‘Is it Nilsson, do you think?’
The question burst in upon Gryss, catching him completely unawares in the middle of his dark reverie. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It’s Rannick.’
Even as he spoke the words, his mind sped after them as though it could seize them before they reached their destination.
Farnor spun round and his gaze fixed Gryss just as surely as would one of his long-bladed knives. ‘Rannick?’ he said, his voice filled with changing shades and nuances: disbelief, doubt, realization.
Every encounter that he had ever had with Rannick seemed to pass through Farnor’s mind, culminating in that irritated flick of the hand and the angry buzzing of a cloud of flies restrained by some power beyond their knowing. And with those memories came memories too of subtle familiarities i
