As they walked out of the hall, D’Averc observed that Orland Fank was still weeping softly.

“What disturbs you, Fank?” D’Averc asked. “Do you still grieve for the man who was your brother.”

“Ayebut I grieve for my son the more.”

“Your son? What of him?”

Orland Fank jerked his thumb at Hawkmoon, who wandered behind, his head bowed in thought. “He has him.”

“What do you mean?”

Fank sighed. “It must be, I know that. But still, I am a man, I can weep. I speak of Jehemia Cohnahlias.”

“The boy! The spirit of the Runestaff?”

“Aye. He was my sonor myselfI have never quite understood these things…”

BOOK TWO

As it is written: “Those who swear by the Runestaff must then benefit or suffer from the consequences of the fixed pattern of destiny that they set in motion.” And Baron Meliadus of Kroiden had sworn such an oath, had sworn vengeance against all of Castle Brass, had sworn that Yisselda, Count Brass’s daughter, would be his. On that day, many months earlier, he had fixed the pattern of fate; a pattern that had involved him in strange, destructive schemes, that had involved Dorian Hawkmoon in wild and uncanny adventures in distant places, and that was now nearing its terrible resolution.

The High History of the Runestaff

Chapter One

Whispering in Secret Rooms

THE VERANDAH OVERLOOKED the blood-red river Tayme making its sluggish way through the very heart of Londra, between gloomy, crazy towers.

Above them the occasional ornithopter, a bright bird of metal, clanked past, and on the river the barges of bronze and ebony carried cargo to and from the coast. Those cargoes were rich; full of stolen goods and stolen men, women and children brought as slaves to Londra. An awning of heavy purple velvet hung with tassels of scarlet silk protected the occupants of the veranda from view from above and the awning’s shadow made it impossible for them to be seen from the river.

A table of brass and two golden chairs upholstered in blue plush stood on the verandah. A richly decorated platinum tray on the table bore a wine jug of dark green glass and two matching goblets. On either side of the door leading on to the verandah stood a naked girl, with face, breasts and genitals heavily rouged. Anyone familiar with the Court of Londra would have recognised the slave girls as belonging to Baron Meliadus of Kroiden, for he had only female slaves and their only livery was the rouge he insisted they wear. Of the girls, who stared fixedly out at the river, one was a blonde, almost certainly from Koln in Germany, the Baron’s possession by right of conquest. The other girl was dark,

doubtless from some province in the Middle East Baron Meliadus had added, by means of a bloodied sword, to his estates.