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walls. The tines of sharp ambition spurred us forth on this mad quest to wake the dark. As you are spurred.”
    Stargad, prince of a line already old in grandfather days, bowed sombrely to Shielder’s Mark. “My greetings to your honoured father; sorrow to your dam. Prepare to die.”
    And then Sweetness leapt out with a cry like larksong at first light and cut Mark’s sword cleanly in two, so the top half flew clattering against the wall of the Keep.
    Mark flung the haft at Stargad and bolted. Fast as fear his legs carried him, racing back to the door Queen Lerelil had come through. He ran within and slammed it behind him, then stood, chest heaving, listening for Stargad’s footsteps.
    Shite. Shite ! His muscles were screaming to run, fight, anything, but he forced himself to stillness.
    No sound of pursuit. Wine and ribbons and all pretty girls defend me! Sweet, sweet air of life .
    He felt a warmth spill down his chest. He’d been cut. It was only a scratch, but he stood halfway to fainting, trembling like a first-day foal.
    Hell.
    Still no sound. Maybe Stargad can only prowl the ground he walked when first he came; never got inside, so he can’t come in now .
    A duchy at least , Mark swore to himself. O God, that bulging eye, that flat, dead voice. The King owes me at least a duchy .
    Faintness shivered through him, as if he hadn’t eaten in two days. So much for Thief. “Better stick to saving squirrels,” he murmured.
    Another chance at honour gone.
    Men had dueled, stories said, for the privilege of falling before Stargad’s blade. But you’re not here for honour lad, nor glory either; just to fetch the dagger and break the spell. Fighting dead heroes is none of your business , he told himself, gasping against the door, ears straining for any sound of Stargad’s approach. Running away was just good sense .
    Still no sound of pursuit. He was safe—for the moment.
    For the first time he looked around. He was in the Red Keep’s large courtyard. A line of stables had been built against the Keep’s west wall. Mark stood facing the Great Hall. At night the servants would have rolled out their mats and slept there. Two buildings flanked the Hall: on one side, an elegant wing the size of a great manor house. Where the royalty lived, no doubt. A squat wooden building jutted from the other side of the Hall: kitchens, probably.
    And where the manor house touched the Keep’s eastern wall, the Scarlet Tower stood, its flanks flushing with the dawn.
    Frustration clenched in him. If Stargad failed scaling the Tower, you’ve got no bloody hope, lad. That was your best idea, your ace to play to break the spell.
    Now he didn’t even have a sword. After a lifetime of training he had run out of plans. Why didn’t Duke Aron get around to this place when he was thrashing the Ghost-King in the Time of Troubles, eh ? Wi’ no spells, how can a man hope to …
    Unless…
    He blinked. Must be something wrong wi’ …
    Shift the ground, shift the ground. If you don’t have the answer, change the question!
    By God you’re a genius, Shielder’s Mark ! He let out his breath in a long soft sigh. “You’re a genius.”
    He scanned the courtyard: emptiness, silence. He slipped quietly across it until he stood under the eaves of the Great Hall. He stopped, listened, waited. Nothing. He crept toward the Tower. As he passed one of the open kitchen windows, a gleam of ruddy light caught his eye and he froze. Light? No torches burned in the Red Keep’s brackets, no lamps hung above the stable doors. Unless he disturbed things, the Keep should be as silent as the grave, as dark.
    Mark peered through the window.
    An old man sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, stirring in the ashes of a tiny fire, all dull coals and cinders. His head was pale as a mushroom, bald and wrinkled with age. He sat in profile to Mark; the white line of an ancient scar ran raggedly down behind his right ear.
    If the Old Man saw Mark, or heard him, he gave