Weary of her performers, philosophers and sycophants, the Lord of Amos had set them a new task – to discover the source of the blight. Amos was an ancient city steeped in lore; if anywhere held understanding, it was here. Without them, the hall was a suggestion of shadow, the silence as bleak as the winter chill. Behind the great seat, her stone aperios spread black wings, its beak turned as if it watched the door from one sharp eye. But the steps below it now led down to a bare, cold floor, shining inlays clear of both feet and despair. Only one pair of boots rested on that floor. Soft-soled, laced tight, blacker than the aperios itself, they rose into narrow, many-pocketed trews, and a long, lean figure, face mostly hidden. A figure as taut as a throne-room assassin. The Bard, Roderick of Avesyr, stood unspeaking, his stance cold and his gaze flat, showing nothing of his thoughts. When the sharp boom of a knock came upon the great doors, he did not react, and as they parted and a chink of rocklight spread to an arc across the gleaming floor, he neither spoke nor moved.
