Chapter 1

There was blood on the floor. Blood from a butcher or from a fight, Malios couldn’t tell, but it looked the same. It was old enough for the flies to have given up on it.

He sat, holding his clay cup of watered wine, at the back of the room, staring out at the small square in front of the building. The tavern took up the ground floor of a tottering building, but the owner hadn’t finished the walls. Instead he’d put in furniture and sold bad booze in the space under the tenement, open on two of its four sides to the square. A torch, just out of sight on the corner of the building, cast a giant rhomboid which broke across table corners and stools leaving scattered dark around the space. Other than the blood, there was little mess tonight, as a damp breeze had arrived and swept any scraps away.

Malios was positioned with his back against the bumpy wall. On a mosaic under his spine, some big naked guy was holding up a severed head. Herakles most likely. Malios might not make legends, but he would make some money tonight. Perhaps his son would become a hero now he was almost rich. How many heroes were born to poor parents like his?

Three other men sat in the room, none talking. Merchants without business to chase or sailors waiting for work. Two kept in the shadows, drinking with a need. The third, on a table near to him, moved as much as a statue.

Malios shuffled, lifting each buttock from the solid seat. He dipped his fingertip in the wine in his cup, lifting out a small chunk of something mossy.

“Getting used to Amathountan wine is a challenge,” said the statue. Malios glanced at him, then looked back at his cup, tracing a delta symbol on the table with the wet finger. He didn’t want to have a conversation with a stranger. Malios was waiting for someone.

“Coming in from Kition?”

Malios studied the speaker. He hadn’t expected to stand out as a foreigner in Amathus, having dressed in what he thought were very neutral clothes - a simple tunic, a simple cloak. His baldrick was functional, his sandals plain. The stranger shouldn’t have known he was not a local.

“How did you guess?” he asked the seated figure. The other man had a loose hood up against the breeze.

“Because you’re due for a meeting. And you were late.”

“You’re who I’m meeting?”

“Of course I am, Malios.” The man gestured towards the stool opposite him. It would put Malios’s back to the courtyard, facing the man. He didn’t like threats coming from behind his back.

“Here’s fine,” said Malios.

“I’m not going to call across tables to you with your accent,” said the man. He started to stand, angling his shoulder towards the open wall. He shuffled his cloak around his shoulders, the shadow of his hood looking out at the blustering courtyard. Rain was coming, and with it coughs and aches, and weeks spent inside damp houses dreaming of fresh food. Malios wanted his money before the rains came.

“I’ll just go to the spymaster himself then.”

“Will you, Malios. Who’s this spymaster?”

“Zoandros. You’ll lose your commission or whatever he pays you.”

“He’s a dangerous man, Malios. Ruins the weak, tramples the dead. Are you sure you want to meet him?”

“He’s a smart man. He’ll understand the value of what I’m offering.”

The man sat down.

“Know the spymaster, do you?”

“Maybe. Doesn’t matter. I-”

“Malios, most men who claim to be able to find the spymaster stop doing so after the first time they’ve met him.”

“I don’t care what you charge him, so long as I get what I deserve, boy,” snapped Malios. “But if I go directly to him, you get nothing. I heard he cut the nose of the last person who crossed him.”

“And his ears,” said the man pleasantly, pointing to the side of his hood.

Malios glared, unsure what to say.

“So why don’t you go directly to him?” asked the man.

Malios resisted a flippant response, and opted for honesty. “Because he stays up in his tower in the palace and lets you run around for him. Otherwise, I’d be talking to the man who makes the decisions.”

“You mean that you don’t know what he looks like.”

The man hummed, then stood again, took two strides and sat opposite Malios, settling his dented bronze cup gently on the scratched wood.

Malios studied him, letting his opinion of the man drop further. No experienced hustler would put his back to unknown threats. He should go straight to the spymaster rather than trust his business to this fool.

The stranger was nothing but a silhouette against the torchlit square. The shoulders under the cloak were athletic but not thick enough for a soldier or mercenary. The hooded cloak was a deep blue. Nothing else was visible.

The birds had gone quiet as the air went cold. In the courtyard a rain drop landed with a thump on the packed earth. Then a second, a third and then a continuous timpani. The air smelled of dust which had blossomed as the rain hit.

The man spread his hands, smooth palms up, asking for what was next. Malios pursed his lips, sucked in a breath through his nose and sat up straight.

“I know who is visiting the king,” he said. “Who is asking for his daughter’s hand in marriage.”

The shoulders shrugged. The rain was steady, regular, coming down and running off the ground. It welled in small puddles, unsure where to go, then rolled shyly towards the tavern’s open floor. A trickle of water touched the patch of dry blood, and Malios watched, waiting to see which would take on the form of the other.

“I always relax a little more after the clouds have broken,” said the man. “It only rained for ten days at the start of the year and our cisterns were getting low. But it’s something to do with the clouds. They’re heavy I think. They give me a headache.”

Malios looked up. For a moment, he imagined great black wings spreading from the silhouette’s back, reaching out to the ends of the room. Behind him, the torch’s flame jiggled as rain fell through it.

“I know about the envoys from Salamis and Tyre,” stated Malios. He took a breath of the rain-cold air and searched for a reaction.

"Do you know about the others from Thebes, Idalion, or a dozen other little kingdoms which come calling?" The man rolled his shoulders and corrected his posture, sitting straighter. "A hundred people organize those welcome dinners for our honoured guests, Malios. What makes your news different from all of their gossip?"

“I know which way he’s going to go.”

“You mean who he’s going to choose as his heir?”

“Yes, and not even Zoandros knows. The king has told only one person to get her opinion. He trusts - trusted - her judgement of men.”

“One of his former lovers then.”

“His only recent former lover,” said Malios. “Don’t try to cheapen my information.”

“Malios,” whispered the man, leaning forward and lacing manicured fingers, “Your gossip could be made up. It could be common. It could be a malicious rumour started to get Amathus into trouble. You have just travelled from our closest rival.”

“From what I understand, the only one who causes trouble for the king is Zoandros.”

The stranger sat up, his shoulder blocking the torchlight from Malios’s eyes.

A serving man came out from a door by the deepest, furthest corner, glanced around at his four customers, then stepped out to lean against the pillar which supported the unfinished tenement over their heads. He watched the rain, holding out his hand once to feel it land. His thick lips twisted and he frowned.

The statue opposite Malios moved his cup with his fingertips, its base rasping against the table.

“And why is this information so valuable?”

“Because the king didn’t want to tell his own spymaster that his daughter will leave the city in the new year. It’s been decided. He’s chosen her husband. The next king of Amathus.”

“Thank the gods,” laughed the man. “But we still have a few years to wait before she’s old enough to be a real queen. She might leave, but she’ll be back. You don’t want to be hasty like Theseus. Be more like Menelaus. Well, you know what I’m trying to say.” The silhouette leaned forward again and the hood moved, angling up to look at Malios, perhaps expecting a comment. A sigh came from the shadow. “Where did he decide?”

Malios laughed, then clamped his mouth shut as the bitter wine rose in his throat.

“Nice,” he replied. “I’ll tell you when we’ve agreed on a price.”

“Ten owls.”

Malios laughed again, brittle this time. “One hundred and fifty,” he stated.

The man leaned back. “Bring the woman so she can be questioned. One hundred.”

“She’s not going to come back here, boy. Just so you and your thugs can hurt her.” Malios folded his arms, sitting up straight. “And now it’s two hundred.”

“Then your little deal is off, Malios. For you only have one buyer for this information. For everyone else, it’s just cheap gossip. A whore and her pimp against the word of a king.”

“She’s not a whore.”

“She was well paid.”

“It wasn’t pay, boy,” snapped Malios. “He said she would be his official consort.”

“And she believed him?” rejoined the man. Another small shrug. “She did have some influence. She got your father’s furniture into the palace. Got your family a few good coins. Your dear little father supplying all the way over here?”

With a hiss, the torch outside went out and the world dimmed. The tavern keeper tutted and walked through the door at the back, which slammed shut in the rain’s breeze. There was banging in the silence, the sound of a man rummaging in the familiar dark.

He came back out, placing small lamps at the edges of the tables. Malios searched for the features of the man opposite, hidden in the shadows of his hood. But he caught nothing other than the thick black beard on a slender chin.

“I came here expecting to arrange a simple trade,” said Malios quietly. “I came here expecting the best of you. But I see that you deserve your reputation.”

“And what’s that, Malios?”

“Bitter and cynical. My friend was treated dishonourably by your king and I come back here to make sure she is looked after.” He corrected himself. “Monetarily looked after.”

“You came here to sell his secrets to the spies in the king’s own palace. Apologies, I tend to be pedantic about language. Your decision sounds a little more dangerous when you say it clearly.”

“You’re a cynic and you’re bitter. Let’s agree on the price and I can go home.”

“In this rain? Back to Salamis?”

“Why do you think I’m from there?” asked Malios. But he knew. The man opposite him knew everything, and could say anything to the spymaster.

As the torch was relit at last, the orange rectangle came back stronger, and the statue sank into a silhouette again.

From the corner of his eye, Malios saw the patch of old blood had issued a small pink trail of rain water, which gave the tiniest sparkle in the torchlight.

“Two hundred owls,” stated Malios.

“For you, for Chara and for the secret,” said the man.

Malios quickly hid his shaking hands under the table, staring at the man. He knew her name. How did he know her name?

Malios readied himself to push the table, run out into the rain, get away from him.

“For you, for Chara and for her secret.” The man leaned forward. “And show me your empty hands, Malios. I don’t want to stick you with a knife by mistake.”

The other guests shuffled self-consciously. Maybe Malios had gasped at her name. Maybe he’d scraped the stool back.

“H-how?”

“I’m interested in her stories, Malios. Not you.”

“If you know everything about it, then why bother?”

“You’re selling secrets, Malios. That makes me - what were your words? - bitter and cynical.

“A rich merchant from Kourion recently tried to blackmail Zoandros. He thought it was a game. He was found tied to an anchor at the bottom of the marina, next to his boat. His crew hadn’t heard a thing. Just saw his grey hair floating under the water when the sun came up.” The man adjusted his cup so that it sat inside an old circular stain. “We are small kingdoms on this island, and we should try to live in harmony. Let the great powers fight over our heads. We have enough troubles.” Whatever sympathy Malios thought he’d heard in that last comment disappeared when the silhouette’s hood rose. Although the black shadows still obliterated any features, he knew the man was looking at him and could see his fear.

Malios had once been confronted by a street dog. It had been a skinny-limbed, long-toothed beast, and it had stood and stared at him. He had frozen, done nothing even though he might have scared it away. Instead, he had pissed himself. He still felt the imagined bites on his neck and his arms.

“Bring her, Malios.”

Malios shook his head.

“Wherever she is, bring her here tomorrow afternoon before sundown.” The man leaned forward. “Understand?”

Malios didn’t move.

“If you run, Malios, you have lots of friends in Amathus who will suffer. And imagine if someone tells your father his son is blackmailing the spymaster.”

Malios blinked. Malios’s father, still working into his old age, was an honest man and a good person. Two or three more winters left, maybe one more summer working. His father must have been sitting in his small home when he was visited by this silhouette and his thugs. Heavy tears bulged against his eye lashes.

“I’ll tell Zoandros,” he said through a narrow throat. “I’ll tell him you’re stealing the secret for your own good. I hope he cuts your throat.”

“Stop mentioning his name like a threat.”

“But he is a threat, isn’t he?” hissed Malios, surprised by his own temper. “The snake of Amathus. The young spymaster. People disappear when they cross him. No-one survives long betraying a master like that.”

“A master ‘like that’ doesn’t survive long if he has fools working for him.”

“You’ll not get anything from me, boy. I’ll only tell the spymaster.”

“Go sell him your secret. Oh, you can’t.” The silhouette tutted in disgust, making him human for a moment.

“He only works through little people like you,” stated Malios. The man didn’t react. “Little rats like you. But I’ll find a way to let him know I have something he needs.”

“The so-called secret about the prince from Thebes? They’re always begging for Hermia’s hand. Every year. Regular as rain.”

Malios thought he heard fragility in the man’s intonation.

“No, not Thebes,” he lied. “I don’t need to obey you.”

The man leaned forward once again, and Malios felt an itch between his fingers. He looked down. There was the darkest shadow in the man’s delicate fingers, a thick, utilitarian blade whose tip pressed on the skin between Malios’s little and ring fingers.

“Be wise, Malios,” said the man. “Here. Tomorrow. Before sunset.”

Malios swallowed down saliva which had suddenly flooded his mouth. He searched for the man’s face again. The man stood.

“I’ll be there to protect her,” stated Malios.

“Don’t worry. Your family will come out of this well,” said the man. He lifted his bronze cup, took a heavy swig of the wine and then sucked in air through his teeth. “Your father will have a commission in the palace of Amathus for his furniture, just as you will have your sale. But you’ll get nothing, and I’ll make sure there’s one hundred and fifty owls profit for him.” He put his cup down, and ground it slowly into the wood.

“My father is here?”

“You weren’t at home when we came to Salamis.”

“I’ll tell Zoandros what you’re doing,” said Malios. “This isn’t right.”

“By the gods, you’re an idiot. Zoandros doesn't need to hear from you, Malios. He's already heard it. Twice. Once before you arrived.” He gestured with the knife towards Malios’s clay cup. “Then again while you were drinking that wine.”

“You?” muttered Malios. The face in the hood watched him. Malios stopped breathing, letting one tear trickle warmly down his cold cheek.

Then the shadow moved towards the open courtyard, the blue-purple of his cloak becoming more determined, and he waited for a moment at the edge of the rain. His shape soaked up most of the torchlight and seemed to swell to fill the view.

The raindrops pattered into the new puddles, and Malios imagined looking up through seawater to see the rain hitting the surface, his ankles tied to an anchor.

The other guests stood and walked in their own manner to stand either side of the silhouette, becoming two great wings in dark grey cloaks. Malios couldn’t tell whether they turned to look at him, because as they stood there they merged into a solid wall of shadow. Then they became men again, and each of the three tugged their hoods forward, wrapped their cloaks’ edges around themselves, then stepped into the rain. Then they were just unremarkable shadows disappearing into the night.