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was the case, Elron,’ Stragen murmured.

      ‘All they had in the world was Kotyk’s title. Their father gambled away their inheritance. It sickens me to have that clutch of out-at-the-elbows aristocrats lording it over us the way they do.’

      ‘We’ve heard some rumours,’ Stragen smoothly changed the subject. ‘Some people in Esos were telling us that there was unrest among the serfs. We got some garbled account of a fellow called “Sabre” and another named Ayachin. We couldn’t make any sense out of it.’

      Elron looked around in an over-dramatically conspiratorial fashion. ‘It is not wise to mention those names here in Astel, Milord Stragen,’ he said in a hoarse whisper that probably could have been heard across the yard. ‘The Tamuls have ears everywhere.’

      ‘The serfs are unhappy with the Tamuls?’ Stragen asked with some surprise. ‘I’d have thought that they wouldn’t have had so far to look for someone to hate.’

      ‘The serfs are superstitious animals, Milord,’ Elron sneered. ‘They can be led anywhere with a combination of religion, folklore and strong drink. The real movement is directed at the yellow devils.’ Elron’s eyes narrowed. ‘The honour of Astel demands that the Tamul yoke be thrown off. That’s the real goal of the movement. Sabre is a patriot, a mysterious figure who appears out of the night to inspire the men of Astel to rise up and smash the oppressor’s chains. He’s always masked, you know.’

      ‘I hadn’t heard that.’

      ‘Oh, yes. It’s necessary, of course. Actually, he’s a well-known personage who very carefully conceals his real identity and opinions. By day he’s an idle member of the gentry, but at night, he’s a masked firebrand, igniting the patriotism of his countrymen.’

      ‘You have certain opinions, I gather,’ Stragen assumed.

      Elron’s expression grew cautious. ‘I’m only a poet, Milord Stragen,’ he said deprecatingly. ‘My interest is in the drama of the situation – for the purposes of my art, you understand.’

      ‘Oh, of course.’

      ‘Where does this Ayachin come in?’ Sparhawk asked. ‘As I understand it, he’s been dead for quite some time now.’

      ‘There are strange things afoot in Astel, Sir Sparhawk.’ Elron assured him. ‘Things which have lain locked in the blood of all true Astels for generations. We know in our hearts that Ayachin is not dead. He can never die – not so long as tyranny is alive.’

      ‘Just as a practical consideration, Elron,’ Stragen said in his most urbane manner, ‘this movement seems to rely rather heavily on the serfs for manpower. What’s in it for them? Why should men who are bound to the soil have any concern at all about who runs the government?’

      ‘They’re sheep. They’ll stampede in any direction you want them to. All you have to do is murmur the word “emancipation” and they’d follow you into the mouth of hell.’

      ‘Then Sabre has no intention of actually freeing them?’

      Elron laughed. ‘My dear fellow, why would any reasonable man want to do that? What’s the point of liberating cattle?’ He looked around furtively. ‘I must return before I’m missed. Kotyk hates me, and he’d like nothing better than the chance to denounce me to the authorities. I’m obliged to smile and be polite to him and those two overfed sows he calls his sisters. I keep my own counsel, gentlemen, but when the day of our liberation comes, there will be changes here – as God is my judge. Social change is sometimes violent, and I can almost guarantee that Kotyk and his sisters will not live to see the dawn of the new day.’ His eyes narrowed with a kind of self-important secretiveness. ‘But I speak too much. I keep my own counsel, gentlemen. I keep my own counsel.’ He swirled his black cloak around him and crept back into the house, his head high and his expression resolute.

      ‘Fascinating young fellow,’ Stragen observed. ‘He makes my rapier itch for some reason.’

      Sparhawk grunted his agreement and looked up at the rainy night. ‘I hope this blows over by morning,’ he said. ‘I’d really like to get out of this sewer.’

Chapter 11

      The following morning dawned blustery and unpromising. Sparhawk and his companions ate a hasty breakfast and made ready to depart. The baron and his family were not awake as yet, and none of his guests were in any mood for extended farewells. They rode out about an hour after sunrise and turned northeasterly on the Darsas road, moving at a distance-consuming canter. Although none of them mentioned it, they all wanted to get well out of the range of any possible pursuit before their hosts awakened.

      About mid-morning, they reached the white stone pillar that marked the eastern border of the baron’s estate and breathed a collective sigh of relief. The column slowed to a walk, and Sparhawk and the other knights dropped back to ride alongside the carriage.

      Ehlana’s maid, Alean, was crying, and the queen and Baroness Melidere were trying to comfort her. ‘She’s a very gentle child,’ Melidere explained to Sparhawk. ‘The horror of that sorry household has moved her to tears.’

      ‘Did someone back there say something to you he shouldn’t have?’ Kalten asked the sobbing girl, his tone hard. Kalten’s attitude toward Alean was strange. Once he had been persuaded not to press his attentions on her, he had become rather fiercely protective. ‘If anybody insulted you, I’ll go back and teach him better manners.’

      ‘No, my Lord,’ the girl replied disconsolately. ‘It was nothing like that. It’s just that they’re all trapped in that awful place. They hate each other, but they’ll have to spend the rest of their lives together, and they’ll go on cutting little pieces out of each other until they’re all dead.’

      ‘Someone once told me that there’s a certain kind of justice at work in situations like that,’ Sparhawk observed, not looking at his daughter. ‘All right then, we all had the chance to talk with the members of our host’s family individually. Did anyone pick up anything useful?’

      ‘The serfs are right on the verge of open rebellion, my Lord,’ Khalad said. ‘I sort of drifted around the stable and other outbuildings and talked with them. The baroness’ father was a kindly master, I guess, and the serfs loved him. After he died, though, Kotyk started to show his real nature. He’s a brutal sort of man, and he’s very fond of using the knout.’

      ‘What’s a knout?’ Talen asked.

      ‘It’s a sort of scourge,’ his half-brother replied bleakly.

      ‘A whip?’

      ‘It goes a little further than that. Serfs are lazy, Sparhawk. There’s no question about that. And they’ve perfected the art of either pretending to be stupid or feigning illness or injury. It’s always been a sort of game, I guess. The masters knew what the serfs were up to, and the serfs knew that they weren’t really fooling anybody. Actually, I think they all enjoyed it. Then, a few years ago, the masters suddenly stopped playing. Instead of trying to coax the serfs to work, the gentry began to resort to the knout. They threw a thousand years of tradition out the window and turned vicious overnight. The serfs can’t understand it. Kotyk’s not the only noble who’s been mistreating his serfs. They say it’s been happening all over western Astel. Serfs tend to exaggerate things, but they all seem to be convinced that their masters have set out on a course of deliberate brutality designed to eradicate traditional rights and to reduce the serfs to absolute slavery. A serf can’t be sold, but a slave can. The one they call “Sabre” has been making quite an issue of that. If you tell a man that somebody’s planning to sell his wife and children, you’re going to get him just a little bit excited.’

      ‘That doesn’t match up too well with what Baron Kotyk was telling me,’ Patriarch Emban put in. ‘The baron drank more than was really good for him last night, and he let a number of things slip that he otherwise

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