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and over as though looking for answers to a question she didn’t care — or dare — to speak aloud. Her brows were knitted and her teeth pinched her lower lip bloodless. There was a blazing ferocity in her he didn’t understand … but the heat of it backed him up a pace.
    And then she smiled, the heat snuffing out of her like a wind-blown candle. Stepping back again, she let go of his wrist. ‘I expect you’re right,’ she said lightly. ‘It never hurts to let people know you won’t be trifled with. Now come on. I really don’t have all day.’
    At length the gravelled path led them to another wall, this one of rough-hewn bloodrock speckled with some kind of crystal that winked and flashed in the sunshine. An | elaborate cast-iron gate stood wide open in welcome; passing through it, Asher saw the blue tower much closer now, yet still partly obscured by the oaks standing tall around its base. Straight ahead, though, was a grand curving archway of cream and ochre sandstone connecting two long, low ochre brick buildings. There were windows ranged at intervals along their walls, the open shutters painted a rich dark green. Through several of them horses poked long faces of brown and chestnut and grey, nostrils quivering, ears pricked, dark eyes wide and curious. Ringing into the surrounding quiet, a hammer struck echoes from an anvil.
    ‘And here we are,’ said Dathne. ‘Matt’s little kingdom.’ When Asher looked at her askance she added, ‘You think I’m jesting? Trust me, I’m not. The horses are his heart, and he protects them as keenly as any king does his subjects. Keep that fact pinned to your mast in plain sight, Meister Fisherman, and you’ll not go far wrong.’
    ‘Ha,’ said Asher.
    They passed beneath the sandstone archway and into the rich-smelling world of horses. The stables were arranged in a large square, each box opening onto an expanse of herringboned brick and dark red gravel. The yard was immaculate, swept and raked and clean as a cook’s kitchen, At its centre gloried a lavish, bee-buzzed flowerbed.
    The sound of hammering was louder in here, but had changed. Off to the left in a covered, open-fronted alcove a massive grey horse stood snorting with displeasure. A young Olken lad gripped its plaited leather lead hard in both hands. A giant of a man, Olken and mountainously muscled, crouched over one of the horse’s raised hind legs, cradling the fetlock and hoof between his bent knees. His black hair was clipped neat as a hedge. One large hand held a hammer and pounded nails into the horse’s hoof with such precise power that Asher, staring, had to wonder what it might feel like to be felled by a punch from him.
    Be best, prob’ly, if he never found out.
    Beside him, Dathne made a pleased sound. ‘There he is.’ She raised her voice. ‘Matt!’
    Matt took a moment to tap the nail-head home with one final metallic blow, then shuffled carefully back to front, hand supporting the horse’s hoof, so he could finish off securing the shoe. Settling into his new position, hitching the hoof high onto his thigh, he glanced up. Saw Dathne, saw the stranger with her, and froze. His brown eyes widened, and his lips parted, sucking in an astonished rush of air. Then his expression smoothed, became completely noncommittal.
    ‘Dathne.’, His voice was deep and instinctively soothing. ‘Be with you directly.’ He glanced at the lad clutching the horse’s lead rope. ‘Make sure you’ve got a good grip there, Boonie, he’s tensing up.’ He made a hissing sound and jiggled the horse’s leg gently. ‘Settle down, old son, it’s nearly over.’
    Quickly, with an economy of effort and a minimum of fuss, the stable meister resumed his task. Asher, watching closely, was impressed. You could trust a man who knew his job and did it well, without boastful flourishes.
    Finished at last, Matt guided the horse’s hoof back to the ground and nodded at the lad. ‘Put him in his paddock now, Boonie,