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harbours are no-go areas for the Knights.”
    Abeleyn let out a long breath. “So we can make landfall. There is hope, Golophin.”
    “Yes, sire. But Mercado is an old man, and a pious one. The Inceptines are working on him. He is as loyal as a hound, but he is also intolerant of heresy. We cannot afford to lose any time, or we may find the army arraigned against us when we reach Hebrion.”
    “You think a Pontifical bull could have arrived there already?”
    “I do. Himerius will waste no time once he hears the news from Vol Ephrir. And therein lies your danger, sire. Refusing to obey the will of a few trumped-up, would-be princes is one thing, but remaining loyal to an absent heretic is quite another. The bull may be enough to sway the army and the fleet. You must prepare yourself for that.”
    “If that happens I am finished, Golophin.”
    “Nearly, but not quite. You will still have your own lands, your own personal retainers. With Astarac’s help you could reclaim the throne.”
    “Plunging Hebrion into civil war while I do.”
    “No one ever said this course would be an easy one, sire. I could wish that we had made better time in our journey, though.”
    “I need agitators, Golophin. I need trusted men who will enter the city before me and spread the truth of the matter. Abrusio is not cut out to be ruled by priests. When the city hears that Macrobius is alive and well, that Himerius is an imposter and that Astarac and Torunna are with me in this thing, then it will be different.”
    “I will see what I can do, lad, but my contacts in the city are growing thinner on the ground day by day. Most of them are ashes, friends of fifty years. May the lord God rest their souls. They died good men, whatever the Ravens might think.”
    “And you, Golophin. Are you safe?”
    Something in the yellow gleam of the bird’s eye chilled Abeleyn as it replied in the old mage’s voice.
    “I will be all right, Abeleyn. The day they try to take me will be one to remember, I promise you.”
    Abeleyn turned and stared back over the taffrail. Astarac was out of sight over the brim of the horizon, but he could just make out the white glimmer of the Hebros Mountains ahead, to the north-west.
    Astarac, far astern of them: the kingdom of King Mark, soon to be his brother-in-law. If there were ever time for weddings again after all this. What was waiting for Mark in Astarac? More of the same, perhaps. Ambitious clerics, nobles leaping at the opportunity to rule. War.
    A sea mile astern of Abeleyn’s vessel two wide-bellied
nefs
, the old-fashioned trading ships of the Levangore, were making heavy going of the swell. Within them was the bulk of Abeleyn’s entourage, four hundred strong; the only subjects whose obedience he still commanded. It was because of them he had taken the longer sea route home instead of trying to chance the snowbound passes of the mountains. He would need every loyal sword in the months to come; he could not afford to abandon them.
    “Golophin, I want you to do something.”
    The gyrfalcon cocked its head to one side. “I am yours to command, my boy.”
    “You must procure a meeting with Rovero and Mercado. You must let the army and the fleet know the truth of things. If the Hebrian navy is against me, then we will never get to within fifty leagues of Abrusio.”
    “It will not be easy, sire.”
    “Nothing ever is, my friend. Nothing ever is.”
    “I will do my best. Rovero, being a mariner, has always had a more open mind than Mercado.”
    “If you must choose one, then let it be Rovero. The fleet is the most important.”
    “Very well, sire.”
    “Sail ho!” the lookout cried from the maintop. “I see five—no, six—sail abaft the larboard beam!”
    Dietl, the master, squinted up at the maintop.
    “What are they, Tasso?”
    “Lateen-rigged, sir. Galleasses by my bet. Corsairs maybe.”
    Dietl blinked, then turned to Abeleyn.
    “Corsairs, sire. A whole squadron, perhaps. Shall I put her