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city. The duke’s mage tried to denounce her, but she struck him down before he could reach the palace.’
    Bahl grimaced at that. The woman had been ambitious, true enough, but hardly a creature of evil. The mage had been more than a match for her mean abilities, just not impervious to arrows. He said nothing. Stories had a life of their own. Sometimes in a land of magic there were forces that changed even truth. He turned his attention back to the old man, who was imbuing the story with high emotion now.
    ‘Then she barricaded herself in her tower, and any man who neared it fell dead. The captain told me that he was taking counsel with the duke when, despite the locked doors, a daemon appeared in the chamber - to kill them all, or so they thought. The daemon named himself Aracnan, and said he had been sent to their aid. He told the duke to enter the tower at first light - and then he was gone. The duke broke down the tower doors at dawn and found his wife, torn into a thousand pieces, and all of those pieces scattered over the room.’
    The storyteller paused with a theatrical shudder. The duke went to offer thanks at the Temple of Death and was told by the priests that the price of their master’s aid was that he must renounce his title and become a monk.’
    He turned back to the wagoner and addressed him directly: ‘You’re wrong. Aracnan doesn’t work as an agent of Bahl; he is older and more powerful than even our Lord. It’s said that he is a messenger of the Gods. You should have sent the boy with him, rather than cross him.’
    The wagoner belched his opinion of the storyteller. ‘Perhaps, but I don’t believe that my son has any destiny except to cause me trouble and carry cloth for the rest of his life. He’s no good for anything else, that’s for sure - can’t take orders that don’t come with a whip, so not even the Swordmasters will want him. At least the scroll your daemon wanted to give the boy will fetch a few coins, though less than he has cost me over the years, more’s the pity.’
    ‘I still say he wanted nothing good with that boy,’ a voice broke in. Bahl turned to look towards the new speaker, but kept from meeting his gaze. The man wore white on his collar and Bahl had no wish to be recognised yet.
    ‘Carel, Nyphal is not watching over the boy, so keep your fool mouth shut,’ replied the wagoner. Bahl assumed they were good friends for no one spoke to a former guardsman like that, no matter how silver his hair might be, unless they were close.
    ‘What did the scroll say?’ someone called out.
    ‘Can’t open the damn thing. Carel here reckons it’s magical, that only the boy can read it, but the lanky bastard won’t touch it. There are some symbols on the outside, but what they mean, Death only knows.’ He belched again and sat back as he felt the beer rising in his throat, then wiped his cracked lips while looking expectantly at the crowd.
    After a few moments Bahl signalled the bartender to give him another. ‘And what price for the scroll?’ he enquired. This way was worth trying first.
    ‘To you? More than you could afford. I have enough trouble with my son; the thought of having to deal with another white-eye makes me more than thirsty.’ The man glanced over to his friend, the former Ghost, and Bahl saw he was flanked by four armed men, no doubt wagon-train guards.
    A bulky mercenary sitting off to the left chuckled, and eyed Bahl’s fine armour with the smile of a thief. With a nod to his companions he stood. His thick jaw marked him a half-breed: Farlan mixed with one of the nomadic peoples, maybe. The Farlan were an elitist people, but even those regarded as inferior stock could look down on a white-eye.
    ‘Perhaps you should buy us all drinks, white-eye. Or donate those fine gold rings at your waist. Very exclusive tavern this is; not just anyone drinks here - not unless they’re stupid, or willing to pay for us all.’
    Bahl looked down and realised his cloak