The first of the competitors were starting to arrive at Tintagel.

With just under a week to go before Guinevere opened proceedings, Tasko was faced with a dilemma. He had to introduce the newcomers to life in the castle and outline the various events that would be taking place, all while navigating the potential for profit and peril.

Fortunately, a number of the merchants and a decent cross-section of the entertainers had also arrived early, their excited chatter and laughter filling the air. The dark-skinned man reflected that maybe his announcement of the event may have been a touch more hysterical than intended - so there was plenty to do. And, more importantly, plenty to spend money on.

Tasko had tried to negotiate a cut of this action with Bors, but he found the big man extremely distracted. "Do what you think is best" was the only answer he got to his representations.

That is why he and Pæps were sitting looking at columns of numbers, trying to second-guess at what stage of skimming off the top they would start to lose limbs.

"It's a trick," Pæps said for the umpteenth time. "He's warned you to run a tight ship. 'Do what you think is best' sounds like a dare to see if you'll take the bait."

Tasko grimaced. The potential money on the table here was eye-watering. He didn't need to take too much of a percentage here to be set for the rest of his life. Providing, of course, he didn't take so much that it was the cause of his brutal and violent demise. The smart play was to lowball it and let the coins trickle in over the next few weeks. Sure, he wouldn't be coming out of things that far ahead, but at least he would still have a head.

On the other hand, neither he nor Pæps was constitutionally prepared to leave so much profit hanging there without at least trying to get some of it to drop into their pockets . . .

"Philosophically," Tasko began, "what I think is best is to maximise my cut. It could well be that Sir Bors is so impressed with our work that he is encouraging me to take my due."

Pæps let that idea flat in the air for a moment before shaking his head, snorting and directing attention back to the ledger.

The Grand Tournament was shaping up to be spectacular. Several of the petty kingdoms of the north had clubbed together to organise their own portal, and a steady drip of fur-clad Celts from the hills, valleys, and glens was appearing at Tintagel's gates. As many were the size of Bors himself, this was starting to cause comment. Indeed, such was the buzz around the forthcoming event that had been generated, there were even Saxons appearing under a flag of truce.

If either Tasko or Pæps could have cleared these minds of their fear of Bors, they would have recognised they were achieving something quite unusual: a gathering of race, religion and creed rarely seen across the island. As it was, at a moment when they should have been basking in their triumph, they were scrabbling around in a fog of paranoia and second-guessing.

Tasko took a deep drag from a bottle of his finest wine. "So, what do you reckon? 20%"

Pæps head wobbled from side to side. "I don't know. Seems high . . ."

And so they went back to going around and around - trying to parse Bors' words.

*

If the big man had any memory of speaking to the merchant recently, he honestly would not have been able to recall it. He was, of course, dimly aware that there was quite a lot of activity around him, but if you asked him precisely what was occurring, he would have had to beg forgiveness. The Tournament was coming along—anything else was noise.

If he had any impression of Tasko or Pæps at all, it was of two very useful mice that seemed oddly determined to avoid eating any cheese without checking with him first.

He hadn't given a fuck before he heard the news about Igraine. And he gave even less of one now.

It had been all Guinevere could do to keep him from suiting up and tracking down the quest party.

"What do you think you will be able to do?" she asked him.

"Arthur needs to be warned!"

"Warned as to what?" The queen dug her fingers into his arm as she was dragged along behind him. It was quite an unedifying sight, she was sure. "Do you think he trusts these men a jot anyway? He will be taking every possible precaution as it is. If you somehow manage to catch up with them - and how likely do you really think that will be? - what will you tell him? 'Hi mate, one of these kings murdered your mother.' How do you see Arthur reacting to that news?"

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"He'll make sure he finds out which of them killed her. By any means necessary."

"Exactly. There's a bigger picture here, Sir Bors." Guinevere dragged herself past him and put both hands on his chest. "Will you stop!" He tried to take another step forward. "As your queen, I order you to stop!"

Bors finally caught up with her tone and came to a halt. "What bigger picture?"

"Arthur needs these men to support him; they don't have to do it with happiness in their hearts. They don't even need to do it willingly. But the outcome of this quest has to be that they support him as the Pendragon of the British. If you blunder in there, throwing around accusations, he will absolutely lose his shit and start taking heads. Any chance of building an alliance will be gone because he will fuck everyone up to get at the truth as to who killed Igraine. We need to be smarter than that."

Now the intensity of his white-hot anger had faded, Bors found himself looking at the queen with frustration. "They killed her, Gwin. One of those bastards came into the castle, her home, and threw her out of a fucking window. And they got away with it. That is not acceptable!"

"No. Not it is not. And we will make them pay for it. But not in a way that destroys everything for which she worked so hard. She wanted Arthur as the Pendragon more than anything."

"So what do you suggest that we do?"

And wasn't that the problem? Because she had no idea how to make this right.

*

Tasko had a plan.

Between him and Pæps, they had settled on a sum that they felt was small enough to be acceptable payment for their services but large enough to have made all the stress worthwhile.

After they'd helped the latest arrivals settle in - three insanely buff Northmen that spoke no version of any language Tasko had ever heard of but had chests of gold to pay their entry fee to the Tournament - the merchant and his bodyguard had decided to lurk near Bors' accommodation to see if they were able to get a formal - or even an informal - nod on their calculations.

"What's the worst that can happen?" Pæps kept saying. "It's not like he's going to do anything more than tell us we are out of line and to rein it in a little. Then we negotiate. And, for what it is worth, I think we're offering a good deal."

Tasko was about to reply when he caught sight of Bors stalking their way. They hurried to his side and followed him as he walked. "Sir Bors, if we could have but a minute of your time. We want to clarify some things about the ancillary costs around the Tournament."

If Bors heard them, he gave no sign of it and continued to walk, muttering under his breath.

Pæps took up the conversational mantle. "We appreciate you are busy, sir, but if we can just get some clarity over percentages—nothing complicated, I assure you—it would be helpful for us to know where we stand before the Tournament kicks off proper."

Bors continued to stride forward, seemingly not hearing a word that was being said.

Puffing out his cheeks, Tasko made one last effort. "If you are too busy, my lord, we are happy to direct our proposal to the queen if that would help. After all, we do not wish to unnecessarily take up any of your valuable time."

At the word 'queen', the big man suddenly stopped and twisted to seize Tasko by the throat, lifting him and then driving him backwards to crash into a wall. Pæps grabbed hold of Bors' arm to try to break the grip, but it was like trying to dislodge a castle.

"It is not acceptable!" Bors bellowed into Tasko's face. "I tell you! The queen! Not. Fucking. Acceptable. There will be hell to pay!" And with that, he dropped the spluttering merchant to the floor and went through the door to his quarters, slamming it behind him with such force that the hinges snapped.

Pæps rushed to his master's side, pulling out one of the remarkably expensive elixirs he'd been able to procure since arriving at Tintagel. They were in a surprisingly plentiful supply in Dumnonia, and despite the eye-watering price, he knew that such things were vanishingly rare across the rest of their trade route. He figured he would be able to get four or five times what the crate of these things had cost him when they finally got back on the road.

It was, therefore, to the man's immense credit that he only paused for several heartbeats before pouring it down Tasko's throat. The choking man immediately stopped gasping for air like a captured fish, and a more normal colour returned to his face. His crushed trachea rebuilt itself in seconds- a not exceptionally comfortable feeling for someone used to physical brutality.

They sat together for a few moments whilst the adrenaline of the moment washed away. Then Tasko raised the scroll on which they had finalised their figures.

"Well, I guess he was clear enough there."

Pæps nodded, trying not to look at the door through which Bors had passed. To think, before he had met the man, he had heard that the giant warrior had a reputation for being somewhat naive in the course of business.

"Indeed. I suggest we revisit all of our numbers and ensure we are being as transparent as possible. If that were his reaction to proposing a little light profiteering, I would worry as to how he may view some of the other contracts which we have put in place."

The two had only just hobbled out of sight before there was a burst of raised voices from behind the door with the broken hinges—although it was mostly the female voice that was raised—and then Bors reappeared, red-faced, eyes cast down at the floor.

He cleared his throat. "I'm told that was rude. My apologies. My wife asks if you would like to come in for some supper, and you can explain what you wanted."

He looked up at the empty space in front of him

"Fuck's sake!"

Grimacing - Mrs Bors could be tricky when things she asked for did not come to pass - the big man gingerly rehung his front door on its hinges and returned inside.