Alanna hovered nervously behind Prince Jonathon, her tawny hair blown awry by the mischievous wind. Her sharp purple eyes flicked over the gathered revellers.

'Quite a crowd, Jon. You didn't even have this many for the coronation.'

Jon held a winning smile and raised a hand to wave, speaking out of the side of mouth to his champion.

'No need to be cynical, lioness. This is the first thing we've had to celebrate since Roger was killed. Let them celebrate. Three years of chaos is a long time.'

Alanna glanced edgily at a group of minstrels partying at the edge of the crowd.

'Well its three years of chaos that has made me miserable. I tell you, Jon, I won't be sad when this is over. Minstrels drive me mad.'

Jon's smile flickered ever so slightly.

'I know you hate responsibility, Alanna, but try to put a brave face on it, even if only for Thayet's sake.'

Both turned to where the beautiful Queen was showing off her new baby to the crowd. As though she could feel them, she turned slightly, and smiled at them. Her whole face lit up, making her even more beautiful than she normally did, dressed as she was in a soft velvet dress of pale pink that annunciates her big dark eyes. The pregnancy had been a hard one, and to those who knew her she looked thin and drawn. But to Alanna, that just made her friend seem more beautiful and wonderful than ever. In her arms, the baby gurgled happily. Jon laughed, and behind him Ralph let out a deep booming chuckle. Even Alanna let her face relax into a smile.

'She's going to be a brilliant mother. I'm sure she is.'

Jonathon gave a happy sigh.

The scene at Corus was a brighter one that had been seen for a long time. The main square had been decked in banners and pennants, and brightly coloured bunting was hung all around the shops and taverns. Everyone in Corus had turned out for the day: it would be a day of many colours, of feasting, of drinking and dancing, well into the early hours of the next day. A new heir was something to be celebrated: especially such a fine, strong baby.

Even the royal party shone with colour. The king's own stood all around, dressed in royal blue. In front of them stood Alanna, resplendent in ceremonial dress with her lioness shield balanced carefully on one arm, her copper hair flaring out from her head. Then there was Jonathon: tall, astute, sapphire eyed, pale and dark haired. A true monarch, Alanna though proudly, watching him way at the crowd.

He turned slightly to glance at her, as though he could feel her amethyst eyes.

'Is it Ok for me to...'

She threw her hands up in despair.

'Oh, go on, then, you great soft thing! Honestly, there's no point trying to keep you safe – you're just desperate to get yourself into a situation!'

He laughed slightly, and boyish humour danced in his eyes.

'Thank you, my lady.'

Taking off his heavy ceremonial coronet, King Jonathon descended from the high staging to where Thayet was showing off young Prince Roald to the crowd. Alanna waited until he was gone before letting her secret smile show in her eyes. It amused her to see Jonathon with his child: eager, boyish, slightly awkward. He despised not knowing everything. She'd heard him muttering at the child's cries during an informal meeting to plan the celebration.

'Well, it's good for him,' she murmured decidedly. 'His opinion of himself is strong enough that a little knock here and there won't do him to much harm.'

She raised her chin and looked for George among the crowd.

George, however, was not in the crowd. The baron of Pirate's Swoop, husband of Lady Alanna and former king of thieves had been gone from his home city for many months, trying to make alliances with Maren and Sarain. Now, having excused himself from the ceremony, he was staking out a few of his old haunts and looking for faces he knew.

Corus changed little with the passing seasons. The great palace was still there in the centre: the roads still wound and meandered in twisting circles and tight corners: the poor people still set up stalls along the main streets and called their wares to passer bys. Even though George carried a full purse in his knapsack, he did not stop to study the little shops. He was aimed for another place. A very specific place.

As he left the main celebrations, his boots began to click on the cobbles. Here the roads were less well kept. The stones were left jagged. No wheels passed this way, so the Guild of Pathmakers saw little reason to spend precious gold on replacing stones fine for walking over. George followed the street on its twisting way, until finally he reached an old inn, listing sideways as though it had drunk its own ale. Above the door hung a faded sign: the dancing dove.

George put his ear against the door, listening for voices inside. He heard none. For a moment he wondered if everyone was at the feast. But it didn't feel right. It was to quiet, to empty. The door hung limply on its hinges. The weight of time seemed to be dragging the whole building into the ground. No one had come this way for many weeks.

'You won't find anyone there, man.'

George turned in shock.

Leaning against the wall behind him was a young man, resplendent in a dark green tunic and brown breeches. He was dressed like a merchant would, but at his waist he wore three daggers: two ordinary, bone handled ones, but one really beauty: carved ivory, set with mother of pearl. But it was the man's eyes that captivated George. They were deep eyes, deep green, like an ocean, and the seemed to go down forever in his face. George swallowed, wondering briefly how he'd not heard the man coming.

'Why wouldn't I find anyone?'

The man turned his head and spat into the gutter, then glanced at George to see how he'd react. George didn't bat an eyelid. But he knew that to this youngster, he appeared a noble, born and bred. Well, maybe he would use a noble trick to get his information.

'I've got three silvers from information about this building.'

That got the man's head up. He made it look like he wasn't too interested, but there was a greedy sparkle in his eyes. George could almost feel the cool mind, calculating how much he could make.

He's clever, thought George, but something about him makes my skin crawl.

'Three gets what three deserves.'

George bit his lip, putting on a careful charade of bewilderment.

'How much do you want?'

'Eight. Take it or leave it.'

'I take it.'

George reached in his pocket and pulled out the silver pieces one at a time. He made a show of hunting around for the last two. Finally, he handed them over to the young man.

The receiver nodded at the building.

'It's just an old tavern. Hasn't been used for two years now, except for the odd bit of trade. It's so way out, no one ever gets here.'

He made to leave, but George caught his wrist and his eyes.

'Why is it deserted?'

The man glanced round, then leaned conspiritally towards him.

'The police say that it closed when the old owner died, but rumour has it the king of thieves used to live there. No one knows where he went: we don't even know if he's alive.'

George let his wrist go, and turned thoughtfully back to the tavern. A sudden thought occurred to him, and he turned sharply.

'Do you know who...'

But the young man was gone.

George shook his head. Honestly, three years of nobility and his wits deserted him! Shaking his head at his own stupidity, he headed back towards the main square.

Alanna yawned slightly as the sun began to rush into her eyes. She felt hot and scratchy and irritable in her heavy cloak. Desperately, she signalled to Jon with her eyebrows to try and persuade him to let her out, but he returned her look with one of such severity that she gave up.

Soon the sun would go down, and they could go back to the palace for the feast. At least then she could relax in her chair and argue with Raoul and Gary about the finer points of fencing, instead of standing like an ornament all day in full view of the world.

She turned slightly to stop the sun getting in her eyes, and looked down on the minstrels, still celebrating after the day. One of them was stood slightly apart, and she watched him curiously. He was taking a lute from the case on his back.

'Oh great,' she muttered. 'Now we have bad singing too.'

The minstrel began to pluck at the strings and sing in a high, reedy voice. She didn't recognise the words: they could have been from one of the northern tribes, or even Shang codal training words. But the tune was pleasant, and she let herself be lulled by the gentle notes. Jonathon turned slightly in appreciation: his dark head bobbed gently in time to the music. Slowly the square fell silent as all turned to the musician.

Alanna watched him with interest. The way his fingers found their way so surely over the strings intrigued her. She studied him as any woman would, though with more frankness. He was nice looking: tanned skin, shock of dark hair. The music spun like a web over the crowd, catching each one, drawing them in. Alanna breathed deeper and more slowly, letting it wash over her and fill her with light joy.

And then the musician looked and her.

His eyes, sharp amber, caught hers and drilled into them. His face was vicious: not the gentle triumph of someone who makes music and enjoys it, but the harsh anger of someone who searches for victory. She could feel him reaching inside: all the time his fingers were making gentle music, but his heart and brain were challenging her, trying to force her under his thumb...

The song ended. A strange stillness held the square in its thrill for a brief moment. Then Jonathon raised his hands and began to applaud. The whole square followed. For a second, the musician held Alanna's eyes. Then he turned, released her, rose to accept the applause of the square.

Alanna could only stand, shaken and worried, listening to the frenzied applause.

Somehow, while holding the audience with his music, he had met her. He had known her and he had challenged her.

But who was he?

And what did he want with the Lioness of Tortall?