with it. I had forgot. But the yel— that fellow was already in his thirties back then and . . .’ Oliver sighed again. He seemed to have run out of energy for the conversation, and it occurred to Wynter just how utterly weary he was. He looked as though he had not slept for days.
‘Forgive me, Protector Lady,’ he said. ‘I am genuinely sorry, but if you had questions, you should have asked me to hold on to those men. If you pardon me for saying so, it is a little late to be asking them now. I cannot give you the answers you seek.’
The sound of silver bells silenced everyone, and an icy stillness settled over the Merron.
The Loups-Garous’ slaves were standing at the mouth of the alley, their posture regal, their faces knowing. They had empty waterskins draped across their shoulders and they looked at Razi in false innocence.
‘Our masters bid us ask, is this the way to the river?’
Wynter frowned at the slaves in momentary confusion. Then she realised that their sleeves were rolled to the shoulder in imitation of the Merron, and that Christopher’s stolen snake bracelets were gleaming against the hard brown muscles of their upper arms.
She jerked forward, suddenly blind with rage, but Christopher, his eyes on the bracelets, looped his arm around her waist and held her in place. ‘No, lass,’ he murmured.
Seeing the bracelets, the Merron cried out and surged forward as one.
‘LEAVE THEM.’ Razi’s roared command stilled all but Sólmundr, who shot around the fire, his intent clear on his face.
Úlfnaor stepped into the warrior’s path, bringing him to a clench-fisted halt. ‘Fan, Sól,’ he said softly. ‘They only do their masters’ bidding.’
The slaves grinned, the brands on their faces puckering in amusement. ‘Oh, I see the river now,’ said one. ‘It is that way.’
‘Get out of my sight,’ hissed Razi. ‘And if you take this route again, I shall send you home to your masters in a hessian sack.’
Smiling, the slaves picked their way through the glowering Merron and walked off with an insolent lack of haste. Úlfnaor watched them go, more pity than anger on his face.
‘Do not feel badly for them, Aoire,’ said Christopher. ‘André Le Garou has convinced them that they will become like him, if they only prove themselves cruel enough and ruthless enough. I have yet to meet one of the Wolves’ Boys who does not believe in this lie. They are vicious and underhanded, and they are undyingly loyal to the Wolves. They would slit your throat without a thought.’
‘Where did they get the second set of bracelets?’ asked Wynter.
Christopher’s hard veneer cracked, and despair showed in his eyes. ‘They are my father’s,’ he said. ‘It is a favourite joke of David’s, to parade them about like that.’
Wynter groaned, squeezing his arm. ‘Oh, no, love,’ she said.
‘Now they have two sets to taunt me with.’
Hallvor glowered inquiringly at Sólmundr. She snapped a question, obviously demanding that he explain. Sólmundr gripped her by the elbow, turned her on her heel and walked her away between the tents.
‘Úlfnaor,’ warned Wynter, her eyes on the departing warriors.
‘Not worry,’ murmured Úlfnaor. ‘Hally, she talk him into sense.’
Wynter was not so certain. Sólmundr was speaking furious and low, his sandy head close to Hallvor’s, and the healer listened intently as they walked. Just before they turned the corner, Hallvor gasped and looked back at Christopher, her eyes wide; then Sól marched her from sight.
Razi and Oliver were watching the slaves walk off. The knight had his hand to his nose, as if to block a bad smell, and Razi was frowning in intense concentration.
‘Oliver,’ he murmured, his voice miles away. ‘I must speak to my brother.’
‘It is not my place to command the Prince, my Lord.’
‘Oliver . . .’
‘He will not be dissuaded,’ cried Oliver.
Wynter bristled at his raised voice, and Razi drew himself up.
Oliver pressed his fingers to his temples and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. ‘Jesu,’ he whispered. Then he stepped closer, his voice low, gazing at Razi as if willing him to understand. ‘I am ever loyal to the King, my Lord. His Highness, the Royal Prince, is ever loyal, but you will not dissuade him from his course. You and your father, my Lord, you are brilliant men – brilliant – but you rely too much on the strength of the Moroccan court.’
‘Oliver,’ sighed Razi. ‘There is no weakness in Abdallah ashShiekh’s court. This plot that David Le Garou has spoken of