‘Do the colours mean something?’ she asked. ‘And the blue scarf?’

‘Of course,’ replied Valannie. ‘Guild colours for the two outer and two inner dresses, in the right order, and the blue scarf without embroidery means a close relative of the guild, a spouse, son or daughter, not a guildmember yourself.’

‘Different colours for every guild?’ asked Clariel. ‘How many are there?’

‘Seventy-four guilds,’ replied Valannie. ‘And the five Great Companies. Don’t worry, milady, you’ll learn to recognise all the combinations at the Academy.’

Clariel was about to say she probably wasn’t going to be in Belisaere long enough to bother, when she was suddenly grabbed by Roban and thrown violently to one side. An instant later, she saw the bright blur of a blade swish through the air near where she’d been, wielded by a man whose face was hidden by his shabby hooded robe.

Before he could strike again, Roban was on him, grabbing his knife-hand at the wrist with his left hand as he punched him in the stomach very quickly twice, accompanied by a gasping wheeze from the young man as he arched back, avoiding the main strength of the blows.

Then Roban twisted and threw the attacker across his hip, sending him sliding across the road, between several astonished bystanders. The knife went clattering, more people started shouting and screaming and Clariel added to the tumult with a scream of rage as she leaped after her attacker, the slim knife from her boot in her hand, though she had no recollection of drawing it.

The man was still on the ground as she stabbed at his thigh, her knife deflected at the last moment by the surprising intervention of Roban’s sword, blades screeching as he forced her strike aside.

‘No, milady!’ he said urgently, distracting her just long enough for the attacker to roll away under a handcart, his hood falling away from his face. Clariel saw him clear for a moment, a handsome young man with fair hair. Their eyes met, hers so brown they were almost black, his as blue as a painted sky. He winked at her, crawled under the cart, sprang up and fled down a side alley.

Roban kept Clariel’s knife engaged with his sword and his hand gripped her elbow. She twisted against his hold, and tried to disengage her knife, a red rage filling her with a violent strength, so strong Roban had to fully exert himself to hold her back.

‘Milady!’ he shouted. ‘No!’

Clariel heard his shout as if from far away. She ignored it, and turned into him, her knife slipping under his blade, coming up again to gut him, fast enough he had to release her and step back, ready to parry or even riposte, and then her blow faltered as the viciousness suddenly left her.

She slowly lowered her knife, but Roban did not step closer.

‘I had him!’ she protested. ‘Why did you stop me?’