“I can’t believe it,” said Fen. “I mean, I knew there was a statue of him here, but I wasn’t expecting… this.”

“I think it’s cool,” said Titch, eyes opened wide to take in the full glory of the bronze statue that dominated the central plaza of the capital city. The words ‘Davidor, Saviour of the World’ were carved into the plinth.

“I bet Mother wasn’t happy about the woman,” said Igail.

Statues, by their nature, are not meant to be modest creations. But this one took ostentation to new heights. Davidor was naked apart from a loincloth. He stood with a green sword held aloft, his mouth yelling some obscene warcry. A scantily dressed female clung to his left leg, looking up adoringly.

“You need to see it from this side,” said Gart.

The others shuffled over to where Gart stood and one by one their mouths fell open. The figure kneeling at Davidor’s feet, holding on tightly to his thigh, had the unmistakable face of their mother.

“There’s no way she would allow this,” said Igail. “No way. She’d tear it down herself.”

“The ears aren’t Elven,” said Fen. “Technically, it’s not her.”

“Why is she in her bra and knickers?” said Titch.

“It isn’t bra and knickers,” said Fen. “It’s the traditional outfit of K’Jartan slave girls.”

“She’d tear it down and then kill everyone who ever saw it,” said Igail. “And how do you know what K’Jartan slave girls wear?”

“You’re not the only one who reads books,” said Fen. “Mine just have a lot more pictures.”

It had taken them four days to reach the capital. They watched the skies for giant bats and took it in turns to sleep at night so nothing would catch them unawares, but the journey turned out to be trouble-free. The road to K’Jarta was a long, straight highway with plenty of traffic and regular guardposts to protect the merchants, tourists and sundry other travellers headed for the city.

The sight of the city walls had given them all goosebumps. They had visited many great cities but K’Jarta was considered the greatest. The most imposing, the richest and with by far the largest population. Despite asking to come here many times, their mother had always refused, and now they knew why.

“There must be a reason,” said Igail. “She wouldn’t just leave it for everyone to see.”

“You’ll have to ask when you see her,” said Fen. “I’m guessing Dad had something to do with it, though.”

Garth wrenched his gaze away from the statue. “We can’t waste all day here. Let’s find this book and get out of here.”

Crowds of tourists wandered about. The smells of spicy street food filled the air, as did the constant chatter of people as they oohed and aahed over the magnificent architecture surrounding them on three sides, or haggled over memorabilia. Tiny statues of Davidor, hats with ‘Saviour of the World’ written on them, candy in the shape of Davidor’s face.

Gart led the way as they weaved through the throng towards the far side of the square where tall, black railings stretched out in either direction. People lined up with their faces pressed between the cold iron bars to get a better view of the Royal Palace beyond.

Two soldiers in bright red uniforms and unnecessarily tall hats stood to attention outside the gates. They held long spears polished to a high sheen, but even then they weren’t particularly impressive in terms of a defensive unit—if the gathered masses decided to bum rush the entrance, the two guards would have a hard time stopping them.

Gart walked up to one. “We’re here to see the King.”

The guard ignored him and continued to stare into the distance.

Gart took out a small box and opened it. Inside was a golden medal attached to a blue and white ribbon. He held it up in front of the guard’s face.

“This is the Medal of the Order of the Blue Sun. Its holder has the right to an audience with the King.”

The guard’s face twitched. He glanced at the contents of the box under his nose, then returned to looking straight ahead. “Never heard of it.”

Gart snapped the box shut. The guard flinched but otherwise remained immobile.

“Fine. Then, we’ll find someone who has.” He stepped towards the gate.

A look of panic crossed the guard’s face. He had been assigned this duty for the last two years but no one had ever tried to force their way in before. He struggled to remember the correct protocol for such a situation and was about to use his spear to prevent the intruder going any further, when the guard on the other side blew a whistle sharply three times.

The guard took out his own whistle and repeated the call for assistance. Gart and the others stopped and waited for something to happen.

A lone soldier came out of a small hut just inside the entrance. He ran towards the gate, buttoning up his red jacket on the move. As he realised the emergency didn’t involve a riot or storming of the barricades, he slowed to a walk. He tugged on the bottom of his jacket, buttoned up the collar and then opened the smaller gate set inside the big one.

He pointed at the guard on the other side. “Jasper, eyes front.” Then he turned to the guard next to him. “What’s this about then, Tarin?” He pursed his lips in a manner that suggested he wasn’t best pleased at having been called away from important business. The business in question had been a mid-morning nap.

“Ah, sorry Sarge, er....” The guard leaned over and whispered in the sergeant's ear, causing his eyebrows to raise.

“I see.” He turned to Gart. “May I see this medal?”

Gart handed him the box. After a close inspection of the contents, the sergeant closed the box and put it in the breast pocket of his jacket.

“Hey!” said Titch. “Give that back!” He made to leap forward, but Igail wrenched him back, her grip impossibly tight.

“Let them handle this,” she snarled in his ear, no intention of giving him the slightest leeway.

“Don’t worry,” said the sergeant, patting the pocket, “I’ll see this gets back to its rightful owner.”

“We are the rightful owners,” said Gart through gritted teeth.

The sergeant smiled. “As it happens, I was there the day this medal was awarded. I doubt you were even born then. I don’t know how you got hold of it, but I’m sure you’d be in a lot of trouble if people knew you had it. Don’t push your luck, kid.”

Gart growled and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. Fen stepped in front of him and shoved him back.

“Look, if you know who that medal belongs to, do you really think any of us could have taken it from him?”

The sergeant looked Fen up and down, then at the others. “Of course not. You probably found it.”

“And recognised what it was, and knew it would get us in the Palace? Kind of unlikely, don’t you think?”

The sergeant gave an almost imperceptible shrug of agreement.

“Isn’t it more likely he gave it to us?”

“And why would he do that?”

“Because we’re his children,” said Fen.

The sergeant burst into laughter. “Oh, that’s a good one. You four? The Saviour of the World and the Elf Without Mercy are your parents?”

“Well,” said Fen, “we prefer to think of her as the Mother Without Mercy.”

More laughter followed. “Nice try, kid. Really, top notch. But I wasn’t born on Fester Street. What about this one’s hair?” He pointed at Gart’s black locks. “As I recall, Davidor has brown hair and Lady Roona’s is the same colour as… yours.”

“Exactly the same. We don’t know about him though, we think he might have been adopted.” Fen grinned at the old joke he’d teased Gart with since they were kids. It had never really worked because, other than their hair colour and a slight height difference, the two brothers looked almost identical.

“But if you’re half-Elven,” said the sergeant, sounding a little more unsure of himself, “you’d have pointed ears, wouldn’t you?”

“It’s a recessive trait, doesn’t carry over. Don’t you think it’d be worth sending someone to head office or wherever and let them know we’re here?”

“Doesn’t work like that. They tell us when someone’s coming, not the other way around. These things are arranged well in advance.”

“Sure,” said Fen. “But in special circumstances, maybe they’d send someone down to verify our identities? Just in case? I mean, imagine if we are who we say we are, and you’re the one who sends us away. The King won’t be happy to have offended the Saviour. Once you offend Davidor, things tend to get messy. Blood everywhere, people screaming in agony. And if my mother ever found out, well, you know her other name, right? The Murder Elf?”

The sergeant hesitated for a moment, and then an even bigger wave of laughter erupted from him. “Oh, you, you really are good. You should be performing on stage for the public, you’d make a mint. No, I’m sorry, if you want an audience with the King, you’ll have to use the regular channels.”

“This is a waste of time,” said Gart.

Fen held him off. “Wait. If you kill him, they’ll just send out the whole army, and the King won’t want to listen to us if we kill all his men.”

The sergeant exchanged a look with the guard standing beside him, both wondering if these children had escaped from the local loony bin. You had to be careful when handling nutters, they had a tendency to bite and pull hair.

“What are these regular channels?” Fen asked.

The sergeant pointed to the side, at a wooden box attached to the railings. A little girl holding a piece of paper stood below it, jumping up and down. Her father lifted her from behind so she could put the paper through the slot in the box. Her father helped her shove it in past all the other letters and cards filling the box to overflowing.

“And that works, does it?” asked Fen.

“I assure you, every letter gets read by the King’s staff. Why, there was a terribly ill boy who’s dying wish was to meet the King. Posted his request in that very box. As soon as the King heard about it, he immediately visited the boy’s grave. It was in all the papers.”

“Enough of this,” said Gart.

Fen stepped aside with a regretful sigh. “Fine. Whatever.”

“Are you going to give back the medal?” asked Gart.

“I’m sorry, I can’t—” was all he got out before Gart punched him.

The sergeant was no stranger to fighting or to being hit, but Gart had grown up sparring with the greatest brawler in the world. You hit hard, you aimed for pressure points, you couldn’t telegraph your punches, and you better have your follow up ready for when your first attack was blocked. But Gart didn’t need more than the initial punch, his opponent was already flat on his back, out cold.

Gart took out his sword and pointed it at the other guard’s throat. “Get the medal, Titch. And don’t take anything else.”

Titch sprang forward and searched the supine body, needlessly checking all of the pockets before reclaiming the box.

Gart turned and called out to the guard on the opposite side. “Hey you! Put down that spear and come over here.”

The guard dropped the spear and hurried over. He was considerably older than the other two soldiers, fine grey hairs poking out from the sides of his headgear.

“I want you to go find someone important and tell them I’m holding this man hostage. If they don’t send someone down, I’m going to slice his throat open.”

The guard at the end of Gart’s sword gulped.

“Don’t worry,” said Fen. “He won’t really do anything, it’s just to get their attention. Right, Gart?”

“Right,” said Gart. “Not unless they really start to piss me off.” He turned to the guard he had called over who was standing there, staring with his mouth hanging open. “Go on then.”

The guard didn’t move. His arm came up and he pointed at Gart’s sword. “That’s.... that’s Pickle Tickler.”

The sword was plain and unadorned, but the blade shone with a glittering lustre, like the reflection of sunlight on water. Davidor had named it Pickle Tickler because he felt it would be more embarrassing to be defeated by such a silly-named weapon rather than Doomslayer or Thunderstorm. And because it amused him.

“It’s the same as the one on the statue,” said the older guard.

“No it isn’t,” said Titch. “The one on the statue’s green.”

“It is now,” said the guard. “It’s made of copper. It was the same colour as yours when they first put it up. If you have that sword, you must be…”

“If I’d known all I had to do was take out Dad’s old sword…” Gart shook his head. “Can you go get someone now?”

The guard nodded. “Just put that thing away before you attract any attention.”

They looked behind them, but a troupe of acrobats had started a performance around the base of the statue and all eyes were fixed on the somersaulting clowns.

Gart sheathed the sword and they helped carry the unconscious sergeant through the gates before anyone noticed.