When talking to youngsters entering the service, Aplegatt usually told them thatin order to make their living as mounted messengers two things would benecessary: a head of gold and an arse of iron.

A head of gold is essential, Aplegatt instructed the young messengers, since inthe flat leather pouch strapped to his chest beneath his clothing the messengeronly carries news of less vital importance, which could without fear beentrusted to treacherous paper or manuscript. The really important, secrettidings–those on which a great deal depended–must be committed tomemory by the messenger and only repeated to the intended recipient. Word forword; and at times those words are far from simple. Difficult to pronounce, letalone remember. In order to memorise them and not make a mistake when they arerecounted, one has to have a truly golden head.

And the benefits of an arse of iron, oh, every messenger will swiftly learnthose for himself. When the moment comes for him to spend three days and nightsin the saddle, riding a hundred or even two hundred miles along roads orsometimes, when necessary, trackless terrain, then it is needed. No, of courseyou don't sit in the saddle without respite; sometimes you dismount and rest.For a man can bear a great deal, but a horse less. However, when it's time toget back in the saddle after resting, it's as though your arse were shouting,'Help! Murder!'

'But who needs mounted messengers now, Master Aplegatt?' young people wouldoccasionally ask in astonishment. 'Take Vengerberg to Vizima; no one could knockthat off in less than four–or even five–days, even on the swifteststeed. But how long does a sorcerer from Vengerberg need to send news to asorcerer from Vizima? Half an hour, or not even that. A messenger's horse may golame, but a sorcerer's message always arrives. It never loses its way. It neverarrives late or gets lost. What's the point of messengers, if there aresorcerers everywhere, at every kingly court? Messengers are no longer necessary,Master Aplegatt.'

For some time Aplegatt had also been thinking he was no longer of any use toanyone. He was thirty-six and small but strong and wiry, wasn't afraid of hardwork and had–naturally–a head of gold. He could have found otherwork to support himself and his wife, to put a bit of money by for the dowriesof his two as yet unmarried daughters and to continue helping the married onewhose husband, the sad loser, was always unlucky in his business ventures. ButAplegatt couldn't and didn't want to imagine any other job. He was a royalmounted messenger and that was that.

And then suddenly, after a long period of being forgotten and humiliatinglyidle, Aplegatt was once again needed. And the highways and forest tracks onceagain echoed to the sound of hooves. Just like the old days, messengers began totravel the land bearing news from town to town.

Aplegatt knew why. He saw a lot and heard even more. It was expected that hewould immediately erase each message from his memory once it had been given,that he would forget it so as to be unable to recall it even under torture. ButAplegatt remembered. He knew why kings had suddenly stopped communicating withthe help of magic and sorcerers. The news that the messengers were carrying wasmeant to remain a secret from them. Kings had suddenly stopped trustingsorcerers; stopped confiding their secrets in them.

Aplegatt didn't know what had caused this sudden cooling off in the friendshipbetween kings and sorcerers and wasn't overly concerned about it. He regardedboth kings and magic-users as incomprehensible creatures, unpredictable in theirdeeds–particularly when times were becoming hard. And the fact that timeswere now hard could not be ignored, not if one travelled across the land fromcastle to castle, from town to town, from kingdom to kingdom.

There were plenty of troops on the roads. With every step one came across aninfantry or cavalry column, and every commander you met was edgy, nervous, curtand as self-important as if the fate of the entire world rested on him alone.The cities and castles were also full of armed men, and a feverish bustle wenton there, day and night. The usually invisible burgraves and castellans nowceaselessly rushed along walls and through courtyards, angry as wasps before astorm, yelling, swearing and issuing orders and kicks. Day and night, lumberingcolumns of laden wagons rolled towards strongholds and garrisons, passing cartson their way back, moving quickly, unburdened and empty. Herds of frisky three-year-old mounts taken straight out of stables kicked dust up on the roads.Ponies not accustomed to bits nor armed riders cheerfully enjoyed their lastdays of freedom, giving stable boys plenty of extra work and other road users nosmall trouble.

To put it briefly, war hung in the hot, still air.

Aplegatt stood up in his stirrups and looked around. Down at the foot of thehill a river sparkled, meandering sharply among meadows and clusters of trees.Forests stretched out beyond it, to the south. The messenger urged his horse on.Time was running out.

He'd been on the road for two days. The royal order and mail had caught up withhim in Hagge, where he was resting after returning from Tretogor. He had leftthe stronghold by night, galloping along the highway following the left bank ofthe Pontar, crossed the border with Temeria before dawn, and now, at noon of thefollowing day, was already at the bank of the Ismena. Had King Foltest been inVizima, Aplegatt would have delivered him the message that night. Unfortunately,the king was not in the capital; he was residing in the south of the country, inMaribor, almost two hundred miles from Vizima. Aplegatt knew this, so in theregion of the White Bridge he left the westward-leading road and rode throughwoodland towards Ellander. He was taking a risk. The Scoia'tael1 continued toroam the forests, and woe betide anyone who fell into their hands or came withinarrowshot. But a royal messenger had to take risks. Such was his duty.

He crossed the river without difficulty–it hadn't rained since June andthe Ismena's waters had fallen considerably. Keeping to the edge of the forest,he reached the track leading south-east from Vizima, towards the dwarvenfoundries, forges and settlements in the Mahakam Mountains. There were plenty ofcarts along the track, often being overtaken by small mounted units. Aplegattsighed in relief. Where there were lots of humans, there weren't any Scoia'tael.The campaign against the guerrilla elves had endured in Temeria for a year and,being harried in the forests, the Scoia'tael commandos had divided up intosmaller groups. These smaller groups kept well away from well-used roads anddidn't set ambushes on them.

Before nightfall he was already on the western border of the duchy of Ellander,at a crossroads near the village of Zavada. From here he had a straight and saferoad to Maribor: forty-two miles of hard, well-frequented forest track, andthere was an inn at the crossroads. He decided to rest his horse and himselfthere. Were he to set off at daybreak he knew that, even without pushing hismount too hard, he would see the silver and black pennants on the red roofs ofMaribor Castle's towers before sundown.

He unsaddled his mare and groomed her himself, sending the stable boy away. Hewas a royal messenger, and a royal messenger never permits anyone to touch hishorse. He ate a goodly portion of scrambled eggs with sausage and a quarter of aloaf of rye bread, washed down with a...