Blood and Fate

                                                 In Antiquity…

…there was a Great War, between the Good Gods of Light and the Evil, Dark Ones.  Catastrophic devastation and carnage was visited upon all the many Lands of World and her Peoples.  The Dwarrow, Gnomen and Silv races were almost exterminated, and Humankind suffered greatly too.
         Both opposing Forces enlisted the aid of the Peoples of World, and the Gods taught Their underlings the secret Art of manipulating the hidden Forces within and without themselves, which the Peoples of World came to call Magic.  The Gods also created wondrous and terrible Creatures, to fight on Their behalf, in the Conflict that raged across all of World.
         After a cataclysmic pitched battle to the East of World, which turned a verdant plain into what is now the Broken Wastes, the Dark Ones were defeated.  Their vile Armies were scattered or destroyed, and the Evil Gods were bound and neutralised, by awesome Magic.
         The Dark Ones were then confined in prisons built by the Good Gods in cities that had been ruined during the War of the Gods, where eldritch Portals were opened to cast the Evil Gods into the Abyss, the boundless darkness between worlds.  The incredible Enchantments cast upon the Portals prevented the Dark Ones from fully returning to World ever again.
         During the course of the Great War, the Gods employed Artefacts of Power and They constructed many more, with which to arm Their allies, the Peoples of World.  The most magnificent and dreadful of these Artefacts were The Blades of Blood and Fate: the Doomsword and the Destiny Sword.  After the Great War, the Good Gods allowed the Rulers of the Peoples of World to keep those Artefacts that had been crafted for and wielded by them.  All save the Blades of Blood and Fate, which were hidden.
         The Good Gods then decided that, rather than risk another Great War and the Destruction of all that They loved so well, They would diminish and walk the many Lands of World as Endless Wanderers.  They would remain Immortal still, and Puissant, but as lesser Avatars of Themselves.  They would no longer be Giants, but merely the same size as Humans, and They would not use their Talents to manipulate the Peoples of World.
         Almost three millennia have passed since these Events, and much of the Lore from that Time has passed into the Realms of Myth and Legend, or been Forever lost in Antiquity.






















                                                 The Summons

THE acolyte walked into the antechamber of the innermost sanctum and stopped before the sentinels, who looked down, snapped to attention and pulled open the massive golden doors they flanked.
         A thick wall of impenetrable blackness, as glutinous as molasses, oozed through the doorway and into the room.  The temperature plummeted and the sentinels were swallowed up.
         With a shiver, the acolyte suppressed the primal urge to flee, and then the dark pulsed forwards and all was endless night.
         In the icy abyss, the acolyte sensed an immense presence, and she dropped to her knees.  A voice, soft and chill as a midwinter’s eve, whispered in a strange and ancient tongue.
         Images flashed through the acolyte’s mind, vivid as cherished memories, more lucid than any dream: of places that she had never been, of people she had yet to meet, of events she had not witnessed.  Bright as a beacon, in letters of eldritch flame, one word blazed in the eye of her mind.
         A name, a mission, a man: Renard.
         The darkness departed, the doors slammed shut, and the acolyte ran back the way she had come.
         The lifeless, bloodless husks of the mighty sentinels slithered to the floor, and then all was silent and still.







                                                 Chapter One
                                                     Foxhunt
                                                           I

From his vantage point, atop the western flank of the ring of hills, Renard Boldhand leaned forward in his saddle to survey the city.  Under the furious heat of the afternoon sun, adobe buildings baked, and a hazy fug of dust and smoke loitered over the flat rooftops.
         Shurin, capital of the Holy Empire of Radalath.
         Renard’s eye was drawn to the splendid gleam of marble and gold, which graced the palatial residences and temples of Shurin’s most exclusive district: the high-walled hub called the Inner Circle.  He narrowed his eyes, but the distance was too great, and Renard could not pick out the landmark he sought.
         He sat back, and slowly turned his head from left to right, to better appreciate the vista spread out before him.  On the slopes, far above the reek and clamour of the city, grandiose mansions floated: a stately armada of galleons adrift in emerald seas.  The tended estates of the rich.  Below, the poorer quarters that made up the bulk of the capital filled the valley floor, and lapped at the lower reaches of he hills.  The broad, swift waters of the Rushing River cut straight through the urban sprawl, like a clean knife slicing open a wound.  Beyond, on the eastern horizon, a range of mountains brooded, their grey heads mantled with white clouds.  Elsewhere, all that could be seen in any direction, were miles and miles of undulating plains.  Shurin was an island in a boundless ocean of green.
         A wide grin on his plump, bronzed face, Renard turned to his companion.
         ‘Race you, Jurgan,’ he said, ‘to the bottom of the hill.’
         With a wild yell, Renard rammed his heels into the flanks of his chestnut gelding, and galloped away.  The ground was good, the road baked hard as kiln-fired clay by the hot sun, and there was no other traffic to impede his progress.
         Renard’s manservant, Jurgan, huffed a theatrical sigh through his thin lips, and ignored his companion’s challenge.  His aged bones could do without the aggravation, and his swaybacked old mare was no match for Foxtrot, the pride of Renard’s stables.  Jurgan followed at a sensible pace, as the trail meandered down the gradient, and he was soon left behind.
         At the foot of the hill, Renard dragged on the reins and Foxtrot slowed to a canter, and then a trot.  Keeping hold of the reins, Renard leaped to the ground and led the gelding in a circle, while he waited for Jurgan.  Foxtrot’s chest heaved, and a fine sheen of sweat glistened on his flanks, but he held his head high and was as fresh as a morning breeze.  Renard stroked his horse’s long nose, leaned closed to his ear and praised his efforts in a tender voice, much as a proud father might laud his son.
         A small brook chuckled nearby, and the thirsty gelding rolled his eyes in that direction, but Renard would not allow Foxtrot to drink until the horse had cooled down from his run.
         Just ahead, a cluster of hovels squatted by the road like vultures flocked around a carcass, and a ragged gaggle of children shouted and played there.  Renard noticed that they were barefoot and dressed in dirty white smocks.  The urchins spotted the man and his horse, and they ran over with enthusiastic cries, their small faces curious and carefree.
         They stopped a short distance away, to shadow Renard as he walked the gelding, and hurl a zesty barrage of questions his way.  To Renard’s amusement, the children babbled in their own fluid tongue, which he did not comprehend.  A slight smile crept onto his face, and he paid his audience no heed, as he led Foxtrot over to the stream.
         While the gelding drank his fill, a small boy shuffled close, quiet and cautious as a dormouse.  Out of the corner of his eye, Renard observed the boy’s approach, but gave no sign that he was watching.  The rest of the squabble crowded together, to creep closer, in wide-eyed awe of their intrepid leader.  Encouraged by their attention, the boy stretched out his hand, to stroke the horse’s smooth firm warm strong flank.
Foxfire slurped at the cool water, and Renard pretended to be absorbed with rubbing the gelding’s sleek neck, but then a strident wail broke the spell.
         Startled, the boy scurried back to his pack and they regarded Renard, silent and solemn as housecats.  Ignoring their presence, Renard turned towards the woman, who stood in the doorway of her dishevelled dwelling, and harangued the children.  Her thin form was draped in a smock, identical to the children’s but cleaner, and her bare limbs resembled barkless sticks.  The anxiety in her scolding voice drew other mothers from their hovels, to add their ululating cries to the chorus, though none of them ventured from the sanctuary of their stoops.
         The gelding’s head came up, and he snorted and gave a little whinny; Firefox was fey and skittish, and Renard could see that the commotion unnerved him.  Renard blew into his ear, which calmed the horse, and then he vaulted up into the saddle.
         A small, black dog emerged from one of the houses and rushed over, with furious barks and yips.  The great muscles in the gelding’s hindquarters bunched and Renard gripped tight with his thighs, just as Firefox reared, his forelegs pawing at air.
         The boy who had touched the horse ran forward, grabbed the snarling mongrel, and then he returned to his friends and thrust the animal into the arms of another lad.  Held close by its owner, the dog quietened down, and Renard was able to regain control of his panicked mount.
         ‘Salaham.  Shi’im imbim alakal galla.  Ba’ak-sheesh.  Ba’ak-sheesh.’
Distracted, Renard had not heard his companion’s approach until Jurgan cried out behind him in fluent Radalathian.  The women heard his words and ceased their keening.  Jurgan appeared at his master’s side and reached into his belt-pouch.  He pulled out a handful of small copper coins and tossed them onto the ground.  As one, the children pounced on the money, to become a squealing mass of thrashing limbs.
         With a twitch of the reins, and a clack of his tongue, Jurgan urged his horse past the wrestling tangle of urchins.  Renard followed his lead.  As they rode together through the untidy bunch of hovels, Renard noticed that the women watched them with guarded expressions and wary eyes, but lowered their heads when he looked at them directly.
         ‘They fear you, my lord,’ said Jurgan.  ‘As well they should.  These people have no rights, and a wealthy merchant, such as yourself, is entitled to take from them whatever he might desire, whenever he may desire it, provided that he pays a fair price.  It is forbidden for ri’ad’shal, which, literally, translates as, ‘people of clay,’ to deny ri’ad’falla, ‘people of gold,’ anything they demand.  That includes themselves…and their children.’
Renard nodded.  Although he travelled in a strange land, many miles from the place he called home, he knew the ways of World.  Everywhere, the privileged few prospered at the expense of the troubled masses, and all that distinguished one place from any other was the degree of suffering and the width of the chasm that separated poor from rich.
The dusty road wound to the right, up a steep incline, and the shanties were left behind.
‘What, exactly, did you say to them?’  Renard said.
A pained expression on his ascetic features, Jurgan turned his bald head towards his master, adopted a scholarly tone, and began to explain.
‘Salaham,’ he said.  ‘That is, ‘Hello.’  Then, ‘shi’im imbim alakal galla,’ which means, ‘we come in peace.’  Actually, that translates as, ‘we, bringing peace, come.’  In a similar vein, in our common tongue of the West, ‘ba’ak-sheesh,’ simply means, ‘alms,’ though I must profess that I much prefer the prosody of the literal interpretation, ‘honey for bread,’ for it is more gracious than magnanimous in its meaning, would you not agree?’
Renard nodded and smiled.  He was very fond of the old scholar, and valued Jurgan’s vastly knowledgeable, endlessly inquisitive mind more than he could ever say.
‘Yes,’ said Jurgan, ‘and less insulting.  Not, ‘here is money for bread,’ but, rather, ‘I know that you have bread, for it is less than human to not have bread, however, please allow me to give you some coin, that you might purchase honey, to sweeten your bread.’  Ah, Renard, I only wish, when you were young, that I could have been your tutor, for I would not have permitted you to neglect your studies so.’
Renard laughed.  The debate was an old one, between the two men, and each knew the weight and truth behind his own and the other’s arguments.
‘And I, for my part, am glad,’ said Renard, ‘that you were not my teacher, for I would have been left with a head stuffed full of lore, and neither time, nor space, left within it for anything else.’
         They crested the rise and were silent, struck dumb by the frenetic immensity of what lay before them, for as far as their eyes could see.
         At an acute angle, the road dove sharply down into a convoluted labyrinth of streets, squares and alleyways.  Hawkers, traders, pilgrims and pickpockets: people thronged.  Their shouts and cries melded into a single, uproarious, incoherent voice.  Every junction and plaza, it seemed, harboured a bazaar.  Each flat rooftop was a garden, for there were few open spaces among the haphazard jumble of buildings: to the east, a strip of parkland abutted the river, and a rough octagon of rubble and blackened earth to the southwest marked the site of a great conflagration at some stage in Shurin’s recent past.  Atop a hill to the south, like a sun-kissed cloud castle with its alabaster walls and burnished golden domes, the heart and hub that was the Inner Circle hovered over the rest of the city.
         To Renard’s mind, the remorseless, unconsciously co-ordinated industry of her inhabitants made Shurin resemble nothing so much as a hiving anthill.  He realised his complacency in having failed to appreciate the magnitude of the capital, when he had set out from Ilensi Island ten days earlier, and how he now faced a dilemma because of that lack of regard.
         ‘Jurgan,’ he said, ‘we need to find ourselves a guide.’
         ‘Whatever for?’
         ‘We’ll never find our way through all of this.’
         Jurgan smiled, turned away, and rummaged in a saddlebag.  With a flourish, he withdrew his hand, a bound scroll brandished between his bony fingers.
         ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘prior to our departure on this illustrious peregrination, I took the liberty of paying a visit to your grandfather’s library, and borrowing this…’
         He untied the black ribbon, unfurled the yellowed square of hide, and held it aloft for Renard’s benefit.
         ‘…map of Shurin, and her environs.  As you can see, it is quite detailed, and features all the significant landmarks and places of interest.  Well, perhaps not all of them, bearing in mind its antiquity, and the fact that the city has expanded some since it was drafted.  Nevertheless, I should certainly expect that it will be sufficiently detailed to serve our meagre purposes, don’t you think?’
         Renard took the scroll, studied it, and grinned.
         ‘Most excellent, Jurgan,’ he said, ‘your diligence and studious attention to detail are to be commended in the most exemplary terms.  This masterpiece of cartographic representation shall, it is my heartfelt belief, be more than adequate unto our ends.’
         He spoiled the eloquent compliment by poking out his tongue, and then dropping a salacious wink, much to the disgust of his manservant.  Renard furled the map, slipped it into his robes, and heeled Firefox forward.  Jurgan joined him and Renard pointed towards the river.
         ‘Our best option is to make for the Water Gardens, and then follow the course of the river to the Quays.’
         ‘Very good, my lord,’ said Jurgan.  ‘Now, if I might be so bold as to carry on our conversation from where we left off earlier; we were discussing dialects, you may recall?  Well, while it is only right and fitting that the more barbarous nations should own to the basics of the common tongue prevalent among the civilised Western Realms, it is, needless to say, incumbent upon the educated man of character and good breeding to set a worthy example by ensuring that he furnish himself with at least a smattering of the language indigenous to any region in which he should choose to venture.  Would you not, my lord, concur that such familiarisation is advisable, not only for the sake of pragmatism, but also as a simple matter of common courtesy, such as might be expected from one of noble birth?’
         Renard fixed his travelling companion with a level gaze, but Jurgan continued with his supercilious diatribe oblivious, as they entered the outskirts of Shurin and began to make their way towards their destination. 
         Renard lent his manservant less than half an ear, and attuned himself with everything around him: sight, sound and smell.




                                                         II

A polite, but firm, rap on the door to his office roused Psang Lo from his afternoon nap.  Irritated by the interruption, he yawned, sat up on the divan and plumped the cushion he had been using as a pillow. 
There was another knock. 
He rose to his feet, smoothed the front of his silk robe, tugged the stiff collar and took a seat in the chair behind his desk.  He positioned a half-completed letter on the polished mahogany surface before him, lifted a goose-feather quill, dipped it in the silver inkwell and adopted the furrow-browed expression of a scholar interrupted in the course of his studies.
         ‘Please, come in,’ he said.
         The door was thrust open and the receptionist, Shalla, bustled into the room.  The girl was upset, and the negative energy that poured from her disturbed the harmony of Psang Lo’s sanctum sanctorum, much to his annoyance.  Many hours of cleansing and meditation would be required to restore the equilibrium. 
As a mark of his severe displeasure, Psang Lo did not rise to greet his guest with a bow, nor did he offer her a seat.  He simply looked up from the scroll, made his features even more stern than they already were, and dropped the quill into the inkpot.
         ‘What is it this time?’  he said.
         ‘That wastrel, Gabron,’ said Shalla.  ‘Intoxicated, Master Psang, for the third time in as many weeks.  And, before you ask, Master Psang, I simply cannot send him home to sleep it off and cover his shift this evening, as I did that last time.  My cousin, Cheena, is to be wed tomorrow morning.  You know this, Master Psang, and I arranged for the time off two months ago, and my bridesmaid’s gown is still at the dressmaker’s, and I have an appointment with the hairdresser that I cannot possibly afford to miss, and then there is the formal dinner for the families this evening that I simply must attend, and…and…’
         The girl broke down and Psang Lo raised an elegant hand to silence her sobs.  Although he seemed calm, inside, he was furious and his mind raced.  As Master of the most exclusive hotel in Shurin, Psang Lo was a paragon of diplomacy, when it came to matters that concerned the reputation of the establishment that he regarded as his own. 
He recalled that the groom-to-be had booked the Peacock Room to host the post-nuptial festivities and one of the Ambassador Hotel’s bridal suites, albeit the least costly of the four available, for the consummation of the marriage.  Psang Lo could no more ask the bridesmaid to cancel her arrangements and man the reception desk than he could do what he was tempted to do: take the ceremonial sword from the wall and use it to publicly disembowel that dishonourable scoundrel, Gabron. 
         Psang Lo cursed the day that he had taken the shiftless Gabron into his employ.  A superstitious man, the Master had consulted the star-reader, Lady Sinstral, when Gabron’s father had first approached him about hiring his only son.  Typically, the mystic’s advice had been ambiguous and enigmatic, and she had predicted that Gabron was the flawed and wearisome key that would open a door to great opportunity.  The fact that Gabron’s father was Tonstin Broadarm, the prosperous property tycoon, casino-owner and confederate of the Brotherhood of the Black Guard had also clouded Psang Lo’s judgment.  Better by far, he had believed at the time, to have a dangerous friend than a deadly foe.  At first, despite Gabron’s arrogance, the arrangement had been an agreeable one.  However, as the Master become more friendly with and indebted to his employee’s father, things had gone downhill.
         When it came to his staff, Psang Lo had a rule, which he enforced with the strictest rigidity: three mistakes, accidental or deliberate, and they were straight out the door and onto the street.  No excuses.  No exceptions.  He could not and would not permit the nature of his relationship with Tonstin to interfere with what he knew must be done.
         Resolved to act, Psang Lo stood and moved around his desk, to clasp one of Shalla’s hands in both of his.  A small, neat man, his posture and every movement bespoke a lifetime of understated decorum and grace.  He stepped back, slipped a silk handkerchief from the sleeve of his robe, and passed it to her.  Gratefully, Shalla accepted it, dabbed at her eyes and regained her professional composure.
         ‘I shall deal with this matter personally,’ said Psang Lo.
         He clasped his hands behind his back and glided from the room.  Startled, Shalla followed him out to the reception desk, where she watched him approach her drunken colleague.
         Gabron stood with his back to the marble counter, arms folded across his chest and a cocksure smirk on his narrow face, the utter contempt he felt towards his employer apparent in his muddy brown eyes.  When Psang Lo drifted close, Gabron opened his mouth to speak but before he could utter a syllable, the Master delivered a backhanded slap to his cheek.  The sound of the blow was very loud in the quiet foyer and a vivid patch of pink bloomed on Gabron’s pale skin.
         Much taller and heavier than his aggressor, Gabron was too shocked to react for a moment, and then he lurched forward.  In one fluid motion, Psang Lo sidestepped the clumsy lunge and caught Gabron by the wrist and tripped him, and then he twisted his arm up his back.  The pain cut through the alcohol and the drunkard yelled. 
The Master leaned close and spoke in Gabron’s ear.  His voice was pitched too low for Shalla to hear what he said, but she saw that Gabron flinched, as if each word were another blow.
         Someone applauded, and it was only then that she noticed the two men, waiting on the other side of the reception counter.  She hurried towards them, but Psang Lo was quicker, and he slipped away from Gabron to greet the guests.
         ‘Good afternoon, nobles.  I am Master Psang Lo.  Welcome to the Ambassador Hotel.  How may I be of assistance?’
         The taller of the two men, gaunt, with a bald head and mournful features stared at the figure of the young man sprawled on the floor.  Gabron picked himself up and stumbled away from his employer, head tucked down, without a backwards glance. 
A merchant, judging by his rich garments and well-fed face, the shorter guest drew his companion aside and the pair conferred.  The corpulent merchant murmured and the servant nodded his smooth head.  Gabron scurried past them and out the door onto the street.  The lanky man then returned to the counter, stooped over the Master of the hotel, and spoke in his ear.  Without turning to look at her, Psang Lo addressed Shalla in a quiet, crisp voice.
         ‘Thank you, Shalla.  That will be all.  You may go now.  I can take over from here.  Please be so good as to have someone send for Melora before you leave.’
         Curiosity made her hesitate, for the Master never worked the reception area, but then Shalla remembered her engagements and she turned and walked towards the corridor that led to the staff entrance at the back of the building.  She glanced back, once, and saw that the new guests were seated at a table in the foyer.  Then, Shalla put the matter from her mind, for she had much to do in preparation for her cousin’s wedding.  She needed to hurry, or she would miss her appointment with the hairdresser, and Cheena would never forgive her.
         Renard sent Jurgan over to the desk for writing materials and a lit candle and, upon his manservant’s return, dictated a brief letter.  When Jurgan had finished transcribing in his elegant hand, Renard signed the letter Baron Harsal Elderhal, and then he scrolled the parchment and sealed it with wax dripped from the candle and pressed his signet ring into the seal.  A stylised wolf, seated and howling, under a full moon: the crest of the Elderhal family was impressed upon the circle of wax. 
A lad, employed by the hotel as a messenger boy, stood near the main entrance.  Renard beckoned him over, and had Jurgan pay him to deliver the sealed scroll to the merchant, Rablas al Alif.
         Although he had never before had call to visit Shurin, Renard’s forebears had established investments the length and breadth of World, and the Boldhand family name conferred status among people in places that Renard was familiar with only because of their appearance in his financial records. 
For three generations, and a healthy percentage in commissions, the al Alif mercantile dynasty had overseen the legacy born under Renard’s grandfather.  Wulfgar Boldhand’s speculation in a half-dozen galleys to transport commodities from the east of the continent to the west, and vice versa, had paid dividends.  Steered by the shrewd hands of successive al Alifs, the venture had expanded to include some fifty vessels, trade caravans, the Ambassador Hotel and an extensive portfolio of other properties, and part-ownership of a lucrative diamond mine.
         Thanks to the entrepreneurial acumen of his ancestors, coupled with his own keen eye for profitable acquisitions, Renard had access to personal wealth that outstripped the treasuries of some of the kingdoms of World.  Through a convoluted system of pseudonyms, phantom investors and shadowy intermediaries, only a select few were aware of the full extent of Renard’s assets.  He went to considerable lengths to ensure that none of his associates realised just how deep his pockets were.  Kings had gone to war for lesser gain.  As far as Rablas al Alif was concerned, Renard’s grandfather, Wulfgar, had been one Baron Ruud Elderhal of Kynar, and Renard was Harsal, the descendant of that ghost.
         A smartly-attired waitress came over and laid a tray of refreshments on the table: a silver jug filled with red wine, fine crystal goblets, and a colourful assortment of fresh fruits.  Renard nodded and Jurgan handed her a small silver coin.  With a curtsey, she thanked them, and then she moved off. 
Jurgan filled the goblets, tasted his own and then passed the other to his master, satisfied that the wine had not been poisoned.  A small smile of satisfaction on his fleshy face, Renard sat back in the padded armchair, sipped the excellent wine and admired his magnificent hotel.
         Jurgan might have been surprised to learn that, almost two months earlier, when he had received the commission that was to bring him to Shurin, Renard had decided to find out as much as he could about the foreign city.  That had involved many hours studying his grandfather’s written account of his experiences of the city.  Renard had also corresponded with various individuals, legitimate and disreputable, to broaden his knowledge and bring himself up-to-date with current affairs in Shurin and the Holy Empire of Radalath. 
As he admired his opulent surroundings, and enjoyed the wine, Renard considered what he had learned.
         An imposing monument of a building, The Ambassador Hotel stood on the outermost fringe of the most cosmopolitan and corrupt section of Shurin, the Quays.  Like iron filings drawn by a magnet, mariners and wayfarers from many of the Western Realms gravitated towards and clustered around the docklands and the river that had brought many of them to Shurin, which was reflected in the architecture in the area and the fact that few native Radalathians dwelt in this part of their own city.
         Hunted and exiled from their homelands, murderers, thugs and thieves haunted the narrow byways of the quarter.  Lawlessness abounded and the city authorities had negotiated a compact with the local Chapter of the Brotherhood of the Black Guard: provided that Radalathian merchants and citizens, and their interests, were treated as being sacrosanct and the nefarious denizens confined their illicit activities to the Quays, the Brotherhood could govern the district as they saw fit.
         Rather than see their homes, persons and premises targeted by arsonists and robbers, every businessman and artisan in the Quays paid a monthly levy to the Chapterhouse of the Brotherhood for protection.  On top of racketeering, the Chapter operated a broad range of establishments, enterprises and scams: from classy brothels to poxy whorehouses, high-stakes casinos to crooked gambling dens, elaborate embezzlements to petty street cons, organised squads of cutpurses to unsophisticated footpads, professional assassins to lumbering hired blades.  Every shape, manner and size of villain prowled the Quays and a portion of the profits from every criminal act committed in the area found its way into the coffers of the Chapterhouse.
         All of these monies, and the influence they conferred, had been under the exclusive control of one man for almost two decades: Venal Slickfinger, Thief Lord of Shurin, Grandmaster of the city’s Chapter of the Brotherhood of the Black Guard and the man that Renard would have to meet that night.
         The messenger boy reappeared and handed Renard a despatch.  Renard examined the wax seal on the end of the wooden tube.  It bore an imprint of the al Alif family crest: five stars, with a galley sailing below them.  He had Jurgan tip the lad, and then he broke the seal, and emptied the contents of the cylinder out onto the table: a vellum scroll and a steel key on a thick chain.  Once he had unfurled the scroll, and scanned the contents, Renard turned and caught the eye of the Master of the Ambassador Hotel.
         Psang Lo beckoned a subordinate, who stood near the main entrance, and had him take over the reception desk.  He then walked over to the table, where Renard handed him the scroll, which he read.  Psang Lo blanched, bowed, and returned the scroll.  It declared that the man who held it was none other than who he had already claimed to be: Harsal Elderhal, Baron of Kynar, and owner of the Ambassador Hotel.  The letter was signed by Rablas al Alif.
         ‘My most humble and sincere apologies, my lord,’ Psang Lo said.  ‘I pray that you will forgive the rudeness and lack of trust that I regretfully exhibited towards you, when first we met?’
         Renard spoke in his manservant’s ear and Jurgan relayed his words to Psang Lo.
         ‘The Baron accepts your apology and suggests that you put your mind at ease and consider the matter already forgotten, for we live in suspicious times and the man who is indiscriminate about where he places his trust is an indiscreet fool.  Most certainly not the type of man to serve as Master of the Ambassador Hotel, that most prized of jewels among all the Baron’s holdings here in Shurin.’
         ‘Thank you, my lord,’ Psang Lo said, ‘for your understanding and forgiveness.’
         Renard muttered and Jurgan addressed the Master.
         ‘The Baron has enquired as to whether we might adjourn together to a more private location?  There are some matters of import that he wishes to discuss.’
         ‘If the Baron would care to follow me,’ said Psang Lo, ‘we can use my personal chambers.’
         As the Master led the way to his office, his mind was awhirl with unanswered questions.  What could have brought the owner of the Ambassador Hotel to Shurin, and what did his appearance, unannounced and unexpected, portend?  How would he react to having witnessed the Master of his illustrious establishment physically assaulting one of his staff?  All of the best suites were occupied or reserved by clients, so, where would the Baron stay?  Where was his retinue?  Surely, the manservant was not the only retainer in his employ? 
Psang Lo mused that, were a nobleman from his homeland of Chanas to decide to venture abroad, he would be accompanied by a retinue of at least twenty attendants, not to mention a personal bodyguard.  The Baron, however, was a Westerner. 
In the twenty years that he had been employed at the hotel, working his way up from a lowly waiter to his current position, Psang Lo had witnessed the bizarre eccentricities of those barbarous peoples many times.  The logic behind the Westerners’ interpretations of the ideals of decorous and honourable behaviour was incomprehensible to the Master.  Nobility seemed to confer a boundless degree of wealth, privilege and personal freedom, with almost no ancillary responsibility to discourage hedonistic and sybaritic excesses.  Westerners were worse than children, for children could be chastised by their elders and betters, and thus learn the error of their ways.
         Psang Lo came to the door of his office, opened it and stepped back until the Baron and his manservant had gone in, and then he followed and pulled the door closed behind.  With his hands clasped behind his back, the Baron strutted around the perimeter of the room like a little gamecock, while his manservant crossed the floor and seated himself in the Master’s chair behind the broad desk.  Psang Lo masked his annoyance at this disrespectful gesture and moved over to the spot, facing the manservant, where his subordinates usually stood when he summoned them into his office. 
         ‘The Baron,’ said Jurgan, ‘has instructed me to enlighten you about a few particulars concerning his presence here in Shurin.  Before I begin, I should warn you that what you are about to hear must be kept in the strictest confidence, for I do not exaggerate matters by saying that the Baron’s welfare, even his very life, may well depend on your discretion.  With that in mind, I have to ask you, Psang Lo, Master of the Ambassador Hotel, for your word that you will, on your honour, act in a manner befitting your position and the trust that the Baron is placing in you.’
         Psang Lo turned to face the Baron, who regarded him with an anxious, expectant expression.
         ‘My lord, I would sooner surrender my life, and do so willingly, than divulge so much as a word of your private affairs to any individual.  That, I do solemnly swear, upon my honour and the honour of my fathers before me.’
         The Baron nodded, and then he made his way across the room, to stand behind his manservant and murmur in his ear.
         ‘Very well,’ Jurgan said.  ‘The Baron is satisfied as to your integrity and wishes to express his heartfelt gratitude.  As you are no doubt aware, the Baron’s estates lie far to the West, in the Realm of Kynar.  Due to a most unfortunate incident, the details of which are somewhat delicate and do not concern you, he has found himself obliged to depart the ancestral seat and venture abroad, until certain intermediaries have had the opportunity to act on his behalf and settle the dispute in a manner that is deemed satisfactory to those who perceive themselves as the aggrieved parties.
‘I understand that what I am telling you may seem somewhat obtuse, Psang Lo.  I can, however, assure you that the Baron is wholly innocent of the spurious charges that have been laid against him by a particularly insalubrious and avaricious faction.  For that reason, I refuse to sully my lord’s good character by repeating those vile and groundless allegations.’
         The manservant rose, placed his hands flat on the desk, and glowered down at Psang Lo.  Meanwhile, the Baron once more took to pacing around the confines of the room, like a beast in a cage.
         ‘Unfortunately,’ Jurgan said, ‘one of my lord’s accusers has employed a team of hired killers to hunt down the Baron and bring back his head as a trophy.  These immoral assassins are, regrettably, purportedly as efficient and deadly, as they are iniquitous.  Due to this heinous threat on his life, my lord has, perspicaciously, decided to go into hiding, and that is why he has travelled here incognito, and must remain so, should anyone arrive at the hotel and enquire as to his whereabouts. 
‘That, Psang Lo, is where you come in.  No one else here can learn the Baron’s identity, and it is up to you to ensure that his anonymity remains intact.  To assist you in that regard, my lord has cleverly pretended to be a merchant, from the Kingdom of Beldaron, which is one of Kylar’s neighbours.  You seem confused, Psang Lo.  Is there something that you do not understand?’
         ‘Not as such,’ said Psang Lo.  ‘While I have grasped all you have said here, a few of your comments have given rise to certain questions.’
         ‘Very well,’ Jurgan said, ‘carry on.’
         ‘I could not help but wonder that, if these assassins you mentioned are as accomplished as you imply, it seems possible, perhaps even probable, that they will investigate the Baron’s holdings outside of Kynar, and thus succeed in tracking him down to this particular hotel?’
         ‘I see what you mean,’ said Jurgan, ‘and the Baron has already considered that eventuality.  Yes, he could seek shelter elsewhere in Shurin, or another city, for that matter.  However, my lord has decided that, if his hunters are capable of finding him here, they will find him anywhere.  The difference is that, should they come to this hotel, you will be here to send them on their way, or, if all else fails, warn him that they have found him.’
         ‘Rest assured that I can lie most convincingly,’ Psang Lo said, ‘should the need arise, and have done so, for the benefit of clients, on innumerable occasions.  I must profess that I am also curious to know why, considering the peril the Baron faces, he has not employed a bodyguard to protect him from these slayers?’
         ‘Hired swords cannot be trusted,’ said Jurgan.  ‘They will readily switch allegiances and betray their principle, should his adversaries offer them sufficient financial incentive to do so.  Also, anyone who travels with a band of sentries is bound to attract attention.  You should understand that.  Has it not long been the custom in Chanas for even the most insignificant of officials to surround himself with armed guards, that others might be aware of his status, irrespective of any actual threat to his person?’
         Psang Lo bowed, gratified that the Westerner recognised his nationality, and seemed conversant with the customs of his people.  Nevertheless, he intuited that the manservant was weaving a pretty web of lies, purely for his benefit and could not begin to fathom the rationale behind the deception.  He resolved to ignore any further inconsistencies in Jurgan’s account and conduct his own investigation into the affair.
         With great attentiveness, he listened while Jurgan explained that the Baron should be known only as the merchant Ralgath of Aldaborn, a city in northern Beldaron.  He maintained his rapt expression as the manservant explained how this Ralgath was a notorious miser and eremite, who had not ventured from the grounds of his mansion or made any appearance in public for over a decade, which made the likelihood of anyone realising that the Baron was not who he claimed to be almost non-existent.  Psang Lo hearkened throughout the Westerner’s request that his lord be sequestered in a particular room in the western wing of the hotel that overlooked the stables, and the explanation that the Baron had selected these less than commodious quarters in which to confine himself in order to further confound his enemies, while also refracting any unwarranted interest in his presence in the hotel.
         Throughout Jurgan’s fascinating and convincing account, Psang Lo became assured in his conviction that he was being spoon-fed an elegantly-wrought but insubstantial confection, composed entirely of falsehood and deceit.  It struck him that, were the Baron genuinely in the position he claimed to be in, he would explain a lot less and demand much more than he was doing.  Intrigued by the intrigue, the Master of the Ambassador Hotel waited with considerable patience until Jurgan had recounted all that he had to say, and then Psang Lo summoned a porter to lead his mysterious new guests to the room they had so pointedly selected.
         When they were gone, he walked from his office and went over to the reception desk.  He saw that Melora had arrived, to replace the dismissed Gabron, and Psang Lo informed her that he would be out for the evening and she was in charge until he returned. 
He left the hotel, approached one of the traps that waited outside, instructed the driver to take him to the home of the merchant Rablas al Alif, and then he climbed in and sat down on the padded bench. 
The driver flicked his reins and the horse pulled the open vehicle along the cobbled street.











                                                       III

WHEN they arrived at their room, Renard looked around and took stock of his surroundings, while Jurgan sent the porter to fetch their saddlebags and other belongings from the stables. 
         The chamber was spacious, long and broad, with plenty of room for the two wide beds set against the far wall and the other furnishings that stood on the marbled floor.  Sunlight poured in through two sets of glass-panelled doors, which let onto a long balcony that featured a polished bronze guardrail, and a wooden table and chairs.
‘What did you make of Master Lo, old friend?’  Renard said.
‘He is an interesting little man, is he not?’  said Jurgan.  ‘Very self-contained and inscrutable.  Traits I have observed in most Chanasi people.  A man of hidden depths.  I fear I underestimated him.  However, I do believe that the cruellest of tortures would not compel him to reveal your secret.’
He walked over to the pair of tall upholstered armchairs by the fireplace and sat down, while Renard crossed the room to the door between the beds, which opened onto an en-suite bathroom.  He looked in and ran his eyes over the built-in marble bath and toilet. 
‘Yes,’ said Renard.  ‘You do know that he didn’t believe a word of our story?’
Jurgan turned around in his seat and glowered, as Renard walked over to the other armchair, to lean against it with his arms draped over the back. 
‘My Lord?’
‘We can drop the pretence for now,’ said Renard.  ‘We are unobserved.  I suspect that he has not only seen through the tale we concocted, but has taken it upon himself to investigate my credentials.  He’s probably on his way to see Rablas al Alif as we speak.’
There was a knock at the door just as Jurgan opened his mouth.  He got up from his chair to admit the porter, who laid their luggage against the wall and left the room without taking his eyes off the floor, speaking a single word or pausing in the hope of a tip.  Jurgan turned the key in the door and returned to his seat, where he settled himself, closed his eyes and sighed.
‘Well-trained staff,’ Renard said.  ‘Very respectful and discreet.  Master Lo runs a tight ship.  Speaking of ships, a proper bed will be pleasant after five days on the galley.’
‘After being in the saddle since dawn,’ said Jurgan, ‘I’m grateful for the seat.’
‘Old bones.’
‘In an old man.  Psang Lo won’t learn anything from Rablas al Alif.  As far as the merchant is concerned, you really are Baron Harsal Elderhal of Kynar, and his grandfather worked for yours.  Although, he may be surprised to learn of your recent troubles.’
‘You forget,’ said Renard, ‘that Master Lo will not divulge so much as a hint of our secrets, whether he believes them or not.  Whatever suspicions he might have, he will harbour them in his own heart.’
He pulled off his riding boots, walked across the room barefoot and began to disrobe, casting the discarded garments of his disguise onto the bed.
‘I could find a use for such a man,’ he said.  ‘Employees of his calibre are rare, and I don’t want to lose him when I dispose of my interests here.  Reehna manages my estates competently enough when you and I are abroad, but I reckon that Master Lo could run things almost as smoothly as you do.  I need your help with these knots.’
Jurgan rose and went over to undo the leather straps tied around Renard’s body that held the pillows in place, which freed Renard’s hands, allowing him to remove the padding from inside his mouth.  With a handkerchief, he wiped his saliva from the little red salt-filled satin bags, and then he set them aside.  Jurgan removed the black horsehair wig and Renard ran a hand through his cropped golden locks. 
Naked as a newborn, he sat down on the edge of the bed, while Jurgan crossed the room to his saddlebags.
‘I need you to go out,’ Renard said, ‘once you’re finished with this disguise.’
Jurgan came back over with a silver flask.  He poured clear liquor onto a handkerchief and used it to rub the dye from Renard’s face.
‘Leave your horse here and take a trap down to the docks.  Check on Captain Pelad, and then pay a visit to the Chapterhouse of the Brotherhood of the Black Guard and leave word that The Golden Fox wishes to meet with their Grandmaster, Venal Slickfinger tonight.  You will be followed back to the hotel, but don’t concern yourself.  I want them to know where I am.’
Jurgan stood back and surveyed his handiwork.
‘Eyebrows off or on?’  he said.
‘Leave them on.  While you’re out, get me a worn cloak.  A hooded one.’
Jurgan made for the door and Renard followed him to unlock it and let him out.
‘Get me a crutch as well, if you can,’ said Renard.
‘The one-legged beggar?  Should I borrow Captain Pelad’s eye-patch, as well?’
‘No need to be facetious.  Old tricks work best.’
‘Yes, yes’ said Jurgan, ‘but the one-legged beggar?  Why not try the blind man?’
‘Never liked it much.  Might work well for Hsieh warriors and Kunju assassins in the tales, but Yosihago advised against its use when I studied with him in Korashon.  Only a few are able to master the technique and the deception imposes too many limitations.  Besides, the moment when the blind man can suddenly see only shocks the gullible, and Venal Slickfinger will be anything but that.’
Jurgan nodded and walked towards the stairs.