The Copper Promise

Book 1: Copper Cat Trilogy

by Jen Williams

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Dark Fantasy; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

The first in the exhilarating British Fantasy Award-nominated Copper Cat Trilogy. Epic fantasy for fans of Robin Hobb and Jay Kristoff's Nevernight series.

'A fast-paced and original new voice in heroic fantasy' Adrian Tchaikovsky , author of Children of Time

There are some tall stories about the caverns beneath the Citadel - about magic and mages and monsters and gods.

Wydrin of Crosshaven has heard them all, but she's spent long enough trawling caverns and taverns with her companion Sir Sebastian to learn that there's no money to be made in chasing rumours.

But then a crippled nobleman with a dead man's name offers them a job: exploring the Citadel's darkest depths. It sounds like just another quest with gold and adventure ... if they're lucky, they might even have a tale of their own to tell once it's over.

These reckless adventurers will soon learn that sometimes there is truth in rumour. Sometimes a story can save your life.

(P)2014 Headline Digital

Release date: July 5, 2016

Publisher: Angry Robot

Print pages: 448

Sample

Getting this book out into the world has been a long and strange journey, with many unexpected diversions and the occasional wrong turn. A number of people kindly lent their time to stop me wandering off cliff edges or into haunted forests, and I’d like to do my best to say thank you to some of them here.

Thank you, first of all, to the readers who took a chance on The Copper Promise in its original form – a sword and sorcery novella with a bitch of a cliff-hanger. Because you read it, and because you said lovely things, I had the confidence to write the rest of that story. Keep taking those chances, because you rock.

Enormous thanks to the beta readers who took on The Copper Promise in its Ultimate-Mega-Form, and gave general story advice at all stages of writing: Roy Butlin, Andrew Reid, Kate Sherrod and Stuart Turner. I greatly valued your fresh eyeballs and endless enthusiasm.

Gigantic thanks to the Non-Aligned League of Super Awesome Writers, who have been on hand at all times to offer advice, sarcastic emails and the occasional alcoholic beverage. Particular gratitude to Adam Christopher, who was there at the beginning of this craziness and has been ridiculously supportive, from giving me a kick up the arse when I needed it to making sure I actually turn up to these convention things – I still owe you a ginger beer, mister.

Thanks also to Den Patrick, who once bought me a hot chocolate as big as my head, and the unflappable Liz de Jager, who taught me to strut and had burritos with me when I was feeling rubbish.

I have been enormously fortunate with this publishing lark, I really have, and a large part of that is down to my agent, the tremendous Juliet Mushens. Not only did she make a dream of mine come true, she made the book better, gave me a huge shot of confidence when I needed it most, and did it all with endless style and humour. Bravo, lady!

If you need more evidence that I was born under a lucky publishing-star, John Wordsworth is my editor. Enormous thanks to John for turning a potentially scary thing into a fantastically fun experience, and for being infinitely wiser than me. Thanks also to Christina Demosthenous and the rest of the team at Headline, who have been marvellous.

I have much to thank my mum for, who always encouraged my book obsession and (most of the time) let me read at the dinner table, and my dear friend Jenni, who has been a voice of reason since we were knee high to grasshoppers.

Finally, the biggest, sauciest thanks of all must go to my partner Marty Perrett. Thank you for making me laugh when I needed it, for putting up with my nonsense and my kick-the-oven tantrums, and for believing, with no room for doubt, that I could do it.

All the other cells in the dungeon stank of fear, but not this one. Lord Frith’s last surviving son was simply too proud to be afraid. Even now, as Yellow-Eyed Rin laid out his instruments on the blood-stained bench, holding each wicked blade up to the torchlight, the young man kneeling on the stone floor had only anger in his eyes.

The blood of his father is on that bench. His brothers’ too, thought Bethan. And soon his as well, but he’ll defy us to the end. Stubborn bastard.

The dungeons of Blackwood Keep were small and thick with shadows, which meant that Bethan had to stand rather closer to Yellow-Eyed Rin than she would have liked. He was a greasy wart of a man; shiny bulges of flesh poked through his leather tunic, and lank strands of grey hair stuck to his bulbous scalp. The rheumy eyes that gave him his name watered constantly, but not out of any sympathy for his victims. Rin might be foul to look upon, but his ability to summon excruciating pain with a few carefully placed cuts was invaluable to Bethan.

Despite the rough treatment they’d shown him so far, young Aaron Frith was another matter. With the strong jaw and grey eyes of all the Friths, his brown skin and fashionably long dark hair, he was a comely young man. Bethan had an appreciation for beautiful things; she had commanded that the finest paintings in the castle be taken down from the walls and packed into crates for her personal perusal later. It pained her greatly to spoil that warm skin, those pretty eyes. In the initial scuffle Frith had taken a blow to the temple, and now the dried blood was making his hair stick up at strange angles on one side. And Yellow-Eyed Rin would only make things worse, of course. Such a waste. Still, they needed him to talk, and soon. If they went another day without answers, then Fane might come up to the Blackwood himself, and no one wanted that.

‘Anything more to add, Aaron, before this gets bloody? Or should I call you Lord Frith now? Your father died in here yesterday.’

Aaron Frith slumped a little where he knelt, glancing away from her. For a brief moment she felt sorry for him, but the sensation didn’t last. The black velvet and silks he’d been wearing when they took the castle were stained and ragged now, but this was a man who’d been born into a privileged life. A silver brooch in the shape of a tree was still pinned to his breast, with tiny chips of sapphire in the branches that could have been leaves or could have been stars. It was fine work; Bethan made a note to make sure that it ended up in her pocket at the close of this messy business.

He looked back up at her and his eyes were dry.

‘I have nothing to say to Istrian scum.’

Bethan sighed, and looked around the squalid cell. The torches only made the corners darker.

‘You want to end your days here, Lord Frith? For the sake of what? Some jewels, some gold? Coin you’ll probably never get around to spending?’

Frith said nothing. Bethan felt a stab of impatience.

‘We know the vault is hidden somewhere in the forest, Frith. Everyone knows that. We’ll find it eventually, but I’d much rather you told me. It’s a lot quicker that way.’

To her surprise, Frith grinned.

‘You think you’ll find the location scribbled on a piece of parchment, a footnote in my father’s will perhaps? I’m not sure you understand how secrets work.’

‘You tell me, then. You’re the last. I may even keep you alive. The Istrian people are fascinated by the aristocracy of their neighbours, and they’ll pay good coin to come and gawp at you.’ She tried to inject a reasonable tone into her voice. ‘Tell me now, Aaron Frith, and I swear this will go better for you. You’ve nothing to gain from adopting the stubbornness that killed the rest of your family.’

‘Tristan was nine years old. He was not stubborn, he was terrified.’

Bethan took a step towards the prisoner. She could feel her face growing flushed, much to her annoyance.

‘You would end your life here, in the dungeon of your own castle? Hundreds of years of the proud Frith family, and you’ll all end up in unmarked graves in your own damn forest.’

In answer, Aaron Frith spat on her boot.

‘Enough talk,’ said Rin through a throat full of phlegm. He picked up a vicious blade no longer than Bethan’s smallest finger. ‘Time to see the colour of the young lord’s blood. I heard it’s black, like their trees, but it’s all been red so far. Very disappointing, that.’

Bethan shook the spittle off her boot.

‘Get started.’

Bethan left Rin to his work – there was, in the end, only so much of it she could watch – and spent some time patrolling the castle, checking on her men and their search through old Lord Frith’s private documents. The servants had been rounded up in the Great Hall, and Carlson, her second-in-command, had made some attempts to beat the information out of them, but they clearly knew nothing of use.

The question of the vault was a vexing one. The Frith family were famous not only for their wealth, but also for their paranoia. Several generations back the Lord at the time, one Erasmus Frith, had ordered a great vault built out in the middle of the Blackwood. Each day, the men who worked on it were taken to the location blindfolded, with one member of the Frith family on hand at all times to supervise the plans. Hundreds of years later, and all anyone seemed certain of was that it was in the Blackwood somewhere, hidden in that huge and unknowable forest. The Frith family fortune, just waiting for someone to steal it.

A number of hours later Bethan returned to the dungeon. As she approached the cell she listened for the noises men made when they’d reached the end of their endurance, but the stone halls were quiet.

‘Please tell me you have some answers, Rin.’

The torturer wiped his hands on a bloody cloth, grimacing.

‘The boy is just as big an idiot as the rest of them.’

Aaron Frith was strapped to the bench, his arms held down by his sides with iron cuffs. Rin had long since removed the expensive velvets and silks, so that he lay shivering in his smallclothes. One side of his face was slick with blood, and one hand was red to the wrist. His chest was livid with burn marks, and Bethan could smell the hot, sweet scent of scorched flesh.

‘I’ve done all the usual. Hot pokers, burning needles under the fingernails – once that didn’t work I just ripped ’em off – some cuts here and there. Took one of his ears, and I thought he might give in then, but it doesn’t look like he’s paying much attention now. You want me to put one of his eyes out?’

Bethan watched the young lord carefully. His eyes were closed, his breathing rapid and shallow. He looked like someone caught in the midst of a deep fever, but she thought he could hear them, all the same.

‘Hold off for a moment.’

She went over to the bench and took hold of Frith’s jaw, turning him to face her. One of his eyes flickered open; the other was caked shut with blood from a deep cut on his cheek.

‘Put away your pride, Lord Frith. Tell me where the vault is.’

For a moment the look in his one open eye was confused, as though he didn’t know where he was. Then he focussed on her and she saw that look sharpen to hate.

‘The Blackwood will have your blood, peasant.’

Bethan took her hand away.

‘There is a grave out there in your precious forest, and it isn’t for me.’ She turned back to the torturer. ‘The mallet, I think. I want his legs broken.’

‘We tread carefully here, master.’

Gallo looked up from the map. The guide was running his fingers over the red granite walls, sniffing and frowning as though he’d trodden in something regrettable.

‘Really? There’s nothing indicated on here.’ Gallo shook the map at him. ‘And I’d really prefer it if you didn’t call me master, Chednit. I am your employer, not your overlord. We’re practically partners!’

Chednit turned his mismatched eyes towards him. One was brown as a nut and narrow with caution; the other was false, a ball of green jade etched with a silver pupil. It swivelled in his eye socket.

‘You trust the map?’

‘It’s all we’ve got to go on. And it’s not as though I bought it from one of those grinning charlatans we saw down in the city – I’ve no doubt there’s a little house somewhere in Krete where a hundred skinny children sit drawing fake maps to the Citadel – this was stolen from the ruins of a temple in Relios, snatched from under the noses of the Chattering Men.’ Gallo paused to let this sink in; he was still proud of that.

‘As you say, master.’

Gallo cast a look back the way they’d come. He could still see the last of the desert daylight far above, framed in the distant doorway like a window of gold. They had walked cautiously down a steep set of plain stone steps, treading carefully for fear of traps, snakes and scorpions; it was said that the haunted Citadel had a thousand grisly ways to kill you, each more unpleasant than the last. In front of them was a chamber made of grey stone. It was a little colder than he’d been expecting, but there was nothing obviously untoward. On the far side were the entrances to three passageways, each shrouded in darkness.

‘What is it you fear?’

The guide screwed up his face and shook his head.

‘I fancy I hear things. Every now and then, a rumble, a sigh.’

‘You do?’ Gallo stood very still and listened, but all he could hear was the rush of the wind sighing past the door high above them, and the sound of his own breathing. This far above Krete it wasn’t even possible to hear the cacophony of the city, shielded as they were by the solid weight of the ancient stones. He laughed suddenly, and clapped Chednit heartily on the back. The guide winced.

‘Look at us! We have barely made headway into the first level of the Citadel and already we are twitching at every noise, as nervous as mice. Let’s keep moving.’ Gallo looked at the map and nodded to the entrance on the far right. ‘We take this one.’

‘As you say, master.’

In the next chamber they found a narrow stairwell leading downwards. The light from Chednit’s torch only illuminated the first few steps before the darkness seemed to eat it up.

‘We should light another torch, master.’

‘I’d rather have my hands free.’ Gallo patted the scabbard at his hip.

‘I do not like this.’ Chednit frowned at the dark, pushing his leathery old face into a thousand crinkles. The light from the torch reflected on his jade eye, making it glow like a cat’s. ‘We should have waited for your friend to join us. Another sword hand, yes, that would have been most wise. We can still go back, await him in Krete.’

Gallo shook his head impatiently.

‘I could waste my whole life waiting for Sebastian while the Citadel sits here, all its secrets undiscovered. And besides, we’ve already given the guards their bribe.’ There had been a time when his friend would have been the first down the steps into the Citadel, a wild gleam in his eye and his sword drawn, but now he spoke of waiting and, worse, honour. It was enough to turn an adventurer’s stomach. ‘Look, if it makes you feel better, my blade shall go first.’ He drew his sword and gave Chednit his most reassuring smile. ‘Follow me close. We shall need what light that torch of yours can cast.’

They descended the stairs, Gallo in front, Chednit coming along behind, holding the torch high above his head. The passageway was narrow, the steps uneven. Gallo brushed his free hand against the stones and his fingers came away covered in a thin green slime. Ahead there was a darkness as deep and complete as anything he had ever seen; it was like a solid thing, so that he almost feared to go too quickly lest he collide with it. Their footsteps echoed strangely, seeming to fade away and then come back again faster, or slower. A few more steps, and his ears popped.

‘A dark place, that is for certain,’ said Gallo. He wanted to talk, to cover up those uneasy echoes, but his voice sounded strained and weak to his own ears. ‘Sebastian would not like this at all. He prefers his open skies and his mountains.’

‘As you say, master.’ Chednit sounded as though he couldn’t give two shakes of a donkey’s arse about Sebastian’s mountains, and Gallo couldn’t blame him. Even so, he could not stop talking.

‘Do you know Ynnsmouth, Chednit? Strange place. They worship their mountains as gods, and there are secret shrines that only the Ynnsmouth knights can find. Sebastian promised to take me to one once, even though it is forbidden.’

Suddenly Gallo was filled with the certainty that he would never see the mountain shrine – would never, in fact, see daylight again. The thought caught his tongue and held it, filling his chest with an alien tightness. He cleared his throat but said no more, and they walked on in silence.

Ever downwards they went, with no change to the steps or the rough walls beside them. They walked for so long that Gallo began to wonder if this was one of the mythical traps of the Citadel, one so subtle and simple that you could be walking for years before you realised you had grown old and doddery. Gallo was a man who prided himself on the physical condition of his body – when he had stolen the map from the Chattering Men he had outrun them all and barely felt it – but a sweat had broken out on his brow and his legs were starting to ache.

A faint rustling from above stopped Gallo in his tracks. It reminded him of the sound ropes make on the docks when the boats cast off – rough hessian rubbing against splintered wood. He looked up, but Chednit’s torch cast only the faintest of glimmers towards the ceiling.

‘What is that?’ he said, his fear briefly lost in curiosity. ‘Say, can you see something?’

There was a brief suggestion of movement, followed by a blood-curdling scream from behind him. Gallo turned in time to see Chednit’s legs vanishing upwards, his body pulled up into the darkened ceiling. Like most men who sell their sword for money Gallo was as quick as a cat. His arm shot out and grabbed hold of his guide’s boot.

‘Help me, help me!’ squealed Chednit. The torch dropped down onto the steps, smouldering and smoking. Whatever had him was fearsomely strong. Gallo pulled down on Chednit’s boot but the force pulling him up only increased, nearly yanking him up with the hapless guide. He tried to drop the sword to grab on with both hands, but his hand would not obey.

‘Chednit!’

As quick as that the boot was gone, and Chednit flew up into the dark recesses of the ceiling. Gallo held his sword over his head as, unseen, his guide began to scream, over and over. There was a patter of what felt like warm rain against his upturned face, and something small and round dropped down past his nose, to chink against the stone steps and then bounce away into the dark beyond. He saw it only for a second in the guttering light of Chednit’s torch, but he recognised the jade eye with the silver pupil, now lost to the shadows at the bottom of the unending steps.

The whole thing had taken no more than a handful of heartbeats. Gallo picked up the torch and blew it back into life, noticing that it was now sticky with blood. When the light was strong again, he held it up over his head, half fearing to see Chednit’s grinning corpse flattened to the ceiling, a hole in his face where his eyes should be … but there was nothing there. He saw more of the same grey stones, the same green mould, and no sign of his guide. Gallo swallowed hard and tightened his grip on his sword.

‘The place is cursed,’ he spat. As the terror passed, he was filled with a black fury. How dare it take his guide from him? To suffer such a loss at the very beginning of the adventure was unthinkable. Sebastian would be insufferable, for a start. ‘A foul thing, to pick off an unarmed man from above.’

‘Would you prefer to meet face to face, young warrior?’

The voice was so close behind him Gallo could feel the tickle of warm breath on the back of his neck. He spun, sword out, but what met him on the steps of the Citadel drained all the strength from his arms with one slow smile.

‘I thought not,’ it said, with a note of long-suffering humour. ‘They never do.’

‘You’re a dirty cheat! Everyone knows it! That’s what everyone says.’

Wydrin drew the last of the cards towards her across the table, snatching a quick glance at whoever might be listening in the crowded tavern. Good rumours, bad rumours; they were all the same to her. Unfortunately, an early summer’s evening in The Hands of Fate tavern was a busy time, and no one was paying much attention to an argument over a game of cards. Not until it gets bloody, anyway, she thought.

‘Have you forgotten the rules again, Sammy?’ She smiled up at him, and was pleased to see his face turn a darker shade of pink. ‘I’ll be glad to explain them to you, but the gist of it is, well, you lost. Fair and square. The Copper Cat plays a clean game. Well, clean card games, anyway.’

‘I want my money back.’ Sam Larken slammed his fist down on the table, causing the small pile of coins to jump. ‘You’ll give it back now, you lying little thief.’

Wydrin leaned back in her chair and patted the two daggers at her belt.

‘Thief, is it? You want to take that up with my claws here?’

There was a slight hesitation from Sam Larken now, and this, too, pleased Wydrin. It seemed he wasn’t a total fool after all.

‘I just want what’s mine, that’s all, or I’ll tell everyone—’

Wydrin drew the dagger, too fast for him to follow, and then very slowly flipped one of the cards over with the point. It was the eight of cups.

‘You’ll tell everyone what?’

‘Uh …’

A shadow suddenly loomed over them. Wydrin looked up to see a tall, broad-shouldered man with long black hair tied into a braid and an enormous broadsword slung over his back. He was carrying a tankard in each hand, and he gave Wydrin a pained look before turning to Sam.

‘I’ve told you before, Sam. If you still insist on playing cards with her you can’t keep complaining you’ve lost all your money. Rats learn faster than you.’

Sam backed away from the table awkwardly, half taking the chair with him. His eyes were glued to the sword.

‘Fine, keep it then.’ He shot a poisonous look at Wydrin. ‘Can’t get an honest game in this shit hole of a city.’

Wydrin watched him back away into the crowd. She gave him a little wave.

‘Really, Sebastian,’ she said as the big man sat down, carefully placing the tankards away from the cards. ‘I wasn’t even cheating this time. As soon as he gets some decent cards it’s written all over his stupid face.’

Sebastian shifted in his seat and glanced back towards the door. He was a big man, muscled and powerful, but with a kind face, a long nose and blue eyes, which Wydrin liked to tease him about. No fearsome knight had eyes that pretty, she said.

‘It would be helpful if you could avoid starting any fights while we’re waiting to meet a potential client.’

Wydrin rolled her eyes and took a mouthful of ale. It was warm and tasted of oats. Not bad for Krete.

‘What’s the matter with you? You look like someone’s pissed in your beer.’

Sebastian sighed and picked up his tankard.

‘This job. I’m not certain it’s wise. After what happened we should be all the more cautious.’

‘This is what you wanted, Sebastian.’ Wydrin slid her dagger back into its scabbard and lowered her voice. ‘We can find him this way. Gallo was an idiot, and we’re not. We’ll be fine.’ Catching the look on his face she changed her tone. ‘Besides which, anyone stupid enough to explore the Citadel will be paying through the nose for it. We’ll be set for the rest of the year. No more working for tiresome little merchants who want their poxy wagon trains guarded.’ She sniffed. ‘I was thinking of getting some new leather armour, too. Red, maybe, to match my hair.’

Sebastian laughed at that; her hair was short, scruffy, and carroty.

‘I suppose,’ he said eventually. ‘We have to go in there after him, and this is as good a way as any. We can’t even afford to bribe the guards by ourselves.’

‘Who is this client, anyway?’ asked Wydrin. ‘I’m curious to know what sort of fool is so eager to go exploring such an infamous death trap.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Besides Gallo, of course.’

‘A lord of some sort.’ Sebastian took a sip of his ale, and shrugged.

‘A lord! Bound to have plenty of coin, then.’

Wydrin’s eye was caught by a slim figure pushing his way through the crowded tavern. He walked with a stick and had a shock of white hair, but as he got closer she saw that he was startlingly young; no older than her, certainly. He had a livid scar down one cheek, and he was glaring around at the patrons as though they had each done him a personal insult.

Wydrin looked at Sebastian and tipped her head towards the newcomer. Sometimes they would keep an eye out for easy targets, men or women who wouldn’t last the night in a city like Krete and might be in need of protection. It was an easy way to make some coin.

Sebastian looked, and then sat up straighter in his chair.

‘By Isu, I think that’s him.’

Wydrin raised her eyebrows.

‘I thought you said he was a lord?’

Spotting them, the white-haired man came over, doing his best not to limp too obviously. He wore a heavy black cloak that didn’t quite disguise his emaciated frame.

‘My lord?’

The man eyed them, an expression of distaste turning his mouth down at the corners.

‘You are Sir Sebastian Carverson, the Ynnsmouth knight? And the … Copper Cat of Crosshaven?’

‘We are, my lord.’ Sebastian gestured to a seat and the man sat.

‘I’m the Copper Cat.’ Wydrin thrust a hand across the table and when he didn’t move to take it, picked up her tankard instead. ‘Although you can just call me Wydrin. The Copper Cat thing, well, it’s my meat and gravy but it takes half a bloody day to say it.’

‘We are told that you have a journey in mind, one that needs a couple of strong sword arms.’ Sebastian waved at the barkeep for more drinks.

‘It is a journey, yes, but not a long one. I need to get inside the Citadel, to explore its lower chambers.’ The white-haired man rested his stick against the table. ‘There are stories about the Citadel and what it contains. I assume you have heard them?’

Sebastian nodded.

‘Legends, yes, everyone knows them. Even in Ynnsmouth our old women tell tales of the long-dead mages of the Citadel.’

Wydrin leaned over the table eagerly.

‘I’ve heard there’s an entire hall filled to the ceiling with gold coins and jewels from across Ede, and that they had a sword that sang in the presence of demons and a set of armour that summoned an army of ghosts.’

Sebastian glanced at his colleague before turning back to their client.

‘I’m afraid tales are all they’re likely to be, my lord.’

‘All rumours contain an element of truth. The Kretian council keeps a guard on the one entrance, but I have already taken care of the bribe. My main concern is the interior of the Citadel itself.’ The white-haired man took a slow breath. ‘It is said to be a labyrinth in there.’

‘That is where we may be able to help you.’ Sebastian reached into his belt and pulled out a length of parchment covered in inky squares and circles. ‘My friend had a map to the Citadel, and I have a partial copy. It may get us part of the way at least.’

‘Where is your friend now?’ asked the white-haired man.

Sebastian frowned.

‘I don’t know. He … went ahead without us.’

‘Then you must assume him dead?’

Sebastian looked down at his tankard.

‘He is not so easy to kill,’ he said eventually. ‘He may still be in there, exploring the lower reaches, or else he has made his way back out again under the cover of night, too ashamed by his failure to seek me out. If we get into the Citadel and find him, we can make use of the complete map.’

The white-haired man leaned forward to glance at the parchment, and as his hair fell across his brow Wydrin saw that there was a gnarled lump of scar tissue in place of one of his ears. It had been cut off and none too carefully either.

‘It is a start.’ He sat back in his chair and looked at them both. Wydrin didn’t like the assessment in that gaze. ‘Now, if I am to employ you I would ask some questions.’

‘All you need to know is that we’re the best,’ said Wydrin with a shrug.

The white-haired man raised an eyebrow at her, perhaps suggesting that he was yet to be convinced, before turning to Sebastian.

‘Why did you leave the Ynnsmouth knights?’

‘Who says I left?’ There was a flicker of anger in Sebastian’s voice. ‘I still carry the shield of Isu.’ He indicated a badge sewn to the shoulder of his cloak. It depicted the outline of a jagged mountain top picked out in silver thread against a red, storm-laden sky. There was a series of letters in an alphabet Wydrin could not read sewn along the bottom, which Sebastian had told her spelt ‘Isu’. ‘My sword was blessed at the mountain spring of the god-peak.’

‘Every man I spoke to told me how you were expelled from the order for some unspecified crime. They all knew the truth of this, although none of them knew exactly what it was you had done. I will not go on this journey with a man whose crimes are an unknown factor. I must trust you both to some degree.’ The white-haired man glanced at Wydrin. ‘And the last I heard, the Knights of Ynnsmouth do not take up petty mercenary work.’

Sebastian pursed his lips, scowling down at his ale as though it had turned to bile. In the silence the barkeep bustled over bringing three fresh tankards. Sebastian waited for him to leave before he spoke again.

‘The Order of the Knights of Ynnsmouth, in their wisdom, exiled me. I will not speak of why, but I will tell you that I do not consider what I did to be a crime, and that you are certainly in no danger.’

Wydrin laughed at that. ‘Let us just say that his idea of brotherhood was not quite the same as his superiors’.’

Sebastian shot her a dark look before turning his attention back to their client.

‘You are correct, my lord, raiding temples is hardly a knightly pursuit, but a man trained in the way of the sword has to make a living somehow.’ His lips creased into a faintly bitter smile.

‘Actually, I have a question.’ Wydrin took a gulp of ale and belched none too quietly into her hand. ‘You intend to come with us on this trip to the bowels of the Citadel?’

‘Of course. It is imperative that I come. There are certain items, certain knowledge that I must acquire.’

‘Exploring the Citadel is likely to be d