Gerrard Price was thrown down, cold, beaten, and half drowned. He retched, vomiting rank river water onto the polished marble floor.

  “Fetch something to clean this up.”

  Price recognised the drawling voice and looked up into the face of Myam-tal. The High Faelen’s mouth turned up at the corners, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

  When Price had last seen him in Bimil-pal’s tent, the High Faelen had appeared nothing more than a wealthy civilian, but now he wore a Mazral uniform the word gaudy couldn't begin to describe. The long uniform jacket was embroidered with gold and silver thread and must have been reinforced to be able to hold the weight of so many medals.

  The sword was the crowning glory. It had a lump of gold as big as a fist for a pommel and precious stones set in the hilt. The blade was far too long and slightly curved in the Faelen style. If anyone swung it they would likely fall over and get a half pound of gold to the face.

  Price would have laughed but for his collection of broken ribs.

  “My Lord.” The Faelen lieutenant's voice was tight, and his eyes were bloodshot from the horror of what he had seen and the tears he had wept for his commander. “He killed Tarir-del. Mutilated him with his own blade.” He passed the heavy gray sword to Myam-tal and aimed a kick at Price's ribs, knocking him flat onto the floor.

  Myam-tal examined the pockmarked blade. “What did he do to Tarir-del exactly? Do not skip a single detail.”

  The explanation brought a small smile to Myam-tal’s thin lips. “Horrifying, an outrage,” he said with the barest hint of a smile. “And what of your mission? Where is the emissary and the wikkan spy?” Myam-tal looked around with an expression of polite expectation, as if he had possibly overlooked the two prisoners that should be before him.

  “They escaped, my lord, but we are watching the roads, and my troops will man the walls day and night. The prisoner, my lord, I wish to kill him myself. For the honor of my house.”

  “Yes, of course you do, of course.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I shall take him at once and hang him from the walls.”

  Myam-tal held up a long-fingered hand to stall the officers who had stepped forward to seize Price. “First I wish to question the Leybound personally. Surely you will stay and eat something? I have had refreshments prepared in the banquet hall.”

  The lieutenant glared at Price and spoke with forced civility. “My Lord, I must see to my company. We have been in the wilds for days, and we have lost our great commander quite cruelly.”

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  “Your troops have been taken care of. You won’t insult my hospitality, I hope. I have not been the Lord of this citadel for long, however I shall endeavour to be a gracious host. Now eat. I will question the abomination. You may pick up what is left of him on the way out.”

  The Faelen officers were led away by a liveried butler, and Myam-tal rested his eyes on Price, the dull Faelen blade still in his hands. “Why did you kill Tarir-del?” he asked.

  “He was my enemy and your rival, you should be thanking me,” Price said.

  Myam-tal stood. “This weapon was forged in the Echo, likely sometime after we were sealed away. You will note the poor craftsmanship that is typical of the era, but what can you expect from a people who were reduced to living like animals? They were terrible, shameful years when the noble Faelen descended into savagery. Tarir-dal thought this sword was an heirloom of our humble origins. But to me it is nothing but a symbol of a past that humiliates us.” Myam-tal offered the blade hilt first.

  Price recalled the blade being so heavy it should have felt like swinging a lump of iron on a stick, but it had surprising balance, as if one swing could fell a tree. But why offer it? If it had been Tarir-dal, he would have supposed this was some trap, but Myam-tal wasn’t a fanatic, he just wanted power and wealth and seemingly had no allegiance.

  Price took the sword.

  The High Faelen wore a faint smile of satisfaction. “Will you be staying in the city?”

  Price gestured to the sturdy guards on either side of the door. “You would let me go?”

  “Of course. I hold no grudge against you, and you have destroyed my enemy in a most pleasing way. However, if you were inclined to stay, then I have work for you. The emissary will come, and the wikkan spy, and you can catch them for me.”

  “And in return?” Price asked.

  “In return, I will help you track down the enemies that you know about, like Ritta Kerne, and the ones you do not, like those that created the leybound.”

  Price felt his pulse quicken. “What would you know of it?”

  “I know many things. Help me, and I will share this information with you.”

  Tempting. He had to wait for Riot anyway, he might as well be comfortable.

  “I want men, not Faelen.”

  “You will have them.”

  “What about Tarir-dal's friends?” Price gestured to the direction the officers had gone.

  “Ah, yes. I have something in mind. Come with me.”

  They walked on expansive marble floors through tasteful rooms. There was subtle beauty everywhere, and it was not far from Price's own family estate, perhaps more gaudy, the stone work poorer.

  There was no toasting in the banquet room. No clinking of glasses, no rattle of cutlery, or murmur of conversation. Three of the Faelen officers were dead, their blood pooling on the polished wood of the table.

  The lieutenant was on his knees, being held from behind by two strong guards. His face was a mass of bruises and he mumbled through split lips.

  Myam-tal sat down next to the corpses and began selecting food. “You know, there is a curious tale of a captain who was banished from the high ranges to the east. They said he mutilated his enemies by carving a mountain on their faces. There was a name for it.”

  “The weeping peak,” Price said, his voice low.

  Myam-tal leaned back and popped a grape into his mouth. “I would very much like to see it.”

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