Free The Art of Hunting by Alan Campbell

gesture and then folded his hands precisely against his plain black tunic.
    If the older man’s attire suggested quiet restraint, Marquetta’s gave him a somewhat dandyish appearance. He looked to Granger like a court jester in his pink and white quilted
jerkin and his jewels and his countless rings of precious metals on his long white fingers.
    ‘At least he’s alive,’ Marquetta said. Then something occurred to him and he turned to the older man. ‘He
is
alive, isn’t he?’
    The other man shrugged.
    Another voice came from behind Granger, and this one he recognized with great relief. ‘Thank you, Duke Cyr,’ Ianthe said.
    Granger turned to find her standing before a wall of sunlit windows. Morning light enveloped her in a golden halo and poured through her pale gown so that it glowed like ether. Either he was
still dreaming, or she had been healed in some unnatural manner, for she bore none of the bruises from her ordeal at the hands of the Haurstaf’s torturer. She gazed at him a moment, her brow
furrowed nervously, then looked away with embarrassment.
    The grey-haired Unmer lord said, ‘Do you recognize the girl?’
    Granger made no reply.
    ‘He’s confused,’ Ianthe said.
    ‘I recognize all of you,’ Granger said. He looked at the old man. ‘You were with the prince.’
    ‘This is my uncle,’ Marquetta said. ‘Duke Cyr of Vale.’
    ‘Is this the Haurstaf palace?’ Granger said.
    Marquetta nodded. ‘It is.’
    Granger moved to sit up, but his head swam.
    Duke Cyr raised his hands. ‘Any unnecessary movement will merely delay your recovery,’ he said. ‘You must remain still, Colonel Granger.’
    Granger took a deep breath and pushed himself up into a sitting position. From the temperature and the angle of the sunlight outside, he estimated it was early morning.
    ‘Do you never follow the advice of others?’ the prince remarked.
    Granger grunted. He could see Ianthe more clearly now, her dark impetuous eyes and olive-coloured skin. Hair as black as fuel oil. The change in her was remarkable. No trace of her injuries
remained, and yet the way she stood with her arms clasped around her waist was stiff, guarded. It seemed to Granger that she was afraid of something.
    ‘How long have I been here?’ Granger asked Marquetta.
    The young prince cast a questioning glance at Duke Cyr, who spoke up. ‘You were suffering from delirium, Colonel,’ he said. ‘And violent episodes. So much so that we were
forced to sedate you while you healed. I’m afraid it was a lengthy process.’
    ‘How long?’
    ‘You were brought here eleven days ago.’
    Eleven days?
‘How? How did I get here? Who found me?’
    Marquetta gave him a cold smile. ‘Nobody found you, Colonel,’ he said, with just a tremor of satisfaction in his voice. ‘The sword replicates brought you here.’
    Granger stared at him with mute incomprehension. He could still feel an ache in the back of his head, a persistent dull pounding that continued to muddy his thoughts. How could the replicates
have brought him here without his knowledge? How could they even have
existed
if he’d been unconscious?
    ‘It was indeed fortunate that you were wearing such a remarkable suit of armour,’ Duke Cyr said. ‘It preserved your body after you were killed, and then it repaired
it.’
    ‘
What?
’
    ‘You died, Colonel Granger,’ Cyr said. ‘A bullet entered your left eye and passed out through the back of your head. Had it not been for the peculiar combination of your armour
and that sword, you would not be here now.’
    ‘I didn’t die. A replicate died.’
    ‘That was you, sir,’ the duke insisted. ‘No doubt you were confused. However, since you were wielding a sword that creates eight copies of its owner, and wearing armour that
regenerates the body, you appear to have suffered few ill effects from the experience.’
    ‘Provided he is the original,’ Marquetta said.
    ‘Well, quite,’ the duke agreed.
    Granger’s gaze