deed has been apprehended and
justice served. You are to be commended for your efforts and I trust fanciful theories pertaining to this matter will be discouraged.”
‘I . . .’ Brandt looked up with a bewildered and pained expression, one I recognised only too well from my past.
Rising, I took the papers from where Brandt had left them and dropped them into the empty fireplace. I had no intention of actually setting them alight, but the look in Brandt’s eyes
showed I had secured the desired reaction of resigned agreement.
‘This isn’t the first time, trust me. The concerns of the king are not ours. Not justice, not the facts that detail each movement and action, not whatever you think of as truth.
Truth is, to him, merely a weapon; a tool to use for whatever—’
He raised a hand to cut my feeble speech short. With an effort that seemed to add twenty years to him, Brandt lifted himself from his seat and made his way to the door.
‘I’ve heard enough of your stories to know what you mean – and seen the king greet you personally, which tells me enough of their validity. You’ve been more of a father
to me than my true sire. If you’ve lived with it and keep a respect for yourself then so can I.’
He paused and stood a little taller before he continued. ‘Then so must I. I’ve always trusted your guiding hand when I couldn’t see the way myself. I hope you’ll explain
to me one day, but until then I’ll follow.’
He reached the door and then turned with a curious expression on his face. ‘Tell me one thing though. With the circles you run in now, who was it that wrote the book – the book that
disproved the existence of the Azaer cult?’
I gave him a weak smile, no humour in it but a trace of pride in the instincts he’d learned at my side.
‘A friend.’
A MAN COLLECTING SPIRITS
Morghien looked up at the man staring at him from the next table. A blacksmith’s brawn, a mule’s face and a pig farmer’s smell – this wasn’t
encouraging. Ever since Morghien had sat down with his beer and taken that first blessed mouthful, mule-face had been glaring at him. It was late afternoon and the village tavern had a half-dozen
patrons, but only this one was giving him the evil eye.
Grey-haired and old enough to be unsure of when his prime had been, Morghien cut a nondescript figure at the best of times. The life of a restless wanderer did little for a man’s
appearance and his face bore the marks of two lifetimes, neither of which had been a whole lot of fun. It wasn’t often he felt over-dressed in a tavern, but his soon-to-be adversary
wasn’t even wearing boots. Everything below the man’s knee was caked in pale, crusting mud and his shirt was torn in several places.
The farmer had clearly been working all day rather than drinking and Morghien guessed it had been the summer sun that turned the farmer’s mood rather than beer. Lady Midday’s
whispers normally made a man faint or heave his guts, but Morghien had seen enough of the Land’s strangeness to rule nothing out.
Gods, he can’t be sizing me up, can he?
Morghien wondered with a sinking feeling.
I look older than his father, what sort of shit-brained hick could think he needs to prove
himself against me?
Morghien gave the man a wide, friendly grin. It didn’t seem to improve matters. The farmer’s hand tightened into a fist and he didn’t take his eyes off Morghien even as he
drained his own beer.
There he goes. So much for a quiet drink.
‘Bit early isn’t it?’ Morghien called, quiet enough that only the folk nearest him paid any attention.
‘You talkin’ to me?’
Morghien blinked. ‘My apologies – I assumed looking straight at you when I spoke would’ve been clue enough.’
‘You tryin’ to be smart?’
‘Doubt your reaction’s going to be much different either way,’ Morghien muttered under his breath. ‘Yes, I’m talking to you; you’ve been glaring at
justice served. You are to be commended for your efforts and I trust fanciful theories pertaining to this matter will be discouraged.”
‘I . . .’ Brandt looked up with a bewildered and pained expression, one I recognised only too well from my past.
Rising, I took the papers from where Brandt had left them and dropped them into the empty fireplace. I had no intention of actually setting them alight, but the look in Brandt’s eyes
showed I had secured the desired reaction of resigned agreement.
‘This isn’t the first time, trust me. The concerns of the king are not ours. Not justice, not the facts that detail each movement and action, not whatever you think of as truth.
Truth is, to him, merely a weapon; a tool to use for whatever—’
He raised a hand to cut my feeble speech short. With an effort that seemed to add twenty years to him, Brandt lifted himself from his seat and made his way to the door.
‘I’ve heard enough of your stories to know what you mean – and seen the king greet you personally, which tells me enough of their validity. You’ve been more of a father
to me than my true sire. If you’ve lived with it and keep a respect for yourself then so can I.’
He paused and stood a little taller before he continued. ‘Then so must I. I’ve always trusted your guiding hand when I couldn’t see the way myself. I hope you’ll explain
to me one day, but until then I’ll follow.’
He reached the door and then turned with a curious expression on his face. ‘Tell me one thing though. With the circles you run in now, who was it that wrote the book – the book that
disproved the existence of the Azaer cult?’
I gave him a weak smile, no humour in it but a trace of pride in the instincts he’d learned at my side.
‘A friend.’
A MAN COLLECTING SPIRITS
Morghien looked up at the man staring at him from the next table. A blacksmith’s brawn, a mule’s face and a pig farmer’s smell – this wasn’t
encouraging. Ever since Morghien had sat down with his beer and taken that first blessed mouthful, mule-face had been glaring at him. It was late afternoon and the village tavern had a half-dozen
patrons, but only this one was giving him the evil eye.
Grey-haired and old enough to be unsure of when his prime had been, Morghien cut a nondescript figure at the best of times. The life of a restless wanderer did little for a man’s
appearance and his face bore the marks of two lifetimes, neither of which had been a whole lot of fun. It wasn’t often he felt over-dressed in a tavern, but his soon-to-be adversary
wasn’t even wearing boots. Everything below the man’s knee was caked in pale, crusting mud and his shirt was torn in several places.
The farmer had clearly been working all day rather than drinking and Morghien guessed it had been the summer sun that turned the farmer’s mood rather than beer. Lady Midday’s
whispers normally made a man faint or heave his guts, but Morghien had seen enough of the Land’s strangeness to rule nothing out.
Gods, he can’t be sizing me up, can he?
Morghien wondered with a sinking feeling.
I look older than his father, what sort of shit-brained hick could think he needs to prove
himself against me?
Morghien gave the man a wide, friendly grin. It didn’t seem to improve matters. The farmer’s hand tightened into a fist and he didn’t take his eyes off Morghien even as he
drained his own beer.
There he goes. So much for a quiet drink.
‘Bit early isn’t it?’ Morghien called, quiet enough that only the folk nearest him paid any attention.
‘You talkin’ to me?’
Morghien blinked. ‘My apologies – I assumed looking straight at you when I spoke would’ve been clue enough.’
‘You tryin’ to be smart?’
‘Doubt your reaction’s going to be much different either way,’ Morghien muttered under his breath. ‘Yes, I’m talking to you; you’ve been glaring at
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