Clariel shook her head, very slowly, so as not to antagonise the Guardian. But it kept sniffing up and down her body, and along her arms, paying particular attention to her hands, nudging Clariel to open them when she unconsciously balled them into fists. Once open and flat on her knees, palms uppermost, the sending sniffed for a long time at the still-healing cuts and then surprised Clariel with two sudden licks, which sent a jab of pain right through her arms to her forehead. She jumped, but the sending wasn’t finished. It rose up on its haunches and its paws came down on her shoulders, fortunately with claws retracted, and gave Clariel one more lick, right across the Charter mark on her forehead.

Not that it felt like a lick. It was a sudden immersion into the Charter, her head submerged in a vast sea of marks for a second and then just as rapidly they were gone again and the cat-beast sat back down and let out a purring noise similar to a house cat satisfied with its current lot, only much louder. As it purred, small, almost transparent Charter marks fell from its mouth and nose.

‘Never seen one lick anyone before,’ said Gullaine, with interest. ‘I suppose it’s because you’re a relative. But it’s passed you, so we can go on. Up three more flights.’

Clariel stood up and followed Gullaine. She had only taken three or four steps up when she noticed the Guardian was following her, though its large paws were completely silent on the stone.

‘Does it … normally come along?’ she asked.

‘They’re all different,’ said Gullaine, who was taking the steps three at a time, making Clariel rush to keep up. ‘Some wander about, some keep to particular rooms or places. They are all very old. Magister Kargrin says they are of a higher art, now lost to us.’

‘But he has sendings,’ remarked Clariel. ‘A doorkeeper, and rats.’

‘Oh, yes, there are mages who can make sendings, but not ones so strong, or that will last as long. These are hundreds of years old, and still very powerful. Here we are.’

The Captain opened a regular wooden door with a key, the sea breeze blowing in and sunshine streaming past as the door opened. A guard on the other side stepped away, pulling his poleaxe back to parade rest by his side.

‘All well, Ochren?’ asked Gullaine.

‘All well,’ confirmed the guard. ‘His Highness is drinking his tea.’