"Getting so you can't make a decent living these days, without some thief attacking you,"

Danyon agreed with a smile. There was music coming from the hall and the sound of many voices.

Everybody staying in the keep tonight would be gathered in the hall, Brak knew, the ritual here having altered little in the hundreds of years the fortress had stood.

"Were they yours?" Brak asked curiously.

"All thieves worship Dacendaran, Master Andaran."

"That's not what I asked."

Danyon smiled cryptically but didn't offer any other answer. He turned to Wrayan instead.

"Good thing you got here when you did. I'd just about given up on you. I've been here for three days and this isn't my favourite place in Fardohnya, you know. If you didn't get here tonight I was going to head back to Qorinipor in the morning."

"Thanks for waiting," Wrayan replied. "Is there somewhere we can talk in private? Do you have a room here?"

The Fardohnyan shrugged. "Nobody has a room here, Wrayan, unless you're very good friends with the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook. Everyone bunks down in the main hall at night. But don't worry about being overheard. You can't hear yourself think in there when it's busy. Unless someone is reading our minds, we'll be secure enough."

That comment got a faint smile from Wrayan, who glanced back at Brak. He shrugged. "You go on ahead. I think I might check on the lad with the horses. That beast of mine can be a bit of a bastard,"

he warned, then added with a pointed look at Wrayan, "when he's in a mood."

Wrayan didn't rise to the bait. "I'll see you later then."

Brak watched Wrayan and Danyon Caron disappear into the hall, and then turned for the stables. The lad was doing a competent job, although the stables were quite crowded and the horses were forced to share a stall. Fortunately, Wrayan's mount was a mare and Brak's a gelding. After the better part of a month on the road together, the two horses were familiar with each other's company.

The stable boy stared at Brak suspiciously when he arrived, but his wounded feelings were quickly soothed by the application of more copper rivets. Brak asked him to re-saddle the horses after they were fed and rubbed down. The boy demanded even more money-which Brak parted with reluctantly-and then went back to brushing down Wrayan's mare.

That minor but important detail taken care of, Brak left the stables and headed across the deserted bailey. Even though it was summer, the nights were cold at this altitude, but the wind had dropped and the sky was a dark blue carpet sprinkled with precious stones. Only the faint sounds of music and raised voices from the hall disturbed the night, the creaking leather armour of the guards on the wall-walk above, and the occasional drunk staggering out of the hall to take a leak in the shadows.

The Hythrun caravan with its load of ore was parked near the stables, the guard sitting on the lead wagon nodding off to sleep on his watch. He didn't even stir as Brak slipped past him. In the deep shadows between two of the outbuildings, Brak stopped and glanced around to ensure he was unobserved, and then he closed his eyes and sent out a silent call.

Elarnymire!

The little demon popped into existence in front of Brak almost before he completed the thought. She blinked at him with her huge, liquid black eyes, her ears drooping, a disapproving frown on her wrinkled little face.

"Well," the demon announced. "You took your sweet, precious time getting here."

He squatted down until he was face to face with the little demon. "I had to fetch Wrayan," he replied in a whisper, glancing through the darkness of the laneway to the bailey beyond. There was no sign of anybody, and Elarnymire would probably vanish the moment someone approached, but he'd still have to explain what he was doing lurking in a laneway, talking to himself, if he was discovered.

"What use is Wrayan Lightfinger, Brakandaran? Admittedly, the lad can wield a little magic, but he has so little Harshini in him we can't even tell which clan he belongs to," Elarnymire reminded him.

"No more than the child they hold in the dungeons here."

"Which is precisely why I need him," Brak explained. "Even if I could go back to Sanctuary, my lady, this child doesn't belong among the Harshini. He's human. Wrayan will see him safe. Is he all right?"

"They're not feeding him very well," Elarnymire informed him. "But he's not starved yet. And they put him in with the women rather than the men. He's been getting a little impatient. Did you want me to tell him rescue is at hand?"

"No, I'll find him." Brak looked at her curiously. "Was it your doing, to keep him with the women here?"

The demon shook her head. "You told me not to interfere."

Brak smiled thinly. "And you always do exactly what I ask."

Elarnymire shrugged. "Truly, it wasn't my doing. He's a child and several of the women incarcerated here have children with them, too. I suppose they thought that's where he belonged."

Brak was relieved to hear it. The fate of a twelve-year-old boy in a dungeon full of hardened criminals was not likely to be pleasant. "I'll go and get him now then."

"Why now?"

"Why not?"

"They've closed the gates."

"They'll open again soon," Brak predicted confidently.

Elarnymire didn't seem very happy, but she nodded in agreement. "And when this is done?

What then?"

"What do you mean?"

The demon looked up at him with a harsh, unblinking stare. "Are you coming home, Brakandaran?"

Brak didn't answer immediately. When he did, all the anguish of his terrible deed felt concentrated into a painful lump stuck somewhere in the pit of his belly. "I have no home any more, Elarnymire."

The demon placed her long bony hand over his. "Only you believe that, Brakandaran. The Harshini will welcome you in Sanctuary. Korandellen and Shananara want you to go back. Even the Gatekeeper asks after you."

"I can never go back, Elarnymire. You know that." He shook off her hand and stood up, leaning against the cold stones of the outbuilding. "Koran and Shanan know it, too."

"And this is how you intend to repay the Harshini for all they've done for you?" she asked, looking up at him crossly, "By turning your back on them?"

"You saw what I did, Elarnymire," he said, almost pleading for her understanding. "Turning my back on the Harshini is the biggest favour I can do them."

"They don't think so."

"That's because they're not capable of thinking anything else!" he hissed angrily, wishing the demon would just let it drop. There was no discussion to be entered into; no chance of him changing his mind. He had a job to do; a small chance to redress some of the balance, and then . . . well, he had no plans beyond that. Merely hope for a painless oblivion. Brak sighed ruefully, wishing he could control his temper a little better. "I'm sorry, my lady. I don't mean to snap at you. I thank you for watching over the child. I'll take care of him now."

"Do you know where to find him?"

A brief, sour smile flickered over Brak's face. "I know where the dungeons in Westbrook are, my lady. I've been a guest in them more than once."

"Did you want me to give the king a message when I get back to Sanctuary?"

Brak hesitated and then shrugged. "I don't know, Elarnymire. How many times can I say I'm sorry before he's sick of hearing it?"

"Once was enough for Korandellen."

"Then tell him . . . tell him if he ever really needs me, I'll be there for him. But other than that . . .

I think it's better this way."

Elarnymire nodded solemnly. "As you wish."

"My lady," he added quickly, sensing the demon was about to vanish.

"Yes?"

"Don't come looking for me. Or let the others waste time trying to find me. Please."

The demon hesitated for a moment and then nodded again. "You can't deny what you are, Brak, any more than you can deny who you are. But I will pass on your message. And I will tell my brethren you wish to be left alone. I cannot speak for the gods, though. They may not be so easy to discourage.

You're a particular favourite of Kalianah, as I recall."

"Don't worry about the gods. They have a very short attention span. Thank you."

"You have no need to thank me, Brakandaran," the demon said. "If anything, I am doing you a disservice by pandering to your irrational request."

"I'm grateful, my lady, nonetheless," Brak said, with a slight bow.

The demon seemed unconvinced. "Death will not make the pain go away, Brakandaran. That is not his function."

Without waiting for him to respond, Elarnymire vanished from sight, leaving Brak a little disturbed by how easily the demon could see through him; and the uncomfortable feeling that she was probably right about Death not being sufficient to put an end to his torment.

There's no time to worry about it now, Brak decided, pushing away his pain to make room for much more practical concerns. To reach the dungeons, he had to go back through the main hall. He glanced around the yard before he emerged from the shadows of the laneway, hesitating as a figure came out of the main building. He was a tall man, with long well-groomed hair, and wore a large chain and medallion around his neck.

The Plenipotentiary of Westbrook himself, Brak thought, wondering about the name of the man who held the job these days. The title was an archaic one that dated back to the early days of the new nation of Hythria. That must have been over a thousand years ago now, Brak realised.

Brak waited for a moment as the Plenipotentiary stopped on the top step to take a deep breath of the crisp evening air, then watched him walk across the bailey to a doorway in one of the other buildings to the right of the hall-probably where his quarters were housed. Once the door was closed, the torchlit bailey was deserted again, except for the dozing caravan guard. Brak crossed the cobbled yard. His eyes darkening as he wrapped a glamour around himself so he wouldn't be seen, he entered the main hall of Westbrook.

Chapter 31.

Wrayan looked up as Brak entered the hall, obviously searching for him. He was in the far corner on the right, sitting opposite Danyon Caron, nursing a metal tankard. The Fardohnyan Guild thief was laughing-probably over the amount Wrayan was offering for the secret of the explosive powder Fardohnyan guarded so closely. Wrayan must have felt the prickle of magic Brak called up when he pulled the glamour around himself, but his eyes slid over Brak as if he wasn't there.

Brak strode the length of the vast hall, sidestepping several drunken caravan guards who were trying to molest the girls serving drinks. He gave one of the young women a surreptitious hand, fending off her tormenter with an unseen kick to the man's groin that dropped the would-be groper like a sack of barley, sent his friends into gales of laughter at what they thought was his clumsiness, and left the fool writhing on the floor clutching his bruised manhood with tears streaming down his face. The dark-haired wench Brak had saved from the drunkard's unwelcome attentions continued to move between the crowded tables, handing out foaming tankards of ale, oblivious to the favour done by her unseen benefactor.

There were a number of families in the hall, clustered together nervously as they tried to stake a claim near one of the fires before everyone settled down for the night, and a few cheerful souls anxious to dance to the band of musicians playing in the corner. Closest to the doors that led down into the dungeons were a number of off-duty troops of the garrison. Brak slipped past them with the same ease he had everyone else in the hall. They weren't watching the door to the lower levels, in any case. Most of the soldiers were still laughing over the drunken caravan guard writhing in agony on the floor a few tables away.

The noise of the hall faded as the thick door closed behind Brak to reveal a narrow, torchlit staircase. Dropping the glamour, but keeping hold of his power, he headed down the stairs, no longer attempting to conceal his approach. When he arrived at the bottom, he found a large room filled with tables and bench seats that were lit with oil-filled torches set into brackets along the walls every ten feet or so. Remarkably, they appeared to be the original torches crafted by the Harshini, their delicate iron scrollwork at odds with the rank depression of this place.

Towards the back of the hall, two broad, dark corridors led into the darkness and the dungeons beyond. They weren't meant to be dungeons, Brak knew. The Harshini had designed this place as dry-goods storage and wine cellars for the keep. No sooner had they finished the keep and presented it to its new owners, however, the wooden interior walls with their beautifully painted murals had come down and been replaced by iron bars.

There were about a dozen men dicing around the table nearest the fireplace, opposite the entrance to the dungeons, dressed in the grey and blue livery of Fardohnya's regular army. Unlike the Hythrun High Prince, the Fardohnyan king allowed none of his subjects to raise their own armies.

Hablet's soldiers came from all over Fardohnya, pressed into service either as payment of their liege lord's taxes or as punishment for any crime that didn't warrant a lashing, death or slavery, which were the only real options under the Fardohnyan penal system. The officer class was mainly drawn from the sons of the nobility, but there was a sizable number of mercenaries and plenty of volunteers who sought a military life to avoid the drudgery of the farm or their father's trade. They probably weren't the worst army in the world (Brak privately awarded that honour to the Kariens and their feudal rabble up north) but Hablet's army lacked the sharp discipline of the Medalonian Defenders, or the relentless dedication to honouring Zegarnald, the God of War, for which the Hythrun Raiders were so famous.

One of the soldiers looked up as Brak appeared at the foot of the stairs. He stared blankly at this unexpected visitor for a moment, not really seeing his totally black eyes, and then his head fell forward and hit the table with a soft thud, followed by the heads of his companions. Brak smiled humourlessly.

The guards were fast asleep and would probably stay that way right up until somebody from upstairs came down and woke them up to enquire if they were aware all their prisoners had escaped.

Helping himself to the large ring of keys on the belt of the man sleeping at the head of the table, Brak whistled tunelessly as he entered the first corridor. This was where the men were incarcerated. He did wonder, for a fleeting moment, about the calibre of criminals he was letting loose, and then pushed the thought away. The law in Fardohnya was applied very much by the rule of wealth-meaning the wealthier you were, the less likely you were to be charged with a crime. Despite what these men were being held for, their biggest crime was being too poor to buy off the local magistrate (in Westbrook's case that meant the Plenipotentiary) or any of the other officials who expected a gratuity in order to ensure justice was done.

Taking a torch down from the wall to light his way, Brak unlocked each cell as he came to it and threw the door open wide. He made no other announcement of his intention to free the prisoners. Until the convicts in the women's cells were also free, he didn't want a mass exodus anyway. Some of the prisoners were asleep; others stared at him as if they were still dreaming. Brak unlocked the last of the dungeons and then walked back towards the guardroom and the other corridors accompanied by the hushed and disbelieving whispers of the male prisoners as they realised their cells were open.

He did the same thing when he came to the women's cells, except this time as he opened each door he asked in a loud whisper, "Is there a boy called Rory in here?"

In the third cell he opened he got a reply. A woman pushed forward and grabbed his arm as he was turning to open the next cell.

"Who wants to know?" she demanded of him.

Brak studied her in the flickering light of the torch. She was about thirty-five, he guessed, maybe a little older, and not unattractive. Her hair was hidden under a knotted scarf, her eyes were dark and she was dressed in men's trousers and a sheepskin coat. Brak got the feeling, just from the fearless way she confronted him, that this was a woman who could take care of herself. She certainly wasn't a working court'esa arrested for not paying her dues. He wondered briefly what she'd done to find herself in the dungeons of Westbrook.

"Do you know where he is?" Brak asked, raising the torch a little higher to look around the cell.

The other women were huddled under their blankets, as if they didn't really believe they were being rescued. He could see no sign of a child.

"You didn't answer my question," the woman accused.

"Nor you mine," he pointed out in reply.

The woman's eyes narrowed cannily. "You have a plan for getting him out of here, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"Take me with you then, and I'll tell you where he is."

Brak hesitated, wondering if he should accept the help of this woman. Or indeed, if he even needed her help. The lad had to be here somewhere.

The woman stared at him, waiting for his answer.

"Where is he?" Brak asked, deciding it wasn't worth arguing about.

"They took him out of here earlier this evening."

"To where?"

"There's an important fellow here from one of the Guilds in Qorinipor," she explained. "He likes little boys and the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook likes to keep his options open, if you know what I mean."

Brak cursed softly. It would be coincidence beyond belief to imagine there was another high-ranking member of any Guild currently visiting Westbrook this evening. His task had just become vastly more complicated. He might have to extract the child from under the nose of Wrayan's contact in the Thieves' Guild.