Introduction

The Throne Room was so vast that the high windows cut near the roof could only shed their light into the very middle of the area, leaving great pools of shadow around the walls. On dark winter days or at night, sconces would be lit to chase away the dark shadows ... but it was the middle of the day; and the light pooled around the great table where the nobles stood, deep in anxious conversation, occasionally shooting worried looks to the three great thrones to one end, even though only one was occupied.

The occupant's slight figure seemed dwarfed by the splendour of the carvings and the richness of the hangings, but he did not sit uncomfortably. Indeed, he was as relaxed as if he had sat there for millennia. At his feet a great wolfhound slumbered ... occasionally the raised voices would make the great hound raise his massive head. Then he would shake his heavy jowls and settle himself again. On the arm of the chair perched a rare white raven, and the chair's occupant seemed absorbed in feeding the bird little morsels of fresh meat, even while he was listening to the argument in front of him, without ever seeming to fully open his heavy-lidded eyes.

There was a commotion at the door of the Great Hall; two nobles reached for their swords with muffled exclamations as a travel-stained man pushed his way past the guards who stood there. One of the body guards who stood either side of the throne also made a movement forward; a white slender hand was raised by the throne's occupant, and the guard hesitated and returned to his still, watchful stance.

"Approach." A light voice, cool and clear, carrying through the vast room.

The travel-stained man moved swiftly through the room to come to a rest on one knee before the throne, his head bowed.

"My liege."

The same slender hand extended to him; the man raised his head and kissed the ring of sovereignty ... a little loose on the long cool finger.

The Ruler looked down.

"What news?"

The man looked up ... there was fear there.

"The man you sought … he has been found!"

There was a gasp from several of the nobles in the room. As for the Lord of Shadows ... the heavy lids lifted a little and he looked intently at the traveller.

"Found? Where was this?"

"Three days ago, my Liege. In Blaskett - the fishing town upon Blaskett Sound. I have ridden hard ... "

The Ruler rose to his feet. As though bound to him by an invisible cord, the wolfhound rose too and shook his great head. The traveller shrank back slightly, away from the proximity of those massive jaws.

And now the Ruler was moving forwards, to the great table where the maps of all the Enclaves was spread out before them. Disconcerted, the nobles fell back slightly as their monarch moved around the table, studying the map from many angles.

"You," he said suddenly, and the startled traveller moved to his side. "Where was he found?"

He gazed down thoughtfully at the point indicated.

"Hmmmm ... We may presume, I think, it was a planned destination."

He looked up, the eyes wide for once, and burning with an inner light.

"Let our advisors attend our pleasure within the hour. In the Inner Chamber. We shall await them there."

So saying, he turned away and moved the length of the Great Hall, the great hound - as ever - at his heels, leaving the nobles behind. Even before he reached the door to the Inner Chamber, he heard their voices break out in excited speculation. He turned and called out sharply.

"Cearbhall!"

With a soulless croak, the white raven took flight, swooping the length of the hall until he came to rest, furling his white wings, on the proffered wrist of his master. The nobles, watching, fell silent.

"My Lords," the Ruler said, and inclined his head at their hasty bows. He glanced at the bodyguards, now moving smoothly to their positions on either side of the door.

Then, his raven on his wrist and his hound at his heels, the man who was the Lord of Shadows, one of the Three Rulers of Karadon, walked into the Inner Chamber and closed the door.

By the time he reached the marketplace, he thought he had lost them.

He'd realised they were on his trail in the Exchange, where he had made the mistake of trying to cash in a plantaxy. Not his genuine plantaxy, of course; that had stayed on the long golden chain around his neck.

"Wear it close to your heart. Cherish it as dearly as you cherish your heart."

And Piotr had done so - through that long cruel slog over the Dervenish mountains, and across the Plains of Finn's Hope on the other side, all the way down to Blaskett Sound.

But in Blaskett, he thought he'd be safe. What was it but a grey slate fishing town, where the man were sinewy with long days hauling in the nets from the trawlers, and the slatterny girls stank to high heaven of the codfish that their quick busy hands ripped open with ice sharp knives all day long. He would have stood out like a sore thumb in Blaskett - if he hadn't learnt the skill of passing almost invisibly through crowds and towns. Not truly invisible, of course … otherwise those hard-faced followers with their deep purple eyes would have missed him too …

The thing that tricked him in the Exchange was the fact that they used a woman. He had assumed - stupidly - that they would all be male.

Most people used the Exchange to barter fish for money or for goods. Baskets and boxes of silvery cod, some gutted and ready for the table, some left whole, their stark eyes staring upwards in mute reproach. But other things were exchanged too … and in the darkest corner he found a stall that was prepared to do a little illegal business.

That should have alerted him too.

But the jars had drawn him. Their contents were pickled in formaldehyde, but he knew the signs. These livers and kidneys and long-unseeing eyes weren't just idle collectors' items. They were a sign to the knowing that - for the right price - there were vats available, where organs could be grown.

He had lingered, examining a pendant on the next stall, and chatting with the pretty girl who was seated behind the stall. He had always had a way with words. She was blushing and bridling under his attentions, her eyes modestly lowered … not noticing, perhaps, how close a watch he was keeping on the withered old man who - from time to time - reached out a hand to caress one of his jars lovingly.

Finally, having seen the old man deal with two quick, furtive characters, he judged that his time had come. He bade the girl a teasing farewell, strolled to the next stall and casually inspected the contents of one jar. Some nameless organ - a gall bladder perhaps - floated passively in the thin yellow-green light of the liquid.

"I salute your skill," he said to the stall-holder. "A man might go far in such trade, when the objects he possesses have such value."

"It is true indeed," agreed the stallholder. "Fine wine needs no bush at the tavern door to advertise its presence. And so the quality of my products draws travellers from many far lands, such as your worship."

Piotr looked at him sharply. On one level, he supposed, it was clear enough that he was not a native of Blaskett. But on another … he hoped to pass unnoticed in the crowd. His golden hair had been stained a dull brown; his clothing was shabby, undistinguished. He even moved differently - not striding with the confidence of his youth and strength.

But there was no point in denying it now. Instead he spoke smoothly …

"But fine products can come in many forms. Jewels for example, that sparkle in the sun … "

He reached into the secret pocket inside his jacket and lifted out the small glittering stone. Faux, of course, but good faux. He held it between his fingers so that it caught the light, then … snap! It was hidden in his hand.

The old man's rheumy eyes widened fractionally and he lifted a wizened claw of a hand.

"A crystal? Let me … "

But Piotr held his hand closed. "If a man were to hold such an object, he would be foolish to part with it unless he knew that he stood to gain by it," he said. "Why, even an option has value."

"Who but a holder of the faux would attempt to argue so?" responded the stallholder with a sneer. But his eyes were glistening.

There were more things to fish for in Blaskett than cod, reflected Piotr. He let his hand move fractionally closer to the old man's … and then something made him look across at the pretty jewellery seller.

She was watching them intently - and her eyes were deepest purple.

He didn't hesitate - he was too old a hand for that. He jerked his hand back … and the old man caught at it in vain. For Piotr had turned and was moving through the crowd thronging the Exchange, pushing past the fat fishwives, the scrawny old men, the towering boxes of cod. A hand caught at his shoulder; his elbow jerked back with a speed and strength unexpected by all but Piotr himself. His would-be assailant went crashing backwards into one of the towers of flimsy wood and suddenly it tilted and fell, half burying the man who would have stopped him in a shower of shiny grey fish.

After that, concealment was useless, and Piotr trusted to his speed and his agility to keep him moving over the long passages between the stalls, aware that underfoot was slippy with the inevitable fish entrails and scales - and devoutly hoping that it would prove a greater hazard to his pursuers than to himself.

So it seemed from various crashes and curses that sped him on his way, ducking between and around stalls until he at last saw the gate that led to the sunlit Square beyond. A barrow boy was coming in, pushing a long trolley of yet more seafood - squid this time. Piotr took a deep breath - calculating.

One small jump took him to the rim of the trolley ("Hey!" cried the barrow boy indignantly) but it was only a springboard that lifted him ("You can't do … ") up and along and over … ("that!" yelled the boy) till he was landing with both feet clear of the trolley on the other side, having leapt the length of the trolley and over the head of the boy pushing it.
Then he was sprinting into the Square where the market was held.

It was not until he was passed the first three rows of stalls (only two stalls selling fish, for a mercy, with most of the rest selling vegetables, fruit or household gear) that he paused to draw breath, and look behind for pursuit. There was none. He slowed his pace to a walk, rapid at first, but slowing as he moved deeper into the marketplace, blending once more with the crowd.

Close. It had been close. Closer than at any time since that hot night in Dibraine, when he had been half asleep on the terrace, and they had nearly taken him unawares. He had killed for the first time that night …

He shook his head as he moved on, and became aware of the hunger pains gnawing him. The mounds of fruit looked so tempting too. Those apples …

And he didn't have a single sou in his wallet. It was that which had driven him into the Exchange in the first place - otherwise he never would have risked it. But now … he had no chance of buying the sweet fruit. Theft remained the only plausible alternative.

He shook his head slightly. Six months ago, pampered son of the Great City, he would never have believed that he might be reduced to this. And even now he was hesitating … intent on theta one large, juicy apple …

He stepped forward and then fell, onto his knees. It was as though someone had punched him hard, in the back. Just below his shoulder.

"You fool!" he heard, dazedly.

It wasn't just a punch though. It was sore - agonisingly sore …

"You said to stop him, Sir!"

"Stop him, you idiot! Not kill him!"

And it was getting hard … harder … to breathe. The red soreness was seeming to spread. Agonising. His thoughts seemed to slow. Focus. On the pain. Just. The. Pain.

The voices were distant now. Thin voices, fading away. Arguing.

So it was a shock to feel hands, touching him. Pulling at him, turning him over.

He blinked and screwed his eyes up against the sudden glare - then opened them carefully - just slits.

Purple eyes, staring down at him. He tried to speak in protest, but coughed instead, feeling something warm spilling from his mouth, onto his chin. He swallowed and knew the taste - his own blood.

The purple eyes were groaning dim …

"You fool!" he heard again.

He wanted to nod in agreement - but even that was suddenly to hard to do. Easier to close his eyes. Easier to let it all slip away.

Easier to die.

So he did.

The Rulers were receiving in the Great Hall at Karadon.

A vast Hall. Great fires burned in enormous hearths in the heart of the room, sixteen in all and each high and wide enough for three mounted men to ride through abreast, their smoke rising and finding its way out through carefully crafted vents high overhead. In the shadows of the walls limned by the firelight, small knots of people gathered, whispering things unheard.

Now immense dusty banners commemorating centuries old clan battles hung from the ceilings. The original material of the walls and roof had long since decayed, and over the centuries replaced with whatever was to hand ... Where the vast ceiling sagged, pillars had been brought in ... the tallest trees that could be found ... to prop up its ancient heights ...

The rich tapestries that lined the walls seemed distant jewels as one advanced over the bare stone flags ... yet all the time the petitioner moved towards glowing light, for the Rulers' dais was hung with cloth of gold, and rich ruby damask ... its floor spread with rich and venerable rugs and carpets.

Now the visitors felt they wandered through a rather sparse forest as they approached the throne itself ... Walking past knots of petitioners, courtiers and even tradespeople who had set up stalls and were selling tokens and even food in the more remote regions of the vast Hall.

At the far end of this famed Hall, on a raised dais, the petitioner - who had already walked nearly a quarter of a mile, was confronted by the High Thrones of Karadon.

Actually, it was not large in itself. But the dais and the steps to the throne had been artfully designed so that the eye was led upward ... to the pinnacle ... where sat two of the Rulers.

And here was the Lord of Shadows, gently stroking the white raven that perched on his wrist, while at his feet the great wolfhound slumbered. Occasionally, he raised his heavy lidded eyes and looked down at whatever petitioner was speaking. Rarely he spoke. More often he scrawled a note on parchment, handed it to the Chamberlain who stood next to the throne, and waved his hand in dismissal. Occasionally he turned to one of his advisers, and politely indicated that he required them to deal with this particular request.

By his side sat the Lady, waiting patiently as the Lord dealt with an hour of petitioners and their requests.

At last, the routine business was finished and the Lord raised a long white hand and beckoned the Chamberlain to him.

"Open the great doors," he said. "The Hunter approaches."

And The Chamberlain set off to walk to the great doors, to through them wide and admit the Third Ruler of Karadon.

Tall and proud, the Hunter entered, his followers in a long double line behind him …
It took him ten minutes to walk the distance from the great door doors to the dais, and the eyes of the Lord and Lady never left him throughout.

At last he stood before the dais, dark eyes fastened unwaveringly on the two before him. Behind him, his followers stretched in a double line almost to the door.

At last the Lord of Shadows spoke.

"Well?"

"It is well," replied the Hunter, his voice harshly melodious. "He has been found - and eradicated."

The Lord was still. Very still.

"It might be," he said at last, that you have exceeded your task. It might be … "

"That it was dangerous to do aught else," replied the Hunter. He held up his hand - and from it hung a thing golden chain, long enough to have held the crystal it bore against the wearer's heart.

The Lord of Shadow's eyes narrowed. But it was the Lady who spoke, her voice cold and ice, and remote.

"This must be addressed. But in private. For now, take your seat with us. For we shall dispense judgements in Karadon."