The Grave thief

'I'm honoured, my Lord.'

'I doubt you'll find much honour in it,' Styrax said with a smile, 'but you survived Scree and you know what you're looking for. Don't worry about your men; you'll be leading them next time they go into battle.'

'Thank you, my Lord,' Amber said, touched that his master understood his need to be with his men when they faced the enemy.

At the entrance to the Fearen House, Lord Styrax stood looking at the oblong monument again. 'Mysteries upon mysteries,' he said aloud. 'However, the first business of the day is the puzzle of the heart. I take it your skills do not extend to cryptography, Amber?'

Amber shook his head and Lord Styrax clapped him on the back.

'Never mind; let's see how fast you learn!' he said brightly, leading the way up the steps to the main entrance. Sighing, Amber followed along behind.

Suzerain Torl left his tent when the dawn was still grey, the sun nothing more than a glimmer beyond the horizon. The camp was unnaturally quiet, even though it was early. As he looked around he saw a few fires being revived, but there were few men about. He had been pushing them hard for the last few weeks, but fatigue was not the only reason for the heavy silence. It was a good thing that Lord Isak had kept his distance, for there was quite enough death after nightfall already.

To his left Torl could see the fires of Lord Isak's army. One of his aides had jokingly described it as the Farlan's Temporal Army. Crusade was not a word the clerics had liked; for all their venom and spite, they had insisted on more palatable terms: Soldiers of the Gods, Defenders of the Faith, even Spiritual Envoys; every cult and faction had a different name, and each had a different idea of their goal. It left as bitter a taste in Torl's mouth as their insistence on consultation in everything, even logistics.

'My Lord Suzerain,' called Lieutenant Zaler as he hurried over, 'good morning, sir.'

'Is it?' Torl growled. 'It's hard to tell.'

Zaler hesitated. 'Ah, which, my Lord?' He was a young man, the nephew of Torl's wife's cousin, and still oddly earnest despite having spent more than a year as Torl's aide. He was short and slim — he would never be much of a fighter — so Zaler tried to make up for it by being unfailingly helpful and efficient. Unfortunately, he lacked a soldier's common sense, and had not yet developed a soldier's cynicism.

'Good or morning?' Zaler repeated anxiously.

'Don't be bloody stupid, Lieutenant,' Torl said, exasperated.

'Sorry, sir. Shall I sound the reveille?'

Torl nodded, then realised from Zaler's expression he was once again screwing up his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He guessed he was looking as washed-out and old as he felt. A camp bed was no substitute for the huge feather mattress in the master bedroom of Koan Manor, his principal home. Though he was well used to campaigning, the years had suddenly caught up with him.

Zaler signalled the suzerain's bugler, who saluted sharply and raised his horn, producing a sharp flurry of notes that brought groans from all around even before the regimental buglers picked up the call and sounded it in all directions. Within seconds the notes echoed back from the other camp as General Lahk roused his own troops.

Torl looked down the rows of tents: his troops remained neat and disciplined, while the penitent legions were becoming increasingly ragged and disorganised. That meant the priests' men were not reaching camp before the light failed — but the only response the clerics had was to flog the slowest companies, which served only to make matters worse.

'Sir, should I fetch a healer? You look exhausted,' Zaler asked, sounding worried.

Torl shook his head. 'It's just fatigue. I can't have the men see the healer attend me two mornings in a row, it would send out the wrong message.'

'My Lord, are you sure? Your face is awfully pale.'

Torl saw the anxiety in Zaler's face and reconsidered for a moment; the young man was not one to push things unnecessarily, and in truth his hauberk felt as heavy as full armour this morning. 'Men won't fight for a cosseted fool, Zaler,' he said after a moment.

'Sir, no man in the army would ever think that way. The fact of the matter is that you're twenty summers older than most of us, and you've told me before that a general is more important than any of his troops. Your own words, sir; a general must look after himself. Illness or exhaustion means poor decisions and those cost lives.'

Torl scowled at his aide. Perhaps the boy's not entirely useless after all. 'This is the time you choose to demonstrate that you do listen? When you're contradicting a general in the field?'

Zaler winced, but he didn't back down. 'You were most specific on the duties of a general's aide.'

'If it means you leave me alone, fetch the damn healer-' Torl paused. 'No, first tell me if there was trouble last night.'

'I'm afraid so, but we appear to have come out on top again.'

'Gods, we march to war while fighting with ourselves,' Torl sighed, sinking down into his campaign chair and accepting a bowl of tea from his page. He cupped it in his hands and as he sipped the hot liquid, the furrows on his brow softened slightly. 'Takes longer each year to get the morning chill out of my bones,' he said to himself before looking up. 'Is Tiniq here?'

Zaler nodded and waved over General Lahk's twin brother. He was an Ascetite — a soldier whose latent magical abilities had never developed properly, but who was nevertheless gifted beyond normal standards. Lesarl had seconded him from Isak's personal guard to help Suzerain Torl deal with the more unfriendly clerics.

Thus far there had been two direct attempts on Torl's life, and most nights had seen violence of some sort, but the Chief Steward's agents were more than a match for the mercenaries trying to eliminate opposition to the cults' control. Tiniq himself now slept in the baggage carts during the day so he could be awake all night.

'Suzerain Torl,' Tiniq acknowledged, walking over briskly. His left arm was bandaged, but it didn't seem to be bothering him much.

For the twin of a white-eye — an impossible feat, so every doctor would claim- Tiniq was far from remarkable to behold. The former ranger was of average height and build, and his eyes were normal. The only apparent skill he had was that of fading into the background wherever he went. Other differences became clear when one found out he was only five years younger than Torl, and saw his speed when a priest of Nartis had tried to murder the suzerain.

'What happened to your arm?' Torl asked, grumpily noting that one of them wasn't feeling his age that morning. There was an unnerving gleam in Tiniq's eye. For a man uncomfortable with being the centre of attention, he was unusually energised by the night's excitement.

'Assassins tried to take us out,' he announced. 'Nothing like a bit of recognition, eh? We picked up a team heading for the Saroc section; assumed they were looking to kill Colonel Medah.'

'And they ambushed you?'

'Tried to, but they didn't notice Leshi and Shinir ghosting along behind us.'

'Prisoners?'

Tiniq shifted his feet. 'Ardela got a little over-excited.'

'Ardela? The shaven-headed hellcat?'

'That's the one,' Tiniq agreed, grinning wholeheartedly. 'It turns out she's got a real problem with anyone attached to Nartis. Once she saw they were penitents of Nartis she just went berserk.' He saw the expression on Suzerain Torl's face. 'My Lord, I'm sorry; I'd never met the woman until the day we left Tirah. I had no idea she was as mad as that.'

Raised voices not far off interrupted their conversation and they all turned to watch a party of men approach. Suzerain Torl's hurscals reached for their weapons.