zombielike troops. These refugee-settlers still made up the bulk of the Port’s underclass. Mothers used tales of these Morkth to frighten their children into good behav­ior. Yet one of these awful creatures plainly had the city’s overlord as its inferior partner. It was plain that the Morkth hunted him too.
Why? Why him? Vague fantasies, fuelled by his favorite books, of him being the lost true heir to some great kingdom flitted briefly through his head as he followed the filth stream into the dark. Regretfully he dismissed them. He knew perfectly well who his mother was, and who his father had been. Yes, they’d both claimed to be of Cru blood, but up north, according to his mother, every man and his damned donkey claimed that. Resolutely he put the thoughts away from him and followed the flow of liquid and semisolid dreck. Eventually it had to come out ­somewhere.

CHAPTER 2
Shael Cimbelyn Xylla-Marie Ensign, Princess Royal of the Tyn States, and holder of a further sheaf of lesser titles, had absolutely no doubts about her near-pure Cru blood. She was indeed the true heir, through her mother, to a kingdom. She was also an only child. Her father, a man who openly bragged of the title “Tyrant,” wielded vast power as the absolute ruler of a string of conquered states and principalities. Her own power, as a result, was near absolute too, but it was untrammeled by even the smallest shred of responsibility. She was blessed with perfect features and a good, if immature, figure. She was a spoilt, poisonous little bitch. It is impossible to say what her friends called her, for she had none.
The reams of golden bracelets on her arms tinkled musically as she moved. Their sweet sound failed to enhance the performance of a royal temper tantrum. It was indeed a magnificent theatrical display, other­wise. From a safe distance, say a hundred miles, it had all the elements of a farce, but to those unfortunate enough to be involved in it, it was ­undoubtedly a tragedy. Five foot two of concentrated ennui and pique was likely to mean at least pain, or even death, to them.
She stormed and ranted at the unfortunate major­domo, her potentially beautiful little face screwed up into a mask of rage. “How dare you deny us!” A stamp of a small foot, “We want them! You will get us some, now!” she screamed as shrilly as any fishwife. Even in her fury the royal “we” was maintained.
The plump man knelt, shaking with fear. His position had ensured that while