was disturbingly pale, a slouched figure like a gnarled tree, dressed in a deep black robe, with a shock of white-blonde hair and vivid red eyes.
He leant on a tall grey staff, at the top of which sat a large blue frog, which blinked imperturbably at the crowd. His face was oddly youthful, yet strangely ancient at the same time, as if he knew some terrible secret he didn't want anyone else finding out. He might have been no older than Silvermoon, or he might have been the oldest one in the throne room.
“I know what I'd like to hear you say,” the stranger continued. He had a dry, whispering voice that sounded as if it got very little use. “Something about how you cannot in good conscience pick any one of those gifts, since none of them were yours to give in the first place.”
“Then whose were they?” asked Golden Hawk.
“Mine, obviously,” said the stranger.
“Yours,” said Golden Hawk drily.
Silvermoon recognised it as much the same voice her father had used to point out when his aged father had soiled himself, in the last few years before the old man's death.
The stranger scowled.
“You come into Tsung Po's home,” he said, “and steal some of his most precious possessions, and then you laugh at me when I request they be returned? Is this what passes for common decency these days? Would you leave poor Wu Bei here a cripple?”
At which a young girl crept out from beneath his robes. She was a ragged, feral thing, like the children one might see begging by the roadside at the gates to the city. She had the stranger's white hair, pale skin and vivid red eyes: only one of her eyes was nothing but an empty socket, and her wrists ended in bound stumps. Everyone watched as the child stalked down the centre of the throne room, towards the three adventurers where they stood waiting on Silvermoon's answer.
When the little girl saw their trophies, she let out a howl of rage.
The eye leapt from Old Pig's grasp, and shot into the little girl's skull. The hands jumped from Saffron's arms and went crawling towards the little girl's wrists. The diadem span off Three Strides' head and settled on the little girl's crown. The girl looked at all those present and snarled, a dangerous, animal sound. Everyone saw immediately that her teeth were numerous and very sharp, and her tongue was dark and sinuous.
“Demon!” shouted Red Kite, the high chancellor. The lord regent's guards closed ranks before Golden Hawk's throne. “Begone! The company of honest men is not for such as you.”
“Honest,” said the stranger incredulously. “Honest? I think I need to teach you gilded cockerels a lesson about honesty, and the obligations of a host towards an unexpected guest he has wronged so deeply. Come, Wu Bei.”
And he and the little girl left the throne room unmolested.
“The Lord Regent in Lao Feng was known as Tsung Po,” Red Kite whispered into the silence that followed. “Just before the flood. And he had a daughter.”
“Who doesn't know that?” Golden Hawk said. “But those two didn't look to be a hundred years old.”
The crowd began to mutter to each other about forbidden magic, how those rumours had been true all along. This uninvited guest had probably been a demon of some kind; one who'd made some kind of dreadful pact to achieve eternal youth. Next thing you knew he'd return under cover of nightfall, the better to devour honest citizens in their beds –
“Enough!” Golden Hawk roared, over the rising babble of conversation. “Return to your homes! I will consult with the chancellor and the seminary's pre-eminent paladins to discern our best course of action, if there is actually anything we need to take action against! You can expect an announcement tomorrow. Until then be vigilant, yes, but do not panic.”
And though the crowd still whispered among themselves, they filed out of the throne room without further protest.
Yet nothing happened the next night, or the next. The city guard reported no unusual disturbances. The lord regent's court began to mock Tsung Po and his impertinence. Making demands of a servant of the Emperor! Though this was a cautious sort of mockery, always with each man glancing over his shoulder every few minutes.
Nonetheless, Silvermoon started to wonder again about choosing between one of the three adventurers. Perhaps Old Pig? He was easily as old as her father, but sturdy, and a good-looking man for all the grey in his beard. Saffron's quiet gaze bewitched her, and Three Strides could have stepped straight out of one of her romantic daydreams.
And yet she could not stop thinking about the Lord Regent from fallen Lao Feng, if that was who this Tsung Po really was. Ridiculous! But his dry, whispering voice echoed inside her head.
Then on the third night the palace was rent by horrible screams.
When the guards reached Old Pig's guest-chambers, they found the pit boss had crawled into a closet and was attempting to dash his brains out against the back wall. They subdued him, with difficulty, and the physicians administered calmatives and strong wine: but though Old Pig woke without trying to do himself further harm, he would not speak, and only spouted childlike gibberish.
When pressed as to what had happened, Old Pig began to weep incoherently and thrash from side to side. The verdict from the doctors was they feared the pit boss had forever lost his mind. Perhaps with due care and attention he might return to some semblance of his old self, but for now he was more of a shipwreck than a man.
On the fourth night Saffron came to Silvermoon's chambers. The young man had eluded all her father's patrols, and at first Silvermoon feared he planned some impropriety, but then she saw he was deeply distressed.
“Is this Tsung Po's lesson?” Saffron asked. “Am I next? Will I go mad, too? And what of you, my lady? Are you to suffer for what I did?”
Silvermoon said nothing. She hadn't even considered Tsung Po might be angry with her, but it seemed horribly plausible. After all, she thought, this sort of thing always happens in the old stories, too.
“I meant no harm to anyone by delving into Lao Feng,” Saffron said. “Or coming here. I almost left the hands back there, I swear. They played a melody on spines of crystal that jutted from the rock walls, and it was so sad I considered leaving them to their grief, but then I thought that taking those hands would let me recall the memory later, and I was sure I should die if I could not share it with – with –”
And Saffron scrambled hastily to his feet and rushed from Silvermoon's presence.
The fifth night was shattered by hideous sobs, a broken-hearted, racking wail that dragged on and on, and then climbed into a shriek of horror that abruptly cut off into an eerie silence. This time when the guards gained entry to Saffron's guest rooms they found no trace of him, but all the signs of a desperate struggle.
When Silvermoon forced her way in through the throng she saw a table almost as thick as her arm that lay broken in two great pieces, and across it lay a long yellow scarf stained so heavily with blood it was almost black.
Silvermoon fled from the sight of it, hid under the covers over her bed and wept into the sheets. If Three Strides followed, what then? Was Saffron right to fear that Tsung Po was going to strike at her next? Was this to be her punishment for tempting people to dig below the Dragon's Nape?
Three Strides insisted he was not afraid. He joined Red Kite and the historians in leafing through crumbling old books kept in the furthest corners of the palace library. There they found reference to an ancient sword that had served Kong Du in ages past as proof against evil.
But the master-at-arms was still searching for this fabled brand as the sixth night fell. Golden Hawk ordered the guards around his last guest doubled, then doubled again: yet as the moon climbed high over Mo Xan Dai an awful, moaning chorus rose inside the room, and a strange, foul-smelling wind held the doors fast.
The whole palace could hear Three Strides screaming, and when the wind died away the room was found to be empty. There was a yawning void in the middle of the floor, as if someone – or something – had forced its way in from the depths, and dragged the poor man down with it whe
n it left.
Her father assured Silvermoon no harm would come to her. Why, the paladins were weaving arcane wards of dizzying complexity around the palace even as they spoke. He had ordered half the garrison recalled, and planned to spend the night in her room, should the worst come to the worst.
Silvermoon was touched. She was young, but not a fool. She knew her father was almost as frightened as she was, and loved him all the more for daring to stand up to such an implacable enemy on her behalf. Yet she felt sure all this preparation would be for nothing, and so resolved to sneak into the armoury before the seventh night fell.
The armoury was a dark and lonely place, silent as the grave. The labyrinthine corridors were lined with swords and spears hung in rigid formation along the walls. Exotic weaponry from far-away lands hung in display cases lined with velvet. Boiled leather mail stood draped around tailors' forms, and empty helmets watched impassively as Silvermoon crept past.
Suddenly, without warning, a hand reached out from the shadows and hauled her off her feet, while another muffled her screams.
“I must apologise again for presuming to lay hands on you like that,” said the master-at-arms. “I thought I'd caught a thief, but – naturally you may report this to your father, and I shall accept any punishment he sees fit to –”
Bear Claw was a