The Art of Hunting by Alan Campbell Page A

admitted. ‘Does he seem like the man you know? Is he normally so rude, obstinate and irreverent?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Then perhaps he still has some time,’ the prince said.
    ‘What will happen to him?’
    ‘When weapons possess a will, they almost always seek power. Many tyrants through the ages have been steered by the ghosts of long-dead sorcerers.’
    ‘But he can resist it?’
    ‘Only for a limited time.’
    Ianthe stopped and clutched Paulus’s arms. ‘Please, isn’t there anything you can do to save him?’
    ‘I am sorry.’
    Her eyes welled with tears.
    Paulus hugged her. He held her head against his chest and smoothed her hair. ‘At least you will make him proud tonight, Ianthe. He will leave this earth knowing that his daughter is in
safe hands.’
    She sniffed, nodded.
    They walked on and passed through a grand portal into one of the central palace thoroughfares. It had been nearly a month since the westernmost wing had been destroyed by Ethan Maskelyne’s
bombardment, and a great deal of the rubble had been cleared, exposing a maze of roofless chambers to the open skies. But there still remained several weeks’ worth of work to do before any
reconstruction could begin. The workers had erected temporary tarpaulins and tin sheets to keep any rain out, although they had been fortunate with the weather so far. Early summer was generally
calm and sunny in Awl. Paulus had by now recruited the military to assist in the task and, as Ianthe walked beside the young prince and his uncle, she passed groups of former Haurstaf soldiers
carrying chucks of black marble along the corridors or out through gaps in the walls to carts waiting outside. Every one of them, she noted, avoided Cyr’s glare.
    Those who wished to continue to earn a living had had little choice but to accept Unmer rule, but it seemed to Ianthe that these men did not yet trust their new masters.
    Once they reached the grand antechamber behind the main palace doors, however, there was no trace of destruction. The floors, staircase and pillars shone like black glass, as pristine as the day
Ianthe had first seen them. The corpses had been removed to one of the army bases to the south of the palace, where they had been burned. The main doors had been thrown open to admit sunlight and
cool, pine-scented morning air. A palace guard wearing a grey cape over boiled leathers bowed to Paulus and then to Cyr as they approached.
    ‘Our guests are on their way,Your Highnesses,’ he said. ‘A convoy of carriages approach on the Port Awl road.’
    Cyr chuckled.‘We must ensure that our effusive Commander Rast does not have them shot at one of his checkpoints.’
    The guard bowed. ‘Your wife requests your presence in the hospital,’ he said. ‘She says she is at a loss as to what to do with the leucotomized and begs your
assistance.’
    ‘My ideas on the matter would only distress her,’ Cyr remarked. ‘Besides, we have more pressing issues. Three weeks, and the Guild commanders are still bumbling around like raw
recruits. Trust must be fostered and strategies must be set on course if we are to call Awl home.’
    ‘Losoto is my home,’ Paulus said.
    The old man smiled. ‘And we will reclaim it in good time, Your Highness.’
    But the prince’s expression only darkened. ‘Sooner, rather than later, I trust.’
    Cyr dismissed the palace guard and waited until the man had gone before he addressed the prince. ‘My dear Paulus,’ he said, ‘do you think I could bear to leave our people
trapped in those ghettos for a moment longer than is absolutely necessary?’ He steepled his fingers under his chin and regarded the young man with a look that suggested great sadness and
wounded pride. ‘I yearn for safe reunion just as you do,’ he added, ‘but we must lay the necessary foundations to ensure success. We mustn’t go rushing in like impetuous
young men.’
    ‘Every moment we delay puts our kin at greater risk,’ Paulus replied.