The Poison Throne

by Walker Dryden

Genres: Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

Tumanbay:
Once the most magnificent city on earth -
now the dark heart of an empire which lies in ruins.

Occupied by the fanatical forces of the mysterious cult of Maya,
corpses hang from the gallows, and citizens are flogged for next to nothing.

Barakat, leader of the Inquisition, leads the purge.
Gregor, former spymaster to the Sultan, lives in fear.
Madu, heir to the throne, is opiated and installed as a puppet ruler.
And Qulan, the great general, rots in prison.

But the history of Tumanbay shows that those who can rise to power can just as easily fall.
And there are whispers of rebellion, of a reckoning - as well as rumblings of plague on the horizon...

Release date: June 24, 2021

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 512

Sample

Prologue

An ordinary man, perhaps a little less than average height, wearing an undistinguished brown robe, sandals that were anything but new, walking with a pronounced limp, a slight smile on his face as if he were recalling a pleasant memory. In his wake, soldiers, armoured and armed. For a moment it was hard to tell if they were escorting the small man or arresting him; only when he stopped for a moment at a crossroads, and the soldiers came to attention, did it become clear that he was in charge. He looked one way and then the other, pulled a sheet of vellum from his sleeve, consulted it and set off towards the affluent residences of the Bulpass Quarter. His escort followed. There were six of them but their presence hardly seemed necessary. As the small party progressed, the streets before them emptied of pedestrians, stall holders, of anyone at all, until the group had passed.

So intent were they upon their destination that they did not notice the figure following them, possibly a beggar or some shopkeeper condemned for selling short measure by Maya’s police. He took care to stay a street or so behind and to keep his face hidden in the shade of his hood.

In due course, the small man came to a halt before the door of a prosperous house and lifted the ornate knocker that proclaimed the owner to be a member of the guild of olive importers. The door opened, a servant peered out and the small man said pleasantly: ‘Peace be upon you.’

‘And upon you, effendi.’

‘I am sorry to disturb you so late in the afternoon. Is the master at home?’

‘He is resting. I can . . .’

The small man held his hand up: ‘Let him be. It is the child of the house I wish to speak to.’ The servant said nothing but her eyes widened.

‘Please, don’t be alarmed. It is a small matter.’ He stepped forward. Without thinking, the servant opened the door and he entered the house, followed by two of his escort. The others remained in the street.

The master of the house, far from resting, was standing behind the door where he had heard the conversation. ‘You wish to speak to my son? He is saying his prayers.’

The small man clasped his hands across his narrow chest. ‘Good. I’ll wait, if it’s convenient? Oh please, excuse my escort. I have walked from the palace and in these times . . . well, I’m afraid it is necessary.’ He smiled apologetically, then turned to a woman who entered the room, scolding her husband.

‘What are you thinking, making a holy man stand, not offering him refreshment?’ She knelt to touch the small man’s feet. ‘It is an honour to receive you, Holiness, into our home. Food, drink, you must be . . .’

‘We have need of nothing,’ he said, reaching down and touching her head. ‘Sister, please don’t . . . Ah!’ A smile appeared on his face as he spotted a boy peering around the edge of a door at the far end of the chamber. ‘This must be your son. Come, child, there is nothing to be frightened of.’

The boy slid round the door reluctantly. His father hurried over and took his shoulder and led him into the room. Now the small man sat down on a settle and patted the cushion beside him. ‘Come, sit with me here. We need to talk.’

‘Malik, sit with the holy father,’ the mother said. The boy looked at the soldiers standing against the wall of the room.

The small man added: ‘Oh, don’t mind them, Malik. They won’t let me leave the palace without them trailing behind. Can you imagine it, eh?’ He chuckled and a tiny smile appeared for a moment on the boy’s face.

‘Good, now how do you like school?’

‘It’s all right . . .’ the boy mumbled shyly.

‘Ah, you are one of the lucky ones. I didn’t have such a good education as you. Tell me about your teacher.’

A silence, in which the only sound was the ticking of a clock. Such novelties, imported from over the Middle Sea, were popular with the merchant class. The father was looking as if he wished he’d never seen the thing or could throw it out now.

‘What do you call him?’

‘Master Odot.’

‘Master Odot. Good, good . . . And Master Odot teaches you about the scriptures? Tells you how a young man should live his life according to God’s law?’

‘Yes.’

The small man’s head tilted, his eyes narrowing as he appraised the child. Eventually he said, ‘I have heard he tells other things too.’

The boy’s cheeks began to redden. He looked to his father who nodded encouragingly. ‘Tell the holy father everything, Malik,’ he said. ‘You have nothing to hide.’

His mother approached with a servant carrying a tray of refreshments. ‘Now, Holiness, please don’t insult us by declining our hospitality. It is hot and . . .’

‘No,’ the small man snapped.

‘But you must be . . .’

‘I said no!’

Without taking his eyes off the boy, he waved her away. ‘Stand beside your husband,’ he commanded. ‘Tell the servant to go.’

She gave her husband a concerned look and then nodded to the servant, who left the room.

‘You look worried, Malik,’ the small man said, warmth returning to his voice. ‘Don’t be. Do you know what makes us strong? When I say strong, I mean without fear of what might happen to us?’

The boy shook his head.

‘No? It is the truth that makes us strong. God’s gift to us. That is why I, Barakat, have a reputation for never uttering a lie. Never. That is my strength. That can be your strength too. Do you understand me?’

He paused, waiting for a response. Eventually the boy nodded.

‘We have brought our son up to always tell the truth, Holiness,’ the father said. ‘Haven’t we, Malik? Tell him . . . tell him.’

‘You see, it has come to my attention,’ Barakat continued, now addressing the parents, ‘that there is a heretic in your son’s school.’ He was almost apologetic.

‘I swear we know nothing of this,’ the mother burst out.

‘Of course, of course. How could you? You are not trained. You expect that when you send your children to school, their teachers will show them the true path. We are living in dangerous times. Not everyone is who they seem to be.’

‘Are you saying that our son’s teacher . . .?’

‘He has visited,’ Barakat said, nodding sadly.

‘What?’

‘This house.’

‘Malik was falling behind in his recitations. We paid for extra lessons . . .’

‘Of course, I understand.’ Barakat took the child’s hand in his. ‘If only all parents were so diligent, my work in Tumanbay would be unnecessary.’

‘If our child has done anything wrong,’ the mother cried, ‘tell us and we shall beat him . . .’

Barakat turned back to the boy, still holding his hand. ‘Soldiers came to your school today looking for your teacher. Where was he?’

The child now had his chin pressed against his chest and his eyes squeezed shut as if trying to shut out all around him.

‘Did someone tell him soldiers were coming?’ Gently, he squeezed the boy’s hand, not causing pain, rather reassuring him. ‘You can tell me, Malik. I know already. I know everything. I just need you to tell me so I know you are a good boy. You know where Master Odot went, don’t you?’

‘No, that’s not . . . How could he?’ his mother cried.

Barakat leaned close to the child and whispered: ‘You have a chance to save yourself, Malik. We know everything already.’

‘He’s just a child,’ his mother wept.

‘Every child, every teacher in every school, every soul is important to us, especially one so young as yours.’

Malik was sobbing now, sucking in heaving breaths, his shoulders convulsing.

‘You are feeling distressed. It is natural to feel distress. You are trying to hide from God but nobody can hide from God. I am His eyes. God sees all and all will answer to Him. You know how to save yourself. So I will ask again: where is the master?’

The boy seemed to calm. Without a word, he lifted his head, opened his eyes and looked into Barakat’s. Then he raised his arm and pointed at the door by which he had entered. Barakat nodded and the soldiers hurried through into the rooms beyond.

‘No,’ his mother said. ‘He’s confused. You are confusing him.’ She clasped her husband’s arm, as if she might collapse. Barakat let go of the boy’s hand and rose to his feet. From the adjacent room came the noise of searching, the crash of furniture overturned, cupboards ripped open . . . After a moment, the soldiers returned.

‘Nothing, Holiness.’

The parents breathed again. Barakat waved at the house door and one of his men opened it. Those he had left outside entered now with a figure in the robes of a teacher struggling in their grip. He was howling for mercy, an inarticulate wail of sheer terror.

‘Climbing out a back window, Holiness, as you said.’

The mother rushed to clasp her son. For a moment Barakat observed them with vague interest, as she hugged him and ran her hands through his hair. ‘Take the parents too,’ he said eventually. It took three soldiers to prise the mother’s grip from her child. The father stood stunned, looking at the clock, as if it alone was the author of all their misfortunes.

‘And the child?’ asked one of the soldiers.

‘Leave him, he has saved himself.’ He sat for a moment beside Malik, like a kindly uncle. ‘You see, God takes care, God takes care of all. The truth sets you free.’ He limped out, leading his men and their prisoners into the afternoon sun.

From his position across the street behind the gnarled trunk of an ancient fig tree, the shrouded figure of Gregor watched the sad procession. Maya had come to Tumanbay and Barakat the Inquisitor was her instrument; that slight figure in the dusty robe and the old sandals was the personification of her power and Gregor, for the first time since childhood, knew fear. ‘The truth will make you free,’ he muttered, ‘or Barakat’s truth will destroy me . . .’

1

The Bodies

Gabreel flicked the whip and cracked it between the ears of his ancient horse. The beast shook its head and otherwise ignored him as if it knew he’d never actually lay on with the lash, since it would certainly keel over and die and then where would he be? A courier without a horse to pull his cart – a bit of a joke, rather like the city of Tumanbay, he thought – but very quietly. Nowadays even what went on inside a man’s head could get him into trouble.

The horse farted thunderously. ‘Truly,’ Gabreel called to the gate guard, ‘this animal has the arse of the devil himself.’

The guard didn’t even crack a glimmer of a smile, he simply held out his hand and said: ‘Papers.’

Gabreel was in a quandary – should he slip the usual bribe between the travel pass and his permissions to trade or should he not? He didn’t know this guard, and the fellow obviously had no sense of humour as far as farting horses went, something that rarely failed to raise at least a smile in the old days, but these were the new, unsmiling days . . .

‘Here, Excellency,’ no harm in a bit of flattery, ‘I have a special consignment for the university.’

The guard took the papers and began to peer at them with the exaggerated care of a man who can barely read. There would be more rigorous inspections within the city now that each area had been sectioned off with checkpoints manned by Maya’s police.

‘The university?’ the guard said.

‘That’s correct, my friend. For a doctor there, an important man high in the confidence of the Inquisitor himself.’ Gabreel had no idea if this was true but it seemed likely. He decided to take a chance and went on: ‘I see you do important work here at the gate, Excellency. I wonder if I might show my appreciation with . . .’

‘We work only for the glory of God,’ the guard said, expertly receiving the small silver coin from Gabreel’s hand as he returned the documents. ‘You may pass.’

The Grand Trunk Road was quieter than he’d ever known. Years before, Gabreel had cause to pass along it at midnight and it had been busier then than it was now. Oh, there was activity: camel trains, carts and mules, some piled with goods but none piled high, none with any urgency about them. There were people on foot, going this way and that, again with the appearance of activity but it all reminded Gabreel of his cousin Attar’s beehives: when a Queen had died or was sickening and the hive was, to all intents and purposes, busy with worker bees and drones buzzing around as usual but, on closer inspection, it was not as usual at all. None of them had any urgent purpose, they were merely doing what they always did because there was nothing else to do. That was what Gabreel was seeing as he made his way through district after district, each time showing his pass to one of the black-robed functionaries who examined it with real care and to whom he certainly did not offer so much as a hint of a bribe.

On many street corners gallows had been built, most with bodies hanging, old and new, each sad corpse labelled with the crime for which they had suffered. Gabreel read some of them as the dead swung on their ropes and the wind stirred their robes and made the scrawled placards flutter: He Sold Short Measure; He Cheated His Customers; She Offended Against the Eye of Holiness; He Sinned by His Breath – did that mean he drank wine or worse? Gabreel decided that this would be a dry trip, though he doubted if his old haunts even existed anymore in this cleansed new world. His Mouth Offended the Ear – a placard attached to the body of a child. Gabreel shivered – how could a child’s mouth ever warrant more than a sharp word or slap round the back of the head?

Parties of soldiers, often no more than fanatical volunteers, a black headscarf their only uniform, passed up and down the streets, stopping and questioning people in what seemed to be a random fashion. He was glad indeed that his papers were of the most respectable kind, though whether that word had any meaning in Tumanbay was a question for later – when he was back home, far away from this pestilential city. He had made up his mind this would be his last consignment, unless, of course, the doctor offered him – how much? Yes, he wondered, how much gold did a man need when he was hanging in the wind?

‘You. Halt.’ From the shadows a Black Guard appeared, one of Maya’s elite soldiers responsible for protecting the palace. His clothing was tattered and stained; only the black scarf tied around his head was new. That and the sword he held.

‘Excellency.’ Gabreel pulled up. The horse snorted and he climbed down. Best to be humble and respectful, even if you did have good papers.

‘Where are you going? What is your business?’

Gabreel went through it all for the tenth or was it the twelfth time since passing the gate. At this rate he’d never be done. The guard waved the papers.

‘This doesn’t say what you are carrying. It only mentions that you have permission to transport two boxes. Where are these boxes?’

Gabreel walked round to the cart where, clearly visible, the boxes lay under a cover on the flat wooden bed, tied down with cords.

‘Let me see.’

‘The doctor . . .’

‘Is none of my business. You are. Let me see. And be quick about it.’

‘Of course, effendi.’ He hopped up onto the cart, freed the cover and swept it back. He rapped the lids. Dampness had oozed through the planking in places. ‘Here, as you see, two boxes, urgent, for the university.’

‘And what is in your boxes, courier?’

‘Excellency?’

‘Answer my question.’

‘Dead bodies, Excellency. Fresh. Packed in ice but, as you can see, it has melted now. Time is passing.’

Perhaps the guard was thinking: why two more bodies in a city where there are already so many to be had? Whatever was in his mind, something gave him pause. He looked again at the papers, at the tiny sigil right at the end, next to the official wax seal, modest and unshowy – the sigil of the Inquisitor. After a long moment he said: ‘Very well, be on your way. Waste no time. Go!’

Keeping his mouth shut, Gabreel recovered the boxes, hurried back to his seat, flicked the reins, prayed the horse didn’t fart again – that was probably a hanging offence now: He Offended the Nose of Holiness – and drove off.

2

Gregor

The palace was silent.

Like the streets, there was activity: servants went from room to room, clerks and chamberlains carried out the few functions that still remained to them but the life of the place, the ceaseless hum of activity that coursed like blood through the body of the building, day and night, the thousand and one tasks that had to be carried out to ensure the great Empire of Tumanbay continued to function – that hum was no more.

Life, however, went on in the new way, and in the hall of a thousand pillars – which had been stripped of their fine tiles and gold relief – seated at the plain table, which had replaced the grandeur of Sultan al-Ghuri’s throne, Effendi Red, Regent of the city in the name of his mistress, was holding his morning council meeting. The silk curtains had gone, the floor tiles with the crescent moon had been taken up and shipped out, the splendid guards had been replaced by the Black Guard. A black-robed cleric sat before a ledger, noting down the words that were spoken in the code of his order – and could not, therefore, be denied at a later time, should they prove treasonous or, worse, heretical.

The morning was hot, sunlight flooded in through the high windows, from which the stained glass was being removed by workmen atop wooden scaffolding that creaked and groaned, but the chamber was, Gregor felt, chilly like a morgue and, of late, he had become something of a connoisseur of morgues. He stood to one side of the table at which Red sat, facing the Inquisitor, Barakat. A small group of palace officials waited to be called upon if necessary. They had one and all managed to turn their coats in the interest of survival. As had Gregor. They still called him Commander but it meant nothing at all, there was no Palace Guard to command and he was no more than a fixer for the new regime, his position dependent on his continued obedience. It was not, he reflected, a spectacle that said a lot for the dignity of man. But then, where had a principled stand got his brother Qulan?

Barakat was talking: ‘. . . the households in the old abattoir district,’ he said. ‘I believe it was called “Meat Alley” or some such name.’

‘And what is the problem, Inquisitor?’ Red asked.

‘Heresy. We believe heretics from the city are finding sanctuary there. The people have never been of an obedient class. They were despised by the previous regime, regarded as thieves and villains.’

Red caught Gregor’s eye. ‘Is that so, Commander?’

‘The Inquisitor is, as always, correct, Excellency. In the old days the authorities rarely ventured into those slums and never without an escort. It is said the original settlers there were travellers who—’

Barakat cut across his words. ‘Spare us the history lesson. Do you not yet understand that history is dead? We create the future. That is our task.’ His voice dripped with contempt.

‘And regarding this problem?’ Red asked. ‘If there are indeed heretics hiding there, what do you recommend?’

‘House searches have been less than effective; the Commander is correct on that point.’

‘What do you recommend?’

‘Burn it down.’ The words were flat and unemotional, and all the more shocking for it.

‘That would be unfortunate,’ Red said.

‘Heresy is a plague, Excellency. It breeds rebellion. These people, these rebels burn down our temples, they poison wells, assassinate officials; their ideas will fester and grow in that rat run of shanties. It is necessary to solve the problem before it gets worse.’

‘If we do it, some will die who are not heretics.’

‘Then they will be walking in the Paradise Gardens whilst the others burn eternally.’

Red looked again at the map then waved it away. ‘I will think and pray on it.’

‘Even so . . .’ Barakat let the words hang; Red raised an eyebrow. He was, Gregor thought, the only man in the city who did not appear to fear or at least defer to the Inquisitor. The only free man.

‘There will need to be an order issued by the city magistrates.’ Red was no fool and knew well that the wise conqueror uses the systems that are already in place to establish order and control. ‘Gregor, that you can arrange, if required?’

‘I can, Excellency.’ The question was hardly necessary – he did what he was told.

‘And our Sultan, of course, will have to agree.’

Discreet smirks appeared on the faces of the functionaries. Sultan Madu the Magnificent, the adopted son of the old Sultan al-Ghuri, was a figurehead, there to convince the people of Tumanbay that all was normal as their city was ripped apart around them.

‘Even so,’ Red said. ‘The burning down of an entire area of the city?’

‘I have served Maya in Maduk, Asyra, Saldan and other lands . . .’

‘None of which are anything like Tumanbay. Maduk is a small desert town.’

Gregor was under no illusion about what he was watching: a battle for supremacy between two powerful men, neither of whom, he suspected, had any love for the other.

Barakat inclined his head and replied, ‘A fortress, nonetheless which, if it had not been brought under control – and brought under control by my work – would have risen up again like a sickness in the body. My dear Regent, conquest is only the beginning. Any army, if it is large enough, can take a town, a city, an empire, but keeping it, holding it . . .’ he held out his hand, his fingers cupped as if he were in fact holding a tiny, invisible empire, ‘. . . this is not about how many soldiers or slaves you have but about the souls that we have conquered.’ He closed his hand, making his point clear: arms mean nothing, the spirit means everything. ‘And that, Effendi Red, is why you need me.’

Red stood, pushing back his chair and bowed to the room. He said, quietly: ‘Inquisitor, there will be no burning down of sections of this city. Not whilst I am Regent of Tumanbay. Thank you for your time. The council is over.’

The cleric hastily noted the words down, the pen nib scratching on the vellum. He sprinkled white sand to dry the ink, blew it from the page and closed the book.

Barakat bowed and said, simply, ‘As you wish, my Lord.’

They waited until Red had left the room, then Barakat said. ‘Gregor, with me.’ Gregor had no option but to follow.

The Inquisitor hurried along the corridor, his lameness not impeding his pace at all. Gregor had to lengthen his stride to keep up. Where were they going, what task did Barakat have for him?

‘Ah, Holiness!’

Cadali. The late Grand Vizier, now toady in chief to Barakat.

‘Is this a convenient time, Holiness?’ He stood as if he were a thin man rather than the imposing figure he was, trying to take up less space than he did.

‘Convenient for what?’

‘I simply wished to inform you that I have just dispatched another consignment of treasures from the palace to Maya, our mistress and our Guiding Light.’ There was nothing Cadali did not know about the Palace: no hidden store room, overlooked corridor, forgotten cellar, no tapestry hanging in an obscure corner, no money box in a clerk’s office that he could not put his finger on and as such he had proved invaluable to the new masters of the city, who were turning the treasures of centuries into gold for new crusades. Even so, he exuded a perpetual scent of anxiety.

Barakat nodded.

‘I hope you are . . . satisfied with my work, Holiness?’ Cadali bowed as if he were delivering the favoured child of the mother of all bows. Even Gregor was impressed. Barakat was not.

‘Satisfied? I am merely a servant in God’s household. We all answer to Him and Him alone.’

‘Um, well, yes,’ Cadali mumbled, ‘yes. I just wanted to let you know . . . to keep you . . . Peace be with you.’

‘And with you.’ Barakat strode off.

‘So glad you’re here,’ Cadali called after him.

‘Truly, Cadali, you are the great Sultan of all arse-lickers,’ Gregor said.

‘I need to speak with you, Gregor.’ The tone was urgent, Cadali’s eyes narrow with fear.

‘What?’

‘Not now, not here. Later.’ And he was gone. Gregor hurried after his master.

‘So what do you think, Gregor?’

‘About Cadali, Holiness?’

Barakat came to a sudden halt and turned to Gregor, looking up into his face. ‘Cadali doesn’t matter, as you well know. The Regent, what do you think he should do in this case?’

‘I . . . would take the advice of Maya’s Inquisitor.’ Sometimes, Gregor felt, he even shocked himself but since he himself was the cause he most cared about, surely anything was permissible to ensure survival. Without it, nothing was possible. If only Qulan had thought like that then perhaps they both might . . .

Barakat was striding on with his lopsided gait. Gregor caught up and said: ‘Otherwise, I would seek to place spies amongst them.’

‘And how would you know if you could trust them?’

‘I would tell them that I had set spies to watch the spies and, besides, they would be working for a cause they believed in.’

‘The true faith?’

Gregor could have told him the cause itself didn’t matter as long as the spies believed in it – any dream, any distant hope would do.

‘Exactly, Holiness. Find the true believers and they will risk all to serve Maya.’

They entered Barakat’s administrative section, housed in the old hall of mirrors. The walls were empty now, the beautiful crystal and glass sold, the ornate and ancient frames fuel for the kitchens. Clerks sat at rows of desks filling in ledgers from sheets delivered by clerics who had the dust of the streets upon their black hems. They were out all hours gathering information. A head clerk hurried across with an open ledger which he presented to the Inquisitor.

‘These are the Heads of Households in the Merchants District, Holiness, as you commanded.’

‘I command nothing, my friend, it is God who asks this task of us, we merely obey. Every man, woman, child, dog, every cart, every beggar in Tumanbay must be accounted for.’

‘Indeed, Holiness. We are basing our new records on the old civil returns but checking them against current conditions.’

‘And the abattoir district?’

‘There are areas to which we still have not gained access,’ the clerk said.

‘You see, Gregor, there is a problem. What is unaccounted is unknown. I believe you can help me with this matter.’ He nodded to the clerk who returned to his bench.

‘I shall investigate personally, Holiness,’ Gregor said.

‘Of course you will. Oh, and one more thing. The Sultan Madu . . .’

It sounded like an afterthought but Gregor knew the Inquisitor never forgot anything.

‘Yes, he was ill.’

‘Someone is supplying him with opiates. The Regent doesn’t care; he prefers the Sultan to live this half-life, but I am curious to know who is responsible. Find out.

3

Dorin

The bodies had been unloaded and carried into the university. As usual, Dorin had been impatient, but that suited Gabreel – he was in no hurry to stay in this damned city. As he climbed back onto the cart, he said:

‘Thank you, effendi doctor. I’m afraid this will have to be the last delivery.’

‘Supplies haven’t dried up?’

‘No, it’s just that . . .’

‘Hasaan will give you the passes and permissions as you leave.’

‘It’s just that the Black Guard, they are . . .’

‘None of your concern. You will not be stopped. The fee will be increased. Here, in advance.’

More gold in his hand and now he Gabreel knew just how much it would take to risk another trip. He clicked his tongue and the old horse gathered itself and they rolled out of the yard and back into the city.

Dorin watched them go, then turned and hurried back into the building; he had a class waiting for him and did not like to be late. Maya or her Regent Red had seen it as their religious duty to show charity to the poor in matters of health, and the hospitals still functioned, as did the medical faculty at the university and Dorin, formally a junior teacher, had been promoted to head the department after his old chief had been informed on and arrested for heresy. Dorin had found himself favoured by the new regime and was not prepared to risk his position by any lack of zeal.

He took a scalpel from the leather-lined case that lay on the slab beside the first body and was about to make an incision. He addressed his audience of students sitting on raised benches so they could more easily observe the procedures: ‘As you see, I am going to cut from just above the breast bone. The vital fluids have drained to the anterior organs of the body and . . .’

He paused; a few of the students emitted a shocked grunt or gave a sharp intake of breath as a woman entered. Quite clearly and obviously a woman, of middle age, tall, cloaked, wearing a turban with a rippling silk fringe, dark-eyed, of firm and confidant step. Whispering broke out amongst the watchers – this must be the one they had heard of: Alkin, a doctor in her own right, as if such things could ever be, who seemed to have a pass to wherever she wished to go in the university.

Without waiting for an invitation, she joined Dorin beside the body. His displeasure was cle