A Crown Imperilled. Raymond E. Feist

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      ‘How do you know so much of dark elves?’ Miranda asked Nakor.

      ‘I travel,’ was his answer.

      Again Miranda was struck by the absurdity of their two sets of memories. Belog had never travelled further than the distance from the archivists’ quarters to Dahun’s palace and back, until he had left the city and encountered Child. Nakor had travelled to every distant part of Midkemia and worlds beyond.

      ‘He does look like a traveller from across the sea, like Calis’s wife,’ granted Nakor. Miranda had rescued Ellia and her sons during the war of the Emerald Queen, across the sea in Novindus and had taken them to Elvandar, where they had met Calis.

      Calis said, ‘His tunic, trousers, and cloak are simple enough, and he wears no armour, but that’s a bad bow: it’s cracked and has been re-glued and banded with leather, so he’s no archer. And he wears fine boots of a craft common to the Dark Brotherhood.’ He used the human name for the moredhel. ‘Those are unmistakable, and from what I can see, well made. He’s important, perhaps even a clan chieftain.’

      ‘Well, that does raise the question of what he’s doing here,’ said Miranda.

      ‘Renegade?’ asked Nakor of Calis.

      Calis shrugged. ‘Rare, but not unheard of, although they rarely venture this far south; there are too many places between here and the northland for a moredhel to die alone. The few who are expelled from their clans are usually found in the east, among humans who traffic in weapons, drugs, and slaves.’

      ‘A spy, then?’ said Miranda, obviously intrigued by the speculation.

      ‘If he is, he’s a bad one,’ said Nakor, standing up. ‘Well, the best thing to do is ask him.’

      Before either Calis or Miranda could utter another word, Nakor had worked his way through the crowd to stand before the dark-haired elf in the corner. With as friendly an expression as the demon-in-human form could manage, he said, ‘Excuse me, but my friends and I were wondering what you are doing here?’

      Dark eyes regarded Nakor for a long moment, before the dark elf spoke, not in the King’s tongue but in heavily accented Common Tongue, the trading language of Triagia. ‘Go away, little man.’

      Nakor’s grin broadened even more. ‘We could have some fun. I could tell this crowd exactly what you are. Many are from the north and have no love for your people; and then we can see how long you survive. Or, you could simply answer my question.’

      Lowering his voice so those at the next table couldn’t overhear, Arkan of the Ardanien said, ‘Or, I could simply ignore you until you go away!’

      Nakor kept grinning. ‘I can be very persistent and patient.’

      ‘And annoying, apparently.’ Arkan stared Nakor in the eyes, then suddenly stood up and pressed past the little man. With no apology, the moredhel chieftain pushed his way through the crowd eliciting complaints and muttered threats.

      Reaching Calis and Miranda, he spoke in a language only Miranda and Nakor could understand. It was High Elven, the common ancestor language of all branches of the elves. ‘Had you wished to know my reason for being here, Prince of Elvandar, you could have simply asked, rather than send over that annoying little human.’

      Miranda tried not to chuckle.

      Calis said, ‘You know me?’

      ‘By reputation,’ said Arkan. ‘You are eledhel, but you are not. There’s something about you that is … human.’ He said the last as if it was an insult. ‘There is only one being like that: the son of the Queen of Elvandar.’

      Calis raised his eyebrows slightly and tilted his head, as if what he had heard was of little importance. ‘It is true, I was curious.’

      ‘Which is why you followed me into the inn when you were obviously about to depart this pest hole of a city.’

      ‘So, are you going to tell us why you’re here or do I send for the city watch and begin some carnage?’ asked Calis.

      Arkan studied the Prince of Elvandar. Like others north of the Teeth of the World, he had heard of the bastard son of Aglaranna and that abomination in the garb of the Valheru. Yet Calis wasn’t anything like he had imagined him to be. Save for his ears, which were less pronounced, more human-like, and the faint sense of power that emanated from him, he seemed surprisingly ordinary. His plain garb was that of a hunter or traveller, his bow was superbly made, but otherwise of simple design, and he wore no jewellery or badges, no bracelets or hair ornaments. With his traditional grey armour and black cloak he could have passed for a member of one of the moredhels’ southern bands.

      Finally Arkan said, ‘While I would happily kill everyone in this room, given the opportunity,’ he fixed his eyes on Calis, ‘and finish with you, Prince of the Light Elves, I am forbidden from such sport. I am pledged to a quest.’

      ‘Now, this is getting interesting,’ said Nakor. ‘What sort of quest?’

      ‘I’m to find a man, a human. That is all I know.’ Arkan briefly told them of his mission and saw that, while the humans were ignorant of Liallan, Calis was not. Finally he said, ‘It is simple. I am to find this human no matter what the cost.’

      ‘And then what?’ said Miranda having already formed an opinion on who Arkan was seeking. ‘Kill him?’

      Arkan smiled and for the first time Miranda, Calis, and Nakor saw a genuine expression of humour in the demeanour of a moredhel. ‘Actually, quite the contrary. I am to protect him with my life if needs be.’

      ‘Now that was unexpected,’ said Nakor with glee. ‘I do so love surprises!’

      ‘I think you’d better sit down with us,’ said Miranda. ‘I think we have a great deal to talk about.’

      Arkan hesitated, finding the situation as absurd as Nakor, but he nodded once and sat in the empty chair, while the others retook theirs.

      Arkan retold his story briefly and when he was finished, he said, ‘And that is why I am here in this pest hole of a city.’

      Nakor grinned. ‘If you think this is a pest hole, you should visit Durbin!’

      Miranda put her hand on Nakor’s and said, ‘Enough.’

      Calis said, ‘You said you are of the Ardanien. You knew Gorath?’

      Arkan looked surprised for the first time. ‘He was my father.’

      Calis nodded. ‘I see the resemblance. I met him when I was young. You had a remarkable father, Arkan. He was the first moredhel I had ever spoken with and he bore a terrible burden.’

      ‘He is counted a traitor by most of our people.’ He glanced at the three faces confronting him and felt reluctant to discuss family history, but he was surprised to discover that Calis had met his father. ‘I know there are rumours and some, like Liallan, think him a saviour, but the truth of those days is shrouded by lies and rumour.’

      ‘Perhaps Pug can shed some light on that time?’ said Calis.

      ‘Pug?’

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