. My father ordered me to bless his endeavour. I made no promises to Linden, I did love him but as a sister loves a brother. But he loved me more than any sister and he heard what he wanted to hear. I swear I didn’t know my father’s true design. After all you were going too, and I knew you were not capable of murder.” The tears spilled from her eyes and traced along the perfect oval of her face. “I made my own researches, Vaelin. I know you didn’t murder him, I know you spared him a horrible end. I tell you these truths because you must believe me now. You must heed my words. You must refuse to do what my father asks of you this day.”

“What does he ask of me?”

“Princess Lyrna Al Nieren!” A strong voice. A voice of command. A king’s voice. Vaelin hadn’t seen Janus for over a year and found him yet more aged, the lines in his face deeper, more grey streaking the copper main of his hair, the stoop of his shoulders more pronounced. But still, he retained a king’s voice. They both rose and bowed, suddenly aware of the vast silence of the crowd.

“Daughter of the royal line of Al Nieren,” the king continued. “Princess of the Unified Realm and second in line to the throne.” A thin, liver-spotted hand appeared from beneath the king’s ermine robes, jabbing at the field behind them. “You forget your duty.”

Vaelin turned to see Lord Darnel, crouched on one knee before the royal pavilion. Beyond him the fallen knights of the melee were stumbling away or being carried from the field, Baron Banders in his rust stained armour among them. Despite the servility of his bow Lord Darnel’s head was not lowered and his helm was clasped at his side. His eyes were locked onto Vaelin’s, shining with an intense and disconcerting fury.

Lyrna quickly wiped the tears from her face and bowed again. “Forgive me father,” she said in a tone of forced frivolity. “I haven’t spoken with Lord Vaelin in such a long time…”

“Lord Vaelin does not command your attention here, my lady.”

A flash of anger flickered across her face but she mastered it quickly before forcing a smile. “Of course.” Turning, she held out the silk scarf, beckoning Lord Darnel forward. “Well fought, my lord.”

Lord Darnel gave a rigidly formal bow, reaching up to take the scarf in his gauntleted hand, flinching visibly as the princess withdrew her hand before he could kiss it. Stepping back he fixed his furious gaze on Vaelin once again. “I understand, Lord Vaelin,” he said, anger making his voice quiver, “that brothers of the Sixth Order are forbidden to accept challenges.”

“That is correct, my lord.”

“A great pity.” The knight bowed once again to Lyrna and the King and strode from the field without a backward glance.

“You seem to have aroused the shiny boy’s dislike,” the King observed.

Vaelin met the King’s gaze, seeing that same owlish calculation he remembered from their first hateful bargain. “I am used to being disliked, Highness.”

“Well we like you, don’t we daughter?” the King asked Lyrna.

Her face was expressionless as she nodded, saying nothing.

“Possibly too much, it seems. When she was little I worried that her heart would prove too icy to allow attachment to any man. Now, I find myself wishing it would freeze again.”

Vaelin was unused to embarrassment and found it hard to bear. “You sent for me, Highness.”

“Yes.” The King held Lyrna in his gaze for a second longer. “Yes I did.” He turned and gestured to the pavilion door. “There is someone I should like you to meet. Daughter, please stay and try to remind the assembled commons that, despite appearances, we are in fact their betters.”

The princess’s voice was devoid of emotion as she said, “Of course, father.”

Vaelin went to one knee, accepting her hand when she offered it, pressing another kiss to the warmth of her skin. Even the untrustworthy can be useful. “Highness,” he addressed her rising, all too aware of the King’s presence, “I’m not sure you are correct.”

“Correct?”

It was wrong in many ways, an appalling breach of etiquette, but he stepped closer and planted a kiss on her cheek, whispering in her ear. “The Dark is not superstition. Look in the western quarter for the tale of the One Eyed Man.”

“Do you seek to test me, Young Hawk?”

They were walking from the rear of the pavilion, alone but for two guards. The king trudged through the mud, the hem of his ermine robes heavily stained. He seemed shorter somehow, stunted by age, his head barely reaching Vaelin’s shoulder.

“Test you, Highness?” Vaelin asked.

The King rounded on him. “Do not play with me, boy!” His eyes bore into him. “Do not!”

Vaelin met his gaze squarely. The King may still be an owl but he was no longer a mouse. “My friendship with Princess Lyrna offends you, Highness?”

“You have no friendship with her. You cannot stand the sight of her, with good reason.” The King angled his head, eyes narrowed in contemplation. “She wanted to show you the shiny boy, arouse your jealousy. Yes?”

Keschet, Vaelin recalled her words in Al Hestian’s garden. The Liar’s Attack. Hide one stratagem within another. Lord Darnel was a distraction, something her father expected. You must refuse to do what my father asks of you this day.

He shrugged. “I expect so.”

“What did you say to her? I know you weren’t stealing a kiss.”

He gave a tight, sheepish smile. “I told her that beauty fades, along with opportunity.”

The king grunted, resuming his stooped trudge through the mud. “You shouldn’t bait her so. It’s necessary that you don’t become enemies. For the Realm, you understand?”

“I understand, Highness.”

“She’s not going to marry him, is she?”

“I very much doubt it.”

“Knew she wouldn’t.” The king sighed in weary frustration. “If only the fellow wasn’t such a dolt. What a burden it is to have an intelligent daughter. It goes against nature for wit to be bound up in so much beauty. It’s my experience that truly beautiful women are either bestowed with great charm or mountainous spite. Her mother, my dear departed queen, was a renowned beauty and had all the spite you could ever need, but mercifully little brain.”

This isn’t candour, Vaelin surmised. Just another mask. He makes a lie of honesty to trap me in another design.

They came to an ornately decorated carriage, intricately carved wood shining with gold leaf, its windows curtained in black velvet. A team of four dappled greys waited at the tethers. The king gestured for him to open the door and climbed inside, groaning with the effort, beckoning him to follow. The king settled himself into a soft leather couch and rapped his bony fist against the wall behind. “Palace! Not too fast.”

From outside came the snap of a whip, the carriage jerking into motion as the four greys took the strain. “It was a gift,” the king explained. “The carriage, the horses. From Lord Al Telnar, you remember him?”

Vaelin recalled the finely dressed man from the Council Chamber. “The Minister of Works.”

“Yes, snide little bastard wasn’t he? Wanted me to seize a quarter of the Cumbraelin Fief Lord’s lands, punishment for his brother’s rebellion. Of course, he would generously take on the burden of stewardship, together with all the attendant rents. I thanked him for his carriage and seized a quarter of his own lands, gave the rents to Fief Lord Mustor. Should keep him in wine and whores for a while. A reminder to Lord Al Telnar that a true king cannot be bought.”

The king fished inside his cloak, coming out with a leather pouch about the size of an apple. “Here.” He tossed the pouch to Vaelin. “Know what this is?”

Vaelin tugged the pouch open to find a large stone of blue, veined with grey. “Bluestone. A big one.”

“Yes, the largest ever found, dug out of the mines in the Northern Reaches seventy-odd years ago when my grandfather, the twentieth Lord of Asrael, built the tower and established the first colony. Know what it’s worth?”

Vaelin glanced at the stone again, the lamplight gleamed on its smooth surface. “A large amount of money, Highness.” He closed the bag and held it out to the king.

The old man kept his hands within his cloak. “Keep it. A King’s gift to his most valued sword.”

“I have no need of riches, Highness.” I can’t be bought either.

“Even a brother of the Sixth Order may one day find himself in need of riches. Please, think of it as a talisman.”

Vaelin returned the stone to the bag and hooked it to his belt.

“Bluestone,” the king went on, “is the most precious mineral in the world, highly prized by peoples of all nations, Alpirans, Volarians, the merchant kings of the Far West. It commands a better price than silver, gold or diamonds, and most of it is to be found in the Northern Reaches. The Realm has other riches of course, Cumbraelin wine, Asraelin steel and so on, but it was with bluestone that I built my fleet and with bluestone that I forged the Realm Guard, the two pins that hold this Realm in unity. And Tower Lord Al Myrna tells me the bluestone seams are beginning to thin. Within twenty years there wont be enough left to pay the miners to dig it out. And then what will we do, Young Hawk?”

Vaelin shrugged, commerce not being a familiar subject. “As you say, Highness, the Realm has other riches.”

“But not enough, not without taxing nobles and commons to such an extent that they’d both happily see me and my children hung from the palace walls. You’ve seen how troubled this land can be, even with the Realm Guard to hold it together, imagine the blood that will flow when it’s gone. No, we need more, we need spices and silk.”

“Spices and silk, Highness?”

“The main trade route for spices and silk runs through the Erinean sea, spices from the southern provinces of the Alpiran Empire, silk from the Far West, they come together at the Alpiran ports on the northern coast of the empire. Every ship that docks must pay the emperor for the privilege and a share in the value of their cargo. Alpiran merchants have grown wealthy off this trade, some more wealthy than even the Merchant Kings of the West, and they all pay tribute to the emperor.”

Vaelin’s unease deepened. He can’t be thinking it. “You wish to lure this trade to our ports?” he ventured.

The old man shook his head. “Our ports are too few, our harbours too small. Too many storms lash our coast and we are too far north to capture so much trade. If we want it, we’ll have to take it.”

“Highness, I know little of history but I cannot recall any occasion when this Realm or any of the fiefs was threatened by Alpiran invasion or even raid. There is no blood between our peoples. The Catechisms tell us that war is only justified in defence of land, life or Faith.”

“Alpirans are god-worshippers are they not? A whole empire in denial of the Faith.”

“The Faith can only be accepted, not forced, especially not on an empire.”

“But they scheme to bring their gods here, to undermine our Faith. Their spies are everywhere, disguised as merchants, whispering denial, defiling our youth in Dark rites. And all the time their army grows and the Emperor builds more ships.”

“Is any of this true?”

The king gave a small smile, owl eyes glittering. “It will be.”

“You expect the whole Realm to believe this nonsense?”

“People always believe what they want to, true or not. Remember the Aspect massacre, all those deniers and suspected deniers slaughtered in the riots on the basis of mere rumour. Give them the right lie and they’ll believe it.”

Vaelin regarded the king in silence as the carriage rattled over the cobbled streets of the northern quarter, the certainty of his realisation was chilling. There’s no lie here, he actually means to do it. “What do you want of me, Highness? Why share this with me?”

The king spread his bony hands. “I need your sword, of course. Could hardly go to war without the Realm’s most famous warrior now can I? What would the commons think if you were to refuse to bring the sword of the Faith to the Empire of Deniers?”

“You expect me to make war on a people with whom this Realm has no quarrel on the basis of lies?”

“I most certainly do.”

“And why would I?”

“Loyalty is your strength.”

Linden Al Hestian’s face, turning marble white as the blood drained from the gash in his neck… “Loyalty is another lie you use to trap the unwary in your designs.”

The king frowned, at first he seemed angry then barked a laugh. “Of course it is. What do you think kingship is for?” His mirth faded quickly. “You forget the bargain we made. I command and you follow. You remember?”

“I’ve already broken our bargain, Highness. I didn’t do what you commanded of me in the Martishe.”

“And yet Linden Al Hestian still resides in the Beyond, taken by your knife.”

“He was suffering. I had to end his pain.”

“Yes, very convenient.” The king waved a hand in irritation, apparently bored with this subject. “It matters not, you made a bargain. You’re mine, Young Hawk. This attachment to the Order is a fiction, you know it as well as I do. I command, you follow.”

“Not to the Alpiran Empire. Not without a better reason than a shortage of bluestone.”

“You refuse me?”

“I do. Execute me if you must. I will make no declamation in my defence. But I’m tired of your schemes.”

“Execute you?” Janus barked another laugh, even louder than the first. “How noble, especially since you are fully aware I can do no such thing without arousing rebellion amongst the commons and war with the Faith. And I think my daughter hates me enough as it is.”

Abruptly the King pulled aside the velvet curtain covering the window, his face suddenly lighting up. “Ah, the widow Norna’s bakery.” He rapped on the carriage roof again, raising his king’s voice “STOP!”

Climbing out of the carriage he waved away the assistance of the two soldiers of the Mounted Guard who had ridden in escort, grinning at Vaelin, almost like an overgrown child. “Come join me, Young Hawk. Finest pastries in the city, possibly the fief. Indulge an old man’s weakness.”

Widow Norna’s bakery was warm and thick with the smell of oven-fresh bread. On seeing the king she hurried from behind her counter, a tall, thickset woman with heat-reddened cheeks and flour speckled hair. “Highness! Sire! You bless my humble enterprise again!” she gushed, bowing awkwardly and shouldering shocked customers aside. “Move! Move for the king!”

“My lady,” the took her hand and kissed it, the redness of her cheeks deepening. “A chance to enjoy your pastries can never be ignored. Besides Lord Vaelin here is curious. He has scant opportunity for cakes, do you brother?”

Vaelin saw the way her eyes roamed his face, drinking in the sight of him, the way her customers, now bowed to one knee, stole furtive glances, almost hating them for their adulation. “My knowledge of cakes is scant indeed, Highness,” he replied, hoping his annoyance didn’t colour his tone.

“Do you perhaps have a back room where we can enjoy your wares?” the king enquired of the widow. “I should hate to disturb your business further.”

“Of course, Highness. Of course.”

She led them to the rear of the bakery, ushering them into what appeared to be a storage room, shelves laden with jars and sacks of flour lining the walls, furnished with a table and chairs. Seated at the table was a buxom young woman wearing a gaudy dress of cheap material, her hair dyed red, lips painted scarlet and her blouse open at the neck to reveal ample cleavage. She rose as the king entered, executing a perfect bow. “Highness,” her voice was coarse, the vowels clipped. A voice from the streets.