A Darkness at Sethanon. Raymond E. Feist

you find the man who shot this bear, I want him hung. And if he has anything of value, give it to the farmer’s widow. He murdered that farmer as much as if he had shot him instead of the bear.’

      Garret took the arrowhead and examined it. ‘This arrowhead is home-cast, Your Grace. Look at this odd line running down the side of the head. The man who cast these doesn’t file the heads. He’s as sloppy in his fletchery as his hunting. If we find a quiver of arrowheads with the same flaw, we have our man. I’ll pass word to the trackers.’ Then the long-faced Huntmaster said, ‘If Your Grace had reached that bear before I’d hit it, we might have had two murders to charge the poacher with.’ His tone was disapproving.

      Martin smiled. ‘I had no doubt of your aim, Garret. You’re the only man I know who’s a better shot than I. It’s one of the reasons you’re Huntmaster.’

      Charles said, ‘And because he’s the only one of your trackers who can keep up with you when you decide to hunt.’

      ‘You do set a fast pace, Lord Martin,’ agreed Baru.

      ‘Well,’ said Garret, not entirely appeased by Martin’s answer, ‘we might have had one more good shot before the bear ran.’

      ‘Might, might not. I’d rather jump it here in the clearing, with you three coming, than try to follow it into the brush, even with three arrows in it.’ He motioned toward the thicket a few yards away. ‘It could get a little tight in there.’

      Garret looked at Charles and Baru. ‘No argument as to that, Your Grace.’ He added, ‘Though it got a mite close out here.’

      A calling voice sounded a short way off. Martin stood. ‘Find out who is making all that noise. It almost cost us this kill.’ Charles hurried off.

      Baru shook his head as he regarded the dead bear. ‘The man who wounded this bear is no hunter.’

      Martin looked about the woods. ‘I miss this, Baru. I might even forgive that poacher a little for giving me an excuse to get away from the castle.’

      Garret said, ‘It’s a thin excuse, my lord. By rights you should have left this to me and my trackers.’

      Martin smiled. ‘So Fannon will insist.’

      Baru said, ‘I understand. For almost a year I stayed with the elves and now you. I miss the hills and meadows of the Yabon Highlands.’

      Garret said nothing. Both he and Martin understood why the Hadati had not returned. His village had been destroyed by the moredhel chieftain Murad. And while Baru had avenged it by killing Murad, he no longer had a home. Someday he might find another Hadati village in which to settle, but for the time being he chose to wander far from home. After his wounds had healed at Elvandar, he had come to Crydee to guest for a while with Martin.

      Charles returned, a soldier of Crydee behind. The soldier saluted and said, ‘Swordmaster Fannon requests you return at once, Your Grace.’ Martin exchanged a quick glance with Baru. ‘What’s afoot, I wonder?’

      Baru shrugged.

      The soldier said, ‘The Swordmaster took the liberty of sending extra mounts, Your Grace. He knew you’d left on foot.’

      Martin said, ‘Lead on,’ and they followed the soldier to where others waited with mounts. As they readied themselves for the return to Castle Crydee, the Duke felt a sudden disquiet.

      Fannon stood waiting for them as Martin dismounted. ‘What is it, Fannon?’ said Martin as he slapped at the road dust on his green leather tunic.

      ‘Has Your Grace forgotten Lord Miguel will arrive this afternoon?’

      Martin looked at the lowering sun. ‘Then he’s late.’

      ‘His ship was sighted beyond the point at Sailor’s Grief an hour ago. He’ll be passing Longpoint lighthouse into the harbour within the next hour.’

      Martin smiled at his Swordmaster. ‘You’re right, of course. I had forgotten.’ Almost running up the stairs, he said, ‘Come and talk with me, Fannon, while I change.’

      Martin hurried toward his quarters, once occupied by his father, Lord Borric. Pages had drawn a hot tub and Martin quickly stripped off his hunter’s garb. He took the strongly scented soap and washing stone and said to the page, ‘Have plenty of cold fresh water here. This scent is something my sister might like, but it cloys my nose.’ The page left to fetch more water.

      ‘Now, Fannon, what brings the illustrious Duke of Rodez from the other side of the Kingdom?’

      Fannon sat upon a settee. ‘He is simply travelling for the summer. It is not unheard of, Your Grace.’

      Martin laughed. ‘Fannon, we’re alone. You can drop the pretence. He’s bringing at least one daughter of marriageable age.’

      Fannon sighed. ‘Two. Miranda is twenty and Inez is fifteen. Both are said to be beauties.’

      ‘Fifteen! Gods, man! She’s a baby.’

      Fannon smiled ruefully. ‘Two duels have been fought already over that baby, according to my information. Remember, these are easterners.’

      Martin stretched out to soak. ‘They do tend to get into politics early back there, don’t they?’

      ‘Look, Martin, like it or not, you are Duke – and brother to the King. You’ve never married. If you didn’t live in the most remote corner of the Kingdom, you’d have had sixty social visits since your return home, not six.’

      Martin grimaced. ‘If this turns out like the last, I’m going to return to the forests and the bears.’ The last visit had been from the Earl of Tarloff, vassal to the Duke of Ran. His daughter had been charming enough, but she tended to the flighty and had giggled, a trait that set Martin’s teeth on edge. He had left the girl with vague promises to visit Tarloff someday. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘she was a pretty enough thing.’

      ‘Pretty has little to do with it, as you well know. Things are still reeling in the East, even though it’s approaching two years since King Rodric’s death. Guy du Bas-Tyra’s out there somewhere doing what only the gods know. Some of his faction still wait to see who will be named Duke of Bas-Tyra. With Caldric dead and the office of Duke of Rillanon also vacant, the East is a tower of sticks. Pull the wrong one and it will all come down on the King’s head. Lyam is well advised by Tully to wait for sons and nephews. Then he can put more allies in office. It would do well for you not to lose sight of the facts of life for the King’s family, Martin.’

      ‘Yes, Swordmaster,’ Martin said, with a regretful shake of his head. He knew Fannon was right. Once Lyam had elevated him to the position of Duke of Crydee, he had lost a great deal of his freedom, with even greater losses to come, or so it seemed.

      Three pages entered with buckets of cold water. Martin stood and let them pour the water over him. Shivering, he wrapped himself in a soft towel, and when the pages were gone, he said, ‘Fannon, what you say is obviously right, but … well, it’s not even a year since Arutha and I returned from Moraelin. Before that … it was that long tour of the East. Can’t I have a few months just to live quietly at home?’

      ‘You did. Last winter.’

      Martin laughed. ‘Very well. But it would seem to me that there is a lot more interest in a rural duke than is required.’

      Fannon shook his head. ‘More interest than is required in the brother to the King?’

      ‘None of my line could claim the crown, even if three, maybe soon four, others didn’t stand in succession before me. Remember, I abdicated any claim for my posterity.’

      ‘You are not a simple man, Martin. Don’t play the woodsy with me. You may have said whatever you wished on the day of Lyam’s coronation, but should some descendant of yours be in a position to inherit, your vows won’t count a tinker’s damn if some faction in the Congress of Lords wishes him King.’

      Martin began to dress. ‘I know,