'That is my master, Juvens. Not an Emperor, but the first and last adviser to many. He built the Empire, yet he was also the principal in its destruction. A great man, in so many ways, but great men have great faults.' Bayaz turned his worn staff thoughtfully round in his hand. 'One should learn the lessons of history. The mistakes of the past need only be made once.' He paused for a moment. 'Unless there are no other choices.'

Jezal rubbed his eyes and stared across the forum. The Crown Prince Ladisla, perhaps, might have benefited from such a lecture, but Jezal rather doubted it. Was this why he had been torn away from his friends, from his hard-earned chance at glory and advancement? To listen to the dusty musings of some strange, bald wanderer?

He frowned. There were a group of three soldiers moving towards them across the square. At first he watched them, uninterested. Then he realised they were looking right at him and Bayaz, and moving directly towards them. Now he saw another group of three, and another, coming from different directions.

Jezal's throat felt tight. Their armour and weapons, though of an antique design, looked worryingly effective and well-used. Fencing was one thing. Actual fighting, with its possibilities for serious wounding and death, was quite another. It was not cowardice, surely, to feel worried, not with nine armed men very clearly approaching them, and no possible route of escape.

Bayaz had noticed them too. 'A welcome appears to have been prepared.'

The nine closed in, faces hard, weapons firmly gripped. Jezal squared his shoulders and did his best to look fearsome while meeting nobody's eye, and keeping his hands well away from the hilts of his steels. He had no wish whatsoever for someone to get nervous, and stab him on a whim.

'You are Bayaz,' said their leader, a heavy-set man with a grubby red plume on his helmet.

'Is that a question?'

'No. Our master, the Imperial Legate, Salamo Narba, governor of Calcis, invites you to an audience.'

'Does he indeed?' Bayaz glanced around at the party of soldiers, then raised an eyebrow at Jezal. 'I suppose it would be rude of us to refuse, when the Legate has gone to all the trouble of organising an honour guard. Lead the way.'

Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say he's in pain. He dragged himself over the broken cobblestones, wincing every time his weight went onto his bad ankle—limping, gasping, waving his arms to keep his balance.

Brother Longfoot grinned over his shoulder at this sorry display. 'How are your injuries progressing, my friend?

'Painfully,' grunted Logen, through gritted teeth.

'And yet, I suspect, you have endured worse.'