The Wounded Guardian by Duncan Lay Page A

better than his previous favourite. He wanted to make it come true but also wanted to say something that would both comfort her and sum up what it meant to have served as the Queen’s Magician. But he did not have the words and the silence grew.
    Finally Merren decided to break it, suspecting Barrett was about to make some declaration she would regret. ‘Go with Aroaril, Barrett. Make sure you come back—that is an order,’ she told him. ‘Hurry. There is much to do and I do not know when Gello might arrive.’
    Barrett, unable to think of something clever to say, simply bowed and then hurried out. The home of the Royal Magician was some distance away from the palace and he had a carriage waiting downstairs. He knew he needed to examine some maps and try to get some idea of where the thieves had gone. He was extremely worried about the Queen. He was also horribly aware of the old adage about needles in haystacks. But most distracting of all, he was refining his daydreams about her.
    So perhaps it was no surprise that he was too preoccupied to note the men in hooded cloaks who followed when his carriage rumbled out of the gate and headed for his home.
    It had been a hugely successful week of trading for the horse salesman Fredden. It had all started when he had sold a gelding for an outrageous five gold pieces! Five gold pieces! The man who was prepared to pay that sort of price—even for a horse that good—had more money than sense! He had, of course, recognised the man but had pretended not to in case he asked for a discount. But he had been quick to tell his customers that the famous Captain Martil only bought his horses from Fredden. This had led to a most profitable week, where he had sold far more of his animals, for far more gold, than he dared hope. In fact he was trying not to attract too much attention as he walked home, his profits from the week wrapped carefully in paper—so they did not clink together—and stuffed down the front of his trews. He was just congratulating himself when a hand reached out of the shadows and hauled him into an alley. He opened his mouth to shout for help when a long knife appeared under his nose.
    ‘Shout for help and you’ll be dead before the militia can hear it,’ a voice warned him.
    ‘Wh—what do you want? My purse is here…’ he fumbled for his belt purse, that contained a couple of silvers to appease thieves.
    ‘I don’t want your money. I want information. You sold a fast horse to a man earlier this week, a man willing to pay a huge price to leave the country. Who was it and where was he going? Tell me or I take your eyes, then your manhood.’
    ‘It was Captain Martil!’ Fredden gabbled, now thoroughly terrified. ‘He said he wanted to go north, live up on the Norstaline coast! That’s all I know, I swear!’
    ‘Thank you.’ The knife drove into Fredden’s eye, into his brain and through the skull, scraping on the wall behind him. Cezar lowered the twitching corpse to the ground and took the man’s money to make it look like the work of thieves. He was angry—and afraid. Markuz was going to be furious and Onzalez was going to be disappointed. Cezar was not sure what was worse.
    The regular weekly Royal Council meeting was to take place that morning, and Merren knew that was another finger pointing at Gello. Why else would the thieves choose the night before to strike? It had guaranteed the nobles would be asking questions about how the Dragon Sword could possibly have been stolen. The symbol not just of Norstalos, but of peace in Norstalos, was gone. Even those who had been sympathetic towards her would be demanding answers.
    Merren walked slowly towards the council chamber, trying to gather her thoughts. This was obviously one of the last moves in an intricate game she and Gello had been playing for years, but which had entered its final phase three years ago, when Merren’s father had died. She paused before a portrait of her father and it took all