It contains wyrmspike and a cocktail of subtle narcotics,” said Kormak.

“It makes my tongue tingle,” said Rhiana.

“I am having it mixed with water,” said Zamara. “I don’t want to be too hungover when I speak with the Governor tomorrow.”

“I think he will be hungover enough for the two of you,” said Kormak.

“I do not doubt it. It’s no wonder this place is like it is with a man like that in charge.”

“I don’t think you were seeing him at his best, Admiral,” said Rhiana. Her voice was slightly slurred. The wine was starting to get to her.

“You might want to slow down,” said Kormak. “That is a strange and powerful vintage.”

“It is certainly delicious,” said Rhiana.

“And possibly addictive,” said Kormak.

“You always have to be such a spoilsport about everything,” she said. “Don’t you ever relax?”

“No.”

“And always so honest too. It must be tiring being you sometimes.”

Zamara stared at her. “I am starting to see a pattern here.”

Kormak said, “The wyrmspike in the wine makes some susceptible souls argumentative.”

“Who are you calling argumentative,” said Rhiana. “And susceptible?”

“No one,” said Kormak. “It was an observation.”

“Oh it was an observation, was it? Aren’t we special?”

“I am going to question some of the guests.”

“A Guardian is always on duty,” said Zamara. “I shall keep Captain Rhiana company.”

“That might be a good idea.”

“There’s no need to be so sarcastic,” said Rhiana.

Kormak strode out into the garden. Music played. A bard stood by the fountain singing part of the Tale of Anwin, a ballad concerning the fate of one of the heroes of the Sunlands who fell in love with an Old One. The man’s voice was high and clear and brought an eerie clarity to the song.

“Are you supposed to be a Guardian of the Dawn,” said a voice from nearby. Kormak turned to see a tall man in a costume of silver and white. A horned helmet was taped to his head and held in position with silver-painted linen. He had the sign of the moon on his shield, and his weapon was a wooden sword. Two false arms were attached to his tunic. They held stuffed swords of cloth.

“Yes,” said Kormak. “I am.”

“Your costume is not exactly convincing.” The man’s companions, garbed as mountain goblins and dwarves, giggled. A noble and his hangers-on, Kormak guessed.

“You think so?”

“You’ve got the blade on your back, and your elder signs look all right, but you could at least have dyed your hair blonde.”

“Because all Guardians are Sunlanders?”

“Indeed. Although I can perceive, you are not.”

“That’s very observant of you. And who may I ask are you?”

“I am Graghur, the Taker of Skulls.”

“Your costume is also unconvincing, I am afraid.”

“And how would you know?”

“I killed him.”

The noble laughed. Hearing his mirth, his lackeys decided to laugh too. “At least you play your part with a certain brio,” the false Graghur said. “I’ll give you that.”

“It’s very good of you to say so.”

“Have a drink!”

“Thank you, I already have one.”

“And everyone knows Guardians are meant to be abstemious.”

“I know some who are not.”

“You are determined to keep playing your role, aren’t you?”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that tonight.”

“I am not surprised. You would make a very good mummer.”

Kormak bowed to the man and his hangers-on and strode into the crowd.

A wizened-looking, grey haired man touched his arm. Kormak looked down into the watery blue eyes of a slight figure garbed in the yellow robes of a priest. A chain containing half a dozen mystical amulets dangled from his neck.