The Firemane Saga

‘The two eldest sons,’ said Daylon. ‘Both fell in battle.’

Steveren Langene, the last king of Ithrace, watched in silent rage and torment as his family was slaughtered before his eyes. Daylon almost physically winced at the sight of a man he loved like a brother losing his ability to stand unaided. Two soldiers gripped the ends of Steveren’s restraining yoke, holding him upright on his knees as he began to collapse. The last to die was his wife of over thirty years, his queen, and the mother of his children. She fought when her hair was grabbed, not to avoid death but so that she could see her husband’s face as her life fled.

‘There’s no glory here,’ muttered Rodrigo.

‘Our four remaining kings wish to ensure there is no doubt that the line of the Firemanes is done.’

As soldiers dragged the dead off the platform, Lodavico felt the need to reiterate all the fabricated sins of the Firemanes, embellishing the lies with innuendo that even more perfidy and treachery might yet be uncovered. ‘Will this ever end?’ whispered Rodrigo.

Finally, they came to the king. Lodavico finished his speech and stepped aside as a soldier moved forward, a large two-hand sword in his grip. As others held Steveren’s yoke firmly, lowering it until he was on his knees, the soldier measured the distance from the wooden collar to the base of the king’s skull, then with a single circular swing he brought round the blade and cleanly sliced head from shoulders.

The crowd cheered, again with no real conviction. As if disappointed by the lack of enthusiasm, Lodavico motioned for the headsman to pick up the dead king’s head by its flame-red hair and then he shouted, ‘Behold the fate of a betrayer!’

Again came a weak response.

Lodavico looked at the hundreds of soldiers before him, as if trying to memorize their faces for a future accounting. His forehead creased as he scowled, his lower jaw protruding as if ready to challenge the entire army to a fight. The awkward moment was broken when Mazika Koralos, king of Zindaros, shouted, ‘Finish tending the dead and wounded, eat, and rest, for at dawn we march to Ithra!’ This brought a more enthusiastic cheer and the men began to leave.

Daylon turned away and saw an unspoken question in Rodrigo’s expression. Softly, almost through clenched teeth, Daylon said, ‘A king executing a king? On the field of battle is one thing, but this murder?’ He locked eyes with Rodrigo. ‘It is not done.’

‘You killed Genddor of Balgannon, after you took his castle.’ There was a hint of challenge in that statement.

‘He was no king,’ answered Daylon. ‘He was a usurper and pretender. And I killed him as he stood at bay in his great hall. Besides, Balgannon was no kingdom.’

‘No more,’ agreed Rodrigo, ‘since Ilcomen annexed it.’ He sighed. ‘It was hardly a real barony. Genddor’s father was nothing but a puffed-up warlord. You should have kept it for yourself.’ He looked around and saw the men moving away from the platform, so he nodded to Daylon that they too should depart.

Walking down the hillside, Daylon said, ‘Now comes the reward.’

Rodrigo said, ‘So, the riches of Ithrace are ours for the taking?’

Daylon put his hand on his old friend’s shoulder for a moment. ‘You can have my share, I will march my men home. I am tired of this.’

Daylon had been one of the few free barons who were truly independent and unallied. The rulers of Marquensas and Copper Hills had sworn to no king, but most of the remaining thirty barons had social or monetary obligations that effectively bound them to one of the great monarchs, at least until debts were repaid or obligations discharged.

‘Your oathmen won’t object?’ asked Rodrigo.

‘My oathmen are free to travel with Their Majesties,’ Daylon replied dryly. ‘I have no plans to campaign again soon, so should they wish to wager blood against gold, so be it. My castellans will come with me without complaint. I provide for them well enough.’

‘You may feel free to choose, my friend,’ said Rodrigo, ‘but from Lodavico’s mood, your departure may be seen as insult. He might not care that mercenaries and other lowborn left without his leave … you are hardly anonymous.’

‘He’s going to be too busy fighting over Ithrace to notice I’m not there.’ He shrugged as if it was of no concern. ‘And if he does notice, he will not dare make an open issue of it, lest he offend the other free barons.’

Rodrigo forced a smile. ‘You are so well loved, then, my friend?’

Daylon returned his faint smile. ‘No, but should my freehold and lands be taken by Lodavico, what is your first thought, Rodrigo?’

‘Who’s next?’ he conceded. Rodrigo paused, stopping where he would leave Daylon to make his way back to his own encampment. ‘You’ve thought this through.’

‘I have. All that I have done I did to ensure my family and people’s survival. Lodavico is covetous, and more than a little mad, but he’s not stupid.’ Daylon gestured towards the carnage around them. ‘A stupid man cannot scheme to end a rival kingdom in a single day. Lodavico planned this for a long time and in great detail, and he paid no small sum of gold to make it happen.

‘So, would he turn on me out of spite?’ Daylon shrugged and let out a small sigh of fatigue. ‘He knows that every free baron, and their oathmen, would think as we do; and while alone none of us are a threat, united we could end his rule.’

Rodrigo nodded in agreement. ‘More than a few of Lodavico’s oathmen would seize the opportunity to change their allegiance if all the free barons rose at once: he does not treat them gently. Release from his yoke would be worth the risk.’

‘The day will almost certainly come, my friend, when Lodavico has earned enough ire to force an alliance of enemies, but that day is still years away. Too many rivalries have been exploited, too much distrust seeded among those who need to unite against Sandura, and too many willing to support him out of fear, or hope of benefit.’

Daylon took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then with a wry smile he said, ‘Yes, that day will come, but not today.’

Rodrigo was thoughtful for a moment, and then dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. ‘Well, return home to that young wife of yours. If I don’t go on to Ithra, I’ll have rebellion to deal with: my castellans haven’t been paid for a while and I need my share of the booty to cover wages and leave us a little besides.’

‘Scavenge well, my friend,’ said Daylon with a faint smile. The friends gripped each other by the right hand and touched chests. ‘But a word of warning,’ Daylon spoke quietly in Rodrigo’s ear. ‘A wise man prepares for the next war after his last battle, not when it is already sweeping across his land.’ He locked gazes with his friend. ‘As I said, that war is coming, not soon, but eventually. The balance of power has shifted.’ He waved back towards the hill where Lodavico had stood minutes before. ‘Sandura has the advantage for the moment, but with things now as they are, another may choose to seize it. One day someone will seek to become the new fifth king. Be ready for that day.’

‘Do I hear ambition?’

‘I seek no enlargement of my own holdings, but I’d topple another ruler rather than lose what’s mine. You need to think on this, old friend. Prepare not for the little wars, which will plague us soon, but for another such as this’ – Daylon nodded towards the bloody field – ‘where crowns are the prize.’ He leaned even closer. ‘Perhaps it will take five years, or ten, or longer, but certainly there will be that war. Lodavico is mad to be the high king.’ He lightly poked his finger against Rodrigo’s chest. ‘In your heart you know his ambition as well as I do.’ Glancing around to ensure they were unheard, he continued. ‘But Lodavico will eventually overplay his hand, and that’s when we need to be prepared.’

Rodrigo shook his head. ‘Bleak advice.’ Then he sighed and said, ‘But well considered.’ With a wave he walked away, and then paused as if a thought had struck him. He turned back to look at Daylon. ‘Wasn’t there a new baby?’

‘I don’t take your meaning.’ Daylon’s brow furrowed.

Rodrigo looked into Daylon’s eyes for a long moment. ‘I thought I’d heard word that the Firemane queen had delivered a late autumn child.’

‘The queen had a child late, yes …’ said Daylon. He let out a long sigh. ‘Most likely it died during the taking of the villa. They threw babies from the cliffs to the rocks when the household was slaughtered. Perhaps he was one.’

Rodrigo shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’ He turned away again and left without further word.

Daylon lingered. ‘A baby,’ he muttered, amused for the first time in days. Tales of a surviving Firemane baby would prevent Lodavico from sleeping well for the rest of his days, even if the whispers were false. He briefly considered tossing coin to a rumour-monger to fuel such gossip. Nothing else in this evil business was worthy of mirth. He looked skywards, attempting to ignore the circling flocks of carrion eaters and enjoy what he could of the lowering sun and blue sky on the western horizon. ‘Well, at least the world didn’t end,’ he muttered to himself.

Of all of the nobles present, Daylon was among the very few who could be considered scholarly. He had studied the legends surrounding the oldest houses and knew of one myth in particular that predicted that a rampant chaos would be unleashed upon the world should the Firemane line end. Having witnessed no thundering hordes of demons racing towards the battlefield, Daylon moved towards his pavilion wondering if Steveren had indeed been the last of his line …

He passed by huge mounds of dead bodies awaiting burial. Exhausted soldiers laboured over the digging of mass graves, while priests of the One God said their prayers over the corpses. Daylon resisted an urge to curse in the name of the old gods; he had no desire to be denounced and burned at the stake.

Lost in thought, he barely realised he had reached his pavilion when he noticed two men standing quietly before the tent flap. Reinhardt, captain of Daylon’s household guard, wore the tabard of House Dumarch: a tough veteran, he had earned his position through years of loyal service.

The man next to him was also familiar to Daylon. He was a broad-shouldered, thick-bodied man, strong and keen-eyed, but one who had also started to show faint signs of ageing. His dark eyes were underlined with shadow and they possessed wrinkles at the edges that were evidence of a hard life. His brown hair was turning steel grey and was receding. His walk betrayed a stiffness in one hip, most likely the result of a wound taken in a fight years before. Covered in grime, soot, and dried blood, the man bowed slightly, barely more than a nod, but enough to satisfy Daylon’s need for deference.

‘Edvalt,’ said Daylon in greeting.

‘It is the day, my lord,’ said Edvalt.

Daylon released a tired sigh and said, ‘Must we do this now?’

‘It is the day, my lord,’ Edvalt repeated with emphasis.

‘Ten years? Has it really been ten years?’

‘At the noonday sun, ten years exactly,’ said Edvalt.

‘It’s midway to sundown; you tarried?’

Edvalt found nothing humorous in the remark. ‘I was busy staying alive at noon, my lord. King Steveren mounted a counter-attack on your rear: they overran the luggage and my smithy.’ He looked the ruler of Marquensas in the eye and asked, ‘Your pledge, my lord?’

Daylon bristled at the implication that he might not honour his pledge but reined in his urge to strike the man. He was angry and fatigued, and he also knew part of his frustration was caused by losing Edvalt’s services.

Captured in a border dispute, Edvalt had been spared the slave collar only because Daylon had noticed the quality of his enemy’s weapons. He had quickly identified Edvalt as the weapon-smith and offered him a choice: enslavement for life, or ten years of skilful service in exchange for his freedom. Daylon had gambled that the smith needed the promise of freedom to do his best work for his new master.

Daylon let out a long, measured breath and took control of his temper. ‘Yes, I remember.’

‘Ten years of faithful service in exchange for my freedom,’ said Edvalt, his tone even, his expression revealing a resolution Daylon knew all too well.

Daylon put his hand on Edvalt’s shoulder. ‘I know,’ he said with a tone of resignation. ‘It’s a bargain I regret,’ said the Baron of Marquensas. ‘Had I fully understood your gifts, I would have offered you your freedom that day in exchange for a pledge never to leave my service.’

‘Hardly freedom,’ said Edvalt.

Daylon was frustrated. He had hated every moment of this journey, and losing Edvalt to a promise made after another bloody confrontation was almost more than he could bear. ‘I need you, Edvalt, as certain as the rising sun at dawn. There’s more war coming, for Lodavico has turned the world upside down, and you are the finest smith I have ever known. And more, you’re a good man. Stay and I’ll make you wealthy.’

Edvalt paused for a moment, as if taken slightly off guard by Daylon’s request. He looked out over the field of carnage around them and said, ‘I thank you for the compliment, my lord, but my most fervent wish is that I never have to behold a sight such as this again.’ He looked Baron Dumarch in the eye and said, ‘It is time.’

Fatigue, frustration, and anger threatened to boil inside Daylon. He could simply ignore his pledge and keep Edvalt in service, but he knew that to do so would be to lose his skill forever. He waited a long moment, then finally let his better nature take control.

‘As of this moment, you’re a free man, Edvalt Tasman.’ He turned to Reinhardt. ‘Find a scribe and have him write a free passage for Edvalt—’

‘And for Mila,’ interrupted the smith.

‘Who?’ asked Daylon.

‘My woman, Mila.’

Daylon assumed he referred to one of the many camp followers, or a local girl from the city, but saw an opportunity. ‘Have you wed her without leave?’

Edvalt stiffened. As a bound man he should have sought permission to marry. He hesitated, then said, ‘Not before a priest. We pledged to each other. We have a daughter.’

‘Your woman is of no concern to me,’ said Daylon, ‘but your daughter is, by law, my property. She was born in bondage.’

The slight shift in Edvalt’s posture and expression were signs that both Daylon and Reinhardt recognised instantly. They showed that the smith was ready to fight with his bare hands against sword if need be.

Daylon mustered all the wisdom he had left and waved away Edvalt’s rising anger. He let out a long sigh and said, ‘I’ll not take your child from you, Edvalt. But in exchange you must give me your pledge.’

Edvalt’s eyes narrowed as he said, ‘To what end, my lord?’

‘I’ll answer that question in a moment, but first, where will you go?’

Without a moment’s hesitation, Edvalt said, ‘The Narrows. I’ll find a village in need of a smith and begin my new life in the Covenant lands. I can forge ploughshares, carve coulters, shoe horses and mules. If I must, I will repair a blade or forge a new one …’ He shrugged. ‘But should I never make another weapon, I’ll be content.’

Daylon weighed his answer. The finest weapon-smith he had ever known would not, at least, seek service with a rival lord. The Narrows was free of armed conflict, for the time being, so Edvalt would find little demand for weapons there.

‘Very well,’ said the Baron of Marquensas, ‘then we have no issue, but for the pledge: if you find an apprentice who trains to be your equal, you will send him to me.’

‘I’ll not put another in bondage,’ answered Edvalt.

Annoyed by the answer, Daylon snapped, ‘I would not take a freeman into service against his will. You were a captive in war, and it was my right to put you to death or sell you as a slave. I did neither.’ Both men knew his largesse was solely due to Edvalt’s talent, and not any generosity of spirit on Daylon’s part. ‘I will ask him to serve freely, and reward him greatly if he agrees.’

But the weapon-smith seized the moment. ‘Should I find such a lad, I will send him to you first,’ agreed Edvalt. ‘If he willingly takes your service, that is his choice, but should he wish to make his own way in the world, that is also his right?’

Daylon nodded. ‘Agreed. Then we are done. Take your woman and child and travel safely.’ He nodded to Reinhardt. ‘See that they are given safe conduct.’ As an afterthought, he said, ‘Find him a serviceable wagon or cart, as well, so he might carry his tools with him, and give him half a weight of gold.’

The captain nodded and said, ‘As you command, my lord.’ He signalled to Edvalt to follow him.

Taken aback by Daylon’s unexpected generosity, Edvalt muttered, ‘I thank my lord,’ and the two men departed.

Daylon stood alone at the entrance of his pavilion watching the finest sword maker he had ever encountered walk away. He knew the day approached when he would need many fine weapons. He was just grateful it was not today. He turned and pulled aside the canvas flap.

Stepping inside his tent, Daylon found the clean clothing set out for him by his body man, Balven. He was constantly amused by the fact that the only person he truly trusted in this life was his bastard half-brother. Balven had come to their father’s castle as a boy, to be a companion for the young heir. When their father died, Daylon had kept Balven close at hand as his body servant, but in truth he was a more trusted adviser than any of Daylon’s official advisers.

Balven waited beside a wooden bucket of fresh water and a heavy towel. A proper bath would have to wait until he reached home, but he could at least remove the worst of the mess from his body.

As Balven began to strip off Daylon’s armour, the Baron of Marquensas wondered again about the Firemane baby. What if there was a child out there, destined to plague the sleep of the four remaining kings?

Balven was the younger brother by two years, but he had been with Daylon since the age of six and could read his moods well. Daylon’s mother had done all she could to put a wedge between the half-brothers, but all that she had succeeded in doing was bringing them closer. Daylon had possessed a rebellious nature as a child, and he dared not reveal it to their father, so his poor mother had borne the brunt of it. As a result, the two men were far closer than master and servant.

Balven was an average-looking man of middle height, with close-cropped brown hair and dark eyes; his appearance was unremarkable, but he resembled Daylon in small ways, the set of his jaw, his brow and nose, and how he carried himself. Balven studied his brother’s face as he soaped his body. ‘You are troubled?’ he asked softly. He had anticipated his master’s changeable mood and had a girl waiting in the corner of the tent rather than in Daylon’s bed, as he knew that his brother’s disposition could swing in either direction after a battle. The girl’s brown eyes were fixed upon the Baron of Marquensas, silently awaiting his order.

Daylon considered her for a moment, then shook his head. He felt tired deep in his bones. Balven dismissed her with a tiny motion of his head. She nodded once and silently left.

Daylon watched her depart with no hint of desire. He wished only for a hot meal and a long sleep after today’s bloody work. He endured the cold water and harsh soap; the discomfort was worth the loss of muck and blood. ‘I miss a hot tub,’ he said to Balven as he towelled himself dry.

His bastard half-brother nodded in agreement. ‘I miss home.’

Daylon grunted assent. He also longed for the warm sun on the shores of Marquensas, where his castle overlooked an orchard that ran across the hills and down to the coast of the Western Sea. He missed the rich orange blossom scent on the spring breeze from the ocean and the sheer beauty of his holdfast. He missed his wife’s lithe body and the promise of children. As he donned the robe Balven held for him, Daylon said, ‘Mostly I miss the peace. The sounds of war still ring in my ears.’

‘They echo in mine, as well, my lord,’ agreed Balven. ‘But at least our world didn’t end this day,’ he added in a lighter tone.

Daylon laughed. One of the many things he shared with his half-brother was a love of their father’s library. Balven knew of the legendary Firemane line and the supposed destruction attached to its end. They had almost had an argument before Daylon agreed to participate in Steveren’s betrayal; Balven had contested their joining Lodavico and the others. As was his usual tactic, Balven had argued against the course Daylon had almost certainly already chosen, to explore any failings of logic that the baron might have overlooked; neither man placed much faith in auguries, omens, and prophecies, but after ample wine, the discussion had factored them into the decision, or rather ignoring the legend had, as part of Balven’s last argument on the matter.

‘Food?’

‘I’ll fetch your meal straightaway, my lord.’

Within a few minutes Balven placed a hot plate of beef and vegetables, with some edible bread and a sliver of cheese, next to a full bottle of wine and goblet. He set the small table and departed without instruction. He knew that his half-brother’s mood called for solitude.

Daylon ate alone, his silence broken only by the faint sounds of knackers, scavengers, and body robbers in the distance. Then he fell heavily into bed.

DAYLON HAD A DAGGER IN his hand before he was fully conscious. He listened. It was quiet, though occasionally he made out the shout of a distant sentry or the faint sound of looters arguing over spoils. He heard a rustle in the corner and sat up, blade ready. Had the camp girl returned without bidding? As the fog of sleep lifted, he decided that a camp girl would not lurk in the corner but would have probably slipped into his bed.

Then Daylon heard a strange sound. He took up his night lamp and opened its shutter to illuminate the tent’s interior. In the corner where the girl had waited lay a bundle of cloth, and he could see it moving.

He approached it warily, as he would not be the first noble of Garn to be gifted with a venomous serpent or rabid animal. Then he recognised the noise and knew that the cloth held something far more lethal.

The Baron of Marquensas crouched and pulled aside the covers to see a tiny face looking up at him. He held the light close and saw large blue eyes in a little round face and a forehead crowned with wispy hair, silver-white in the lamplight. In that moment, Daylon was certain that this baby was the last of the Firemanes, as certain as he was of his own name. He guessed that the child’s fine silver-white hair would turn a brilliant copper when it was two or three years old, but around the baby’s neck a woven copper wire had been placed, and from it hung a gold ring set with a single ruby – the signet ring of Ithrace, the king’s ring.

Who had put this child in his tent? How had that person passed his sentries, or stolen past Balven, who slept before his threshold? He gently picked up the child to examine it in the light of his night lamp and saw it was a boy. The child looked into his eyes and Daylon was even more certain that this was the Firemane baby.

Crouching on his heels as the baby watched him silently, Daylon Dumarch, Baron of Marquensas, muttered, ‘Gods old and new, why me?’

ALONG THE SHORE, AWAY FROM the battle site, a man waited by a cluster of rocks. Daylon could see him clearly in the early morning sunlight as they rode slowly towards him.

The man wore a covering over his nose and mouth, leaving only his eyes exposed; the only clue to his identity was the age lines at their corners. Other than that, he appeared to be a common soldier without badge or tabard, but he was a member of the unseen army of Coaltachin, the legendary Invisible Nation.

Coaltachin’s rulers had never affixed their names or their seals to the Covenant, and this exclusion had made them a nation apart, yet they had honoured the pact since its inception. Few nobles and fewer commoners understood the genius of Coaltachin’s security, and their success was due to their Quelli Nascosti, meaning ‘The Hidden’. Coaltachin had the finest spies, infiltrators, saboteurs, and assassins in the world. On the street they were known as sicari, ‘the dagger men’.

The Invisible Nation was publicly loathed and privately employed by every ruler with the means to pay them. They were also universally feared, for legend claimed they could walk through walls, kill with their breath, and become undetectable at will, or at least that was the myth surrounding them. In reality, they were the most effective assassins, spies, and provocateurs on Garn.

The true strength of Coaltachin lay in the extent of its network. It had placed agents everywhere, from the tables of nobility to the gutter gangs of the most dangerous cities across the world. Few knew exactly where the Invisible Nation lay among the thousands of islands off the eastern shore of South Tembria. Only a few, trusted, eastern traders could navigate the route to Coaltachin. All anyone else knew was that it might lie somewhere between South Tembria and Enast.

Daylon had been certain that the sicari would be at hand during a battle of this scope. A betrayal so majestic was far beyond the skills of men like Lodavico Sentarzi or Mazika Koralos. It had taken Balven a full day and a night to find someone to carry word and relay the message to arrange this meeting at dawn on the second day after the bloodshed, a time during which Daylon had been left to look after the baby. Balven found a goat with a kid among the livestock, made a makeshift nursing rag, and tore up strips of linen to keep the child clean. Daylon, who had never touched a baby in his life, managed to keep the boy hidden from view. He thanked the gods that the child seemed to want to sleep most of the time.

He did not know exactly what to expect from this meeting and spared a little time to wonder who this man might be. Before the battle he might have served in Daylon’s army or even Steveren’s, as a porter, baggage cart driver, cook, or vendor among the camp followers, faceless in a sea of faces. Daylon was certain that this man, or others of his order, had infiltrated the Ithraci army, to shout contradictory or confusing orders to paralyse Steveren Langene’s forces as he tried to organize a defence against the sudden betrayal.

Daylon smiled ruefully. Perhaps he also overestimated his own power and security, particularly now as he stood next to his brother and faced a deadly killer.

The bulk of Daylon’s army was already on the road home; only his castellans remained to protect their master, laid low by a stomach ague that kept him abed. It was unlikely that anyone would call at his pavilion since most of the combined armies had already departed for Ithra, but the excuse kept the baby from prying eyes while they waited for a reply from the man who now awaited them. Word had come after sunset and Daylon had spent a restless night in anticipation of the dawn.

Daylon rode carefully through the rocks along the shore, the ever-present roar of the breakers masking the clatter of his horse’s hooves as he made his way to the meeting point. Behind him came Balven, carrying the Firemane baby.

When they reached the man, Daylon held up his hand and asked, ‘Do you know me?’

‘I do,’ said the false soldier.

‘I have a charge for you. Will you accept my gold?’

‘Name your charge,’ replied the man.

‘This baby must travel with you to your homeland. He is to be cared for as if he were a child of your master’s household and be given a name, though I do not wish to know it. Only send word should the child perish; a message must reach me, saying, The colt went lame and had to be put down. If nothing unfortunate occurs, there will be no reason for words between us ever again.

‘For this charge I will pay you five weights of gold each year until the boy becomes a man.’ That day was seventeen years away.

Daylon gestured towards his half-brother. ‘This is my man, Balven. He can be known by the mark near his heart, earned in a hunting accident.’ Balven moved the tiny baby to his right arm and with his left hand pulled aside the collar of his tunic to show the man his scar. ‘He is the only man on Garn I trust completely. Seventeen years from this day, he will be at the main gates of Marquenet. The child must be brought to the city and given over to him.

‘Should Balven meet an untimely end, I will choose another to take up his charge and send word to you. I will name his replacement using these words: The caretaker has passed, his heir is …

‘Your master may treat the child as he pleases but the boy is not to be harmed or abused. He must be educated, as he is of noble birth, and trained to protect himself. The gold shall cease to be paid after his manhood day, and it is then you will bring him to the city gates to meet with Balven.’

The assassin considered the deal and finally said, ‘Ten weights a year.’

Daylon looked at the dark eyes above the black mask, then finally said, ‘Seven and we are done.’

‘Seven,’ agreed the assassin.

‘Can you reach your homeland without the baby being seen?’

‘I will require eight weights for the journey, if we must remain undetected.’

‘Done,’ said Daylon. He reached into a small bag hanging from his horse’s saddle and counted out small bars of gold, each as long as an average man’s hand and as wide and deep as a man’s thumb. Each one could feed a village for a year. ‘Here are eight, and this year’s seven: fifteen in all. Seven more will be sent each year, on this day. Send word where to deliver the gold to my barony.’