The Ships of Merior. Janny Wurts

through an arbour of flowering vines, Medlir unlatched a side gate that let into the gutter behind the court house. ‘Mind the horse piss.’

      ‘Or not,’ Halliron commented. ‘If I stink enough to turn heads, do you guess the mayor’s wife would throw me out?’

      ‘She’d doubtless roast Dakar for the lapse, then sidestep sensibility by giving you a replacement pair of shoes, fancy ones with satin ruffles.’ Medlir offered an arm to steady his master across the puddle. Through his thin sleeve, the old man trembled shockingly. ‘It’s not much further. We can cut through the guards’ barracks.’

      ‘That’s not necessary.’ Halliron squared trim shoulders. ‘I need the walk to cool my temper.’

      Companionably silent, the pair passed sights grown unwontedly familiar through the course of their enforced stay in Jaelot: the scarred stalls of the butcher’s sheds, and fishmonger’s baskets stacked like nested eggs in the starlit gloom of the alley. Halliron broke step to fling silver into a beggar’s bowl. The mournful, deep bells in the guard tower chimed the hour, rousting up a flapping flock of pigeons. The birds wheeled above the city’s muddled skyline, smudged into soot from coal fires lit to cut the sea damp.

      ‘It’s hard to believe this place was once the site of Paravian mysteries,’ Halliron commented over the clop of horses and the grind of gilt-striped carriage wheels. Foot traffic crowded the road, couples cloaked and masked and laughing as they hurried to dance at the festival fires in light-hearted contrast with hawkers trudging homeward with handcarts of unsold pastries. ‘The sixth lane resonance once channelled through this headland. At solstice, you’d think I’d feel the pulse of the earth’s song through my very boots. Everywhere else the unicorns danced, at least a ghost echo lingers.’