Gruntle took another mouthful of watered wine – more water than wine after almost a week’s stranglehold on the city by the Pannions. The six other patrons were each sitting alone at a table or leaning up against the counter. Words were exchanged among them every now and then, a few desultory comments, usually answered by little more than a grunt.

Over the course of a day and night, the inn was peopled by two types, or so Gruntle had observed. The ones before him now virtually lived in the common room, nursing their wine and ale. Strangers to Capustan and seemingly friendless, they’d achieved a kind of community none the less, characterized by a vast ability to do nothing together for long periods of time. Come the night the other type would begin to assemble. Loud, boisterous, drawing the street whores inside with their coins which they tumbled onto the tabletops with no thought of tomorrow. Theirs was a desperate energy, a bluff hail to Hood. We’re yours, you scything bastard, they seemed to say. But not till the dawn!

They’d churn like a foaming sea around the immovable, indifferent rocks that were the silent, friendless patrons.

The sea and the rocks. The sea celebrates in the face of Hood as soon as he looms close. The rocks have stared the bastard in the eye for so long they’re past budging, much less celebrating. The sea laughs uproariously at its own jokes. The rocks grind out a terse line that can silence an entire room. A Capan mouthful. . .

Next time, I’ll keep my tongue to myself.

The cat rose on the crossbeam, stretching, its banded black stripes rippling across its dun fur. Cocked its head downward, ears pricking.

The mouse was at the edge of the kitchen entrance, frozen.

Gruntle hissed under his breath.

The cat looked his way.

The mouse darted into the kitchen and out of sight.

With a loud creak, the inn door swung inward. Buke stepped inside, crossed Gruntle’s view then sank down into the chair beside him.

‘You’re predictable enough,’ the old man muttered, gesturing for two of the same when he caught the barkeep’s eye.

‘Aye,’ Gruntle replied. ‘I’m a rock.’

‘A rock, huh? More like a fat iguana clinging to one. And when the big wave comes—’

‘Whatever. You’ve found me, Buke. Now what?’

‘Just wanted to thank you for all the help, Gruntle.’

‘Was that subtle irony, old man? A little honing—’

‘Actually, I was almost serious. That muddy water you made me drink – Keruli’s concoction – it’s done wonders.’ His narrow face revealed a slightly secretive smile. ‘Wonders ...’

‘Glad to hear you’re all better. Any more earth-shattering news? If not ...’

Buke leaned back as the barkeep delivered the two tankards, then said after the man shambled away, ‘I’ve met with the elders of the Camps. At first they wanted to go straight to the prince—’