‘Our conversation was interrupted by a messenger, dusty from the road. He clearly hadn’t spared his horse. He had urgent tidings for Tawny Owl, and Dacre Silifant says, as we was heading to our quarters, that he felt in his water that the messenger’s tidings would shove us in the saddle before evening came. And ‘e was right, Your Honour. Even before anyone had thought of dinner, half the hanza were saddled up. I got off that time; they took Til Echrade, the elf. I was content, for after those few days on the road my arse ached like buggery… And to make matters worse my monthly had just started—’

‘Will the witness please refrain from picturesque descriptions of her intimate complaints and keep to the subject. When did the witness learn the identity of the “mysterious personage” Coroner Skellen mentioned?’

‘I’ll tell you dreckly, but there has to be some order, don’t there, for everything’s getting so mixed up we won’t ever untangle it! The ones who’d saddled their mounts in such haste before dinner raced from Rocayne to Malhoun. And brought back some teenage lad…’

Nycklar was angry with himself. So angry he felt like weeping.

If only he’d heeded the warnings given him by prudent folk! If only he’d remembered his proverbs, or at least the fable about the rook that couldn’t keep its trap shut! If only he’d done what was to be done and returned home to Jealousy! But, oh no! Excited by the adventure, proud to be in possession of a fine steed, feeling the pleasant weight of coins in his purse, Nycklar couldn’t resist showing off. Rather than going straight home to Jealousy, he rode to Malhoun, where he had loads of pals, including several maids, to whom he made advances. In Malhoun he strutted around like a gander in spring, kicked up a rumpus, cavorted, showed his horse off around the courtyard, and stood rounds in the inn, tossing money on the counter with the look and bearing of, if not a prince by blood, then at least a count.

And talked.

Talked about what had happened four days ago in Jealousy. He talked, constantly offering new versions, adding new information, confabulating, and ultimately lying through his teeth, which didn’t bother his audience in the least. The inn’s regulars–both locals and travellers–listened eagerly. And Nycklar went on, pretending to be well-informed. And placing himself ever oftener at the centre of the confabulated events.

On the third evening his own tongue landed him in trouble.

A deathly hush fell at the sight of the people entering the inn. And in that hush, the clank of spurs, the rattle of metal buckles and the scraping of scabbards sounded like a foreboding bell tolling misfortune from the top of a belfry.