A Darkness at Sethanon. Raymond E. Feist

      A knock came and a guard appeared at the door. ‘Ship flying the banner of Rodez clearing Longpoint light, Your Grace.’

      Martin waved the guard out. He said to Fannon, ‘I guess we’d better hurry to meet the Duke and his lovely daughters.’ Finishing his dressing, he said, ‘I will be inspected and courted by the Duke’s daughters, Fannon, but for the gods’ love and patience, I hope neither of them giggles.’ Fannon nodded in sympathy as he followed Martin from the room.

      Martin smiled at Duke Miguel’s jest. It concerned an eastern lord Martin had met only once. The man’s foibles might have been a source of humour to the eastern lords, but the joke was lost on Martin. Martin cast a glance at the Duke’s daughters. Both girls were lovely: delicate features, pale complexions framed by nearly black hair, and both had large dark eyes. Miranda sat engaged in conversation with young Squire Wilfred, third son of the Baron of Carse and newly come to the court. Inez sat regarding Martin with frank appraisal. Martin felt his neck begin to colour and turned his attention back to her father. He could see why she had been the excuse for a duel between hotheaded youths. Martin didn’t know a great deal about women, but he was an expert hunter and he knew a predator when he saw one. This girl might be only fifteen years of age, but she was a veteran of the eastern courts. She would find a powerful husband before too long, Martin didn’t doubt. Miranda was simply another pretty lady of the court, but Inez hinted at hard edges Martin found unattractive. This girl was clearly dangerous and already experienced in twisting men to her will. Martin determined to keep that fact uppermost in mind.

      Supper had been quiet, as was Martin’s usual custom, but tomorrow there would be jugglers and singers, for a travelling band of minstrels was in the area. Martin had little affection for formal banquets after his eastern tour but some sort of show was in order. Then a page hurried into the room, skirting the tables to reach Housecarl Samuel’s side. He spoke softly, and the Housecarl came to Martin’s chair. Leaning down, he said, ‘Pigeons just arrived from Ylith, Your Grace. Eight of them.’

      Martin understood. For so many birds to have been used the message would be urgent. It was usual to employ only two or three against the possibility of a bird not finishing the dangerous flight over the Grey Tower Mountains. It took weeks to send them back by cart or ship, so they were used sparingly. Martin rose. ‘If Your Grace will excuse me a moment?’ he said to the Duke of Rodez. ‘Ladies?’ He bowed to the two sisters, then followed the page out of the hall.

      In the antechamber of the keep, he found the Hawkmaster, in charge of the hawk mews and the pigeon coop, standing with the small parchments. He handed them to Martin and withdrew. Martin saw the tiny message slips were sealed, with the royal crest of Krondor drawn on the roll of paper about them, indicating only the Duke was to open them. Martin said, ‘I’ll read these in my council chamber.’

      Alone in his council room, Martin saw that the slips had been numbered one and two. Four pairs. The message had been sent four times to ensure it arrived intact. Martin unfolded one of the slips marked one, then his eyes widened as he fumbled to open another. The message was duplicated. He then read a number two, and tears came unbidden to his eyes.

      Long minutes passed as Martin opened every slip, hoping to find something different, something to tell him he had misunderstood. For a long time, he could only sit staring at the papers before him as a cold sickness visited the pit of his stomach. Finally a knock came at the door, and he said weakly, ‘Yes?’

      The door opened and Fannon entered. ‘You’ve been gone near an hour—’ He stopped when he saw Martin’s drawn expression and red eyes. ‘What is it?’

      Martin could only wave his hand at the scraps. Fannon read them, then half staggered backward to sit in a chair. A shaking hand covered his face for a long minute. Both men were silent. At last he said, ‘How could this be?’

      ‘I don’t know. The message only says an assassin.’ Martin let his gaze wander around the room, every stone in the wall and piece of furniture associated with his father, Lord Borric. And of his family, the most like their father had been Arutha. Martin loved them all, but Arutha had been a mirror of Martin in many ways. They had shared a certain way of seeing things and had endured much together: the siege of the castle during the Riftwar while Lyam had been absent with their father, the long dangerous quest to Moraelin to find Silverthorn. No, in Arutha Martin had discovered his closest friend in many ways. Elven-taught, Martin knew the inevitability of death, but he was mortal and felt an empty place appear within himself. He regained his composure as he stood. ‘I had best inform Duke Miguel. His visit is to be short. We leave for Krondor tomorrow.’

      Martin looked up as Fannon reentered the room. ‘It will take all night and morning to get ready, but the captain says your ship will be able to leave on the afternoon tide.’

      Martin motioned for him to take a chair and waited a long moment before speaking. ‘How can it be, Fannon?’

      The Swordmaster said, ‘I can’t answer that, Martin.’ Fannon was thoughtful a moment, then softly said, ‘You know I share your grief. We all do. He, and Lyam, were like my own sons.’

      ‘I know.’

      ‘But there are other matters that cannot be put off.’

      ‘Such as?’

      ‘I’m old, Martin. I suddenly feel the weight of ages upon me. News of Arutha’s death … makes me again feel my own mortality. I wish to retire.’

      Martin rubbed his chin as he thought. Fannon was past seventy now, and while his mental capacity was undiminished, he lacked the physical stamina required of the Duke’s second-in-command. ‘I understand, Fannon. When I return from Rillanon—’

      Fannon interrupted. ‘No, that’s too long, Martin. You will be gone several months. I need a named successor now, so I can begin to ensure he is capable when I leave office. If Gardan were still here, I’d have no doubt as to a smooth transition, but with Arutha stealing him away’ – the old man’s eyes filled with tears – ‘making him Knight-Marshal of Krondor, well …’

      Martin said, ‘I understand. Who did you have in mind?’ The question was asked absently, as Martin struggled to keep his mind calm.

      ‘Several of the sergeants might serve, but we’ve no one of Gardan’s capabilities. No, I had Charles in mind.’

      Martin gave a weak smile. ‘I thought you didn’t trust him.’

      Fannon sighed. ‘That was a long time back, and we were fighting a war. He’s shown his worth a hundred times since then, and I don’t think there’s a man in the castle more fearless. Besides, he was a Tsurani officer, about equal to a knight-lieutenant. He knows warcraft and tactics. He has often spent hours speaking with me about the differences between Tsurani warfare and our own. I know this: once he learns something, he doesn’t forget. He’s a clever man and worth a dozen lesser men. Besides, the soldiers respect him and will follow him.’

      Martin said, ‘I’ll consider it and decide tonight. What else?’

      Fannon was silent for a time, as if speaking came with difficulty. ‘Martin, you and I have never been close. When your father called you to serve I felt, as did others, that there was something strange about you. You were always aloof, and you had those odd elvish ways. Now I know that part of the mystery was the truth of your relationship to Borric. I doubted you in some ways, Martin. I’m sorry to admit that … But what I’m trying to say is … you honour your father.’

      Martin took a deep breath. ‘Thank you, Fannon.’

      ‘I say this to ensure you understand why I say this next. This visit from Duke Miguel was only an irritation before; now it is an issue of weight. You must speak to Father Tully when you reach Rillanon, and let him find you a wife.’

      Martin threw back his head and laughed, a bitter, angry laugh. ‘What jest, Fannon? My brother is dead and you want me to look for a wife?’

      Fannon was unflinching before Martin’s rising anger. ‘You are no longer the Huntmaster of Crydee, Martin. Then no