her own.
The priest was Rankan and he’d managed to retain all the implied power and
majesty that that word had ever carried, despite the low ceilings and the
laundry-women battling outside his window. Bands of gold decorated the hems of
his robes, adorned his boots, and circled his fingers. His midnight hair was
combed to surround his face like a lion’s mane – yet it was not so dark or shiny
as his eyes. If the Torch’s god had been vanquished, as some claimed; if the
Prince was simply a puppet in the hands of the Beysa; if his prospects for
wealth and honour had been reduced, then none of it showed in his appearance or
demeanour. Cythen looked away first.
‘Cythen has some questions I can’t answer for her,’ Walegrin said boldly as he
laid the parchment on the priest’s table. ‘She wonders why you didn’t protect
Bekin when you first suspected there might be danger in dealing with the Beysib,
as she did.’
The Torch calmly unrolled the parchment. ‘Ah, three caravans yesterday; seventy
five soldats. We’ve almost enough. They agree the first boat should be bought
with Rankan gold, you know. The longer we can keep the capital ignorant of our
situation here, the better it will be for all of us. If they knew how much gold
was floating in our harbour, they’d bring half the army down here to take it
from us – and neither we nor they want that.’ He looked up from the parchment.
‘Have you found me a man to take the gold north yet? I’ll have other messages
for him to carry as well. The war’s not going well; I think we can lure Tempus