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gates of the castle, cold and forbidding in the moonlight which struggled through thinning cloud. Corlin was not impressed. The heavy iron-studded wooden gates hung drunkenly on hinges intent on leaving the masonry, and the deep moat was empty. He guessed it was probably full of weeds. Even in the poor light he could see the bare tops of a couple of small trees thrashing in the brisk wind which howled down its length.
    They clattered into the bailey, one wind-tossed torch on each wall struggling to dispel the darkness, and dismounted. Clumps of weeds and mats of moss and grass made shadowy shapes across the entire width of the large flag-stoned courtyard. The whole place seemed as if it had lost the will to carry on.
    Jouan jerked a thumb towards Corlin’s saddle. “Judging by the shape, it looks like you got your gimalin back.”
    The minstrel placed a protective hand against it. “No. This was a gift.” He started to un-strap it from the cantle. The other soldier peered at him over Megan’s back. “You can leave it there. It’ll be quite safe. My lord Duke takes a very dim view of theft. Anyway, there’ll be a guard on the stables.”
    Corlin’s face was dark against the flaring torch-light and his eyes glinted. “And can the guard be trusted?”
    The soldier’s mouth stiffened as his chin came up. “The guard will be myself.”
    Corlin shrugged a vague apology and patted Megan’s rump. As the soldier led her away across the bailey towards the keep and the stables, Jouan ushered the minstrel through a tired and dilapidated wooden door into the interior of the castle. A narrow spiral stone staircase led up to a short dark corridor, its stone walls hung with musty and threadbare tapestries.
    As they approached the door to the duke’s rooms, Jouan lightly touched Corlin’s sleeve. “Don’t let Grumas get under your skin.”
    The minstrel frowned. “Grumas?”
    Jouan sniffed with contempt. “He’s the duke’s resident magician. If you succeed in playing the gimalin, Master Grumas will be very unhappy.”
    Corlin quickly suppressed an evil grin as Jouan knocked on the splendidly decorated and gilded door. The duke didn’t get to his feet as Corlin entered, and the minstrel didn’t bow. He shivered. The large, sparsely furnished room was icy. No fire burned in the wide fireplace, even though kindling and logs were laid as if the intention was there.
    The duke leaned on one arm of his massive wooden chair and rested his face on his hand as if he was inescapably bored. “And you are?”
    Corlin returned the gimlet gaze of the man in the shabby and food-stained blue robe who stood to the left of, and just behind, the duke. “Corlin Bentfoot sire.”
    The duke’s glance travelled down to Corlin’s feet and the laced and buckled boot. He flicked a finger at it as if it were a small matter of little consequence. “My magician will correct that for you in time, Corlin Bentfoot.”
    The corner of Corlin’ mouth curled in derision. “If he is a proven Physician-Mage, then after much very careful consideration I might let him try.”
    To Corlin’s surprise the duke released a huge bellowing guffaw and turned to look over his shoulder at his magician who had already turned an unflattering shade of puce at the perceived insult.
    The duke pushed himself out of his chair and, right hand extended, strode up to the minstrel and clapped him on the shoulder. “At last! A man who doesn’t snivel and scrape and constantly call me by titles I neither possess nor aspire to.” He called across to his discomfited magician. “Thank you Master Grumas. Let’s have some comfort in here please!”
    The magician glared at Corlin then stepped in front of the fireplace. From his outstretched hands tongues of flame speared into the kindling and licked over the neatly laid logs. Satisfied that it was going as it should, he turned, and facing into the room inscribed a circle in the air above his head. Almost instantly the