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separated, they would likely turn back, Tarantio reasoned.
    As he walked on through stands of birch and alder and oak, Tarantio's mood lightened. He had always liked trees. They were restful on the eye, from the slender silver birch to the great oaks, gnarled giants impervious to the passing of man's years. As a child - in the days before Dace - he had often climbed high trees and sat, perched like an eagle, way above the ground. Tarantio shivered. It was growing cold here in the high country, and Fall flowers were in bloom upon the hillsides. It would be good to rest in Corduin.
    The war had not touched it yet, save for shortages of food and supplies. Tarantio had ventured some of his wages there with the merchant, Lunder. With luck his investments would pay for a winter of leisure.
    The ground below his feet was muddy from recent heavy rain, and his left boot leaked badly, soaking through the thick woollen sock which squelched as he walked. For an hour he moved on, leaving a trail a blind man could follow, heading always west. Then, as he passed beneath a spreading oak he leapt up and drew himself into the branches. Traversing the tree, he jumped down on to a wide rocky ledge. Mud from his boots stained the stone, and he wiped it clear with the hem of his heavy grey coat before moving on more carefully over firmer ground. Leaving no tracks, he headed north-west.
    For another hour he travelled, moving with care, always keeping a wary eye on his back-trail, and rarely emerging on to open ground without first scanning the tree-line. Now, high above the point at which he had switched direction, he climbed into the branches of a tall beech and settled down to watch the trail. From a pouch on his sword-belt he drew the last of his dried meat, tore off a chunk and began to chew.
    Before he had finished his meagre meal the pursuers came into sight. There were eight of them, armed with bows and spears. At this distance they looked insect-sized as they inched their way down the hillside, pausing below the oak. For a while they stood still, and Tarantio could imagine the argument among them. From the point where they now gathered, the distance to any one of four different towns or cities was around the same. To the west, beyond the mountains, was the lake city of Hlobane.
    North-east lay Morgallis, capital of the Duke of Romark. To the south was Loretheli, a neutral port, governed by the Corsairs. And to the north-west — Tarantio's destination - the oldest and finest city in the Duchies, Corduin.
    For a little while the men searched the area for sign of Tarantio's trail. Finding nothing, they held a hurried meeting, then turned back the way they had come.
    Tarantio leaned back against the bole of the beech and allowed himself to relax. He had left his helm back at the cave, along with the crimson sash that signalled his service with the new Duke of The Marches. Now there was nothing that linked him to any of the four combatants. Once again he was a free man, ready to offer Dace's services to the highest bidder. Dropping down from the tree, he continued on his way throughout the afternoon, crossing valleys and heading for a distant lake that sparkled in the afternoon sunshine. It was long and narrow, widening at the centre and flaring at the tip, like the tail of a great fish. There was a small island at the centre, on which a stand of pine reared against the backdrop of the mountains. The sun was warmer now and Tarantio shrugged off his heavy jacket, laying it on a flat rock.

    'When will we eat?' asked Dace. Tarantio had been aware of his presence from the moment he sighted the pursuers.
    'Perhaps you would like to catch the fish this time?' he said, aloud.
    'Too boring. And you do it so well!'
    Tarantio removed his shirt, leggings and boots and waded slowly out into the cold, clear waters of the lake. Here he stood, staring down at the gravel around his feet.
    It was spawning time for the speckled trout and after a while he saw a