A hundred paces above a broad stretch of the Palace wall they came suddenly out of the thickest smoke into afternoon sunshine. The dragon flung out its wings; there was an almighty crack like thunder, and had they been of normal flesh the wings would have been stripped from the dragon’s body by the sudden shock. But they were not normal flesh. The dragon slowed. It reared backwards, wings beating, Clariel sliding up the chair back, so she had to arch and twist her legs to keep the sword safe between her knees. Then they were down, the dragon rampaging along the wall till it came crashing to a complete stop by colliding with the door of one of the seaward-looking towers.

Clariel took up the sword and jumped down, Mogget close behind her. With a flash of white light, a wave of heat and the stench of burning metal, the dragon divided into its two components. The iron chair fell from the back of Baazalanan, hit a merlon with a resounding clang and fell into the sea.

The door opened, and a frightened man in the livery of the Cobblers’ Guild looked out, a spear held unsteadily in his hand, unready for any foe. Clariel opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything Aziminil lunged past her, her taloned, three-fingered hand piercing almost all the way through the guard’s neck. Blood sprayed, Aziminil withdrew her hand. The guard fell choking to the ground, and died a few seconds later.

Clariel felt him die, felt his spirit enter Death. She knew she could catch that spirit, and her hand went to her chest as if to draw a bell. Then she remembered she had left the bells behind, that she was not a necromancer, and didn’t want to be one. Neither did she want to kill Guild guards who undoubtedly had no idea that Kilp was really a traitor to the King.

‘Do not kill,’ she croaked. She had to look away from Aziminil, who was licking her fingers clean, a tongue of red fire coming out of the featureless void that was her face. Clariel wished she hadn’t seen that.

‘No killing, save on my order.’

Neither creature replied.

‘It is their nature,’ said Mogget. He jumped up on the battlements and looked back towards the south. The Paperwing was close, perhaps minutes away, coming down in a long, fast glide. It couldn’t land on the wall like they had, but there was a terrace not far below, out of sight.

‘I know,’ said Clariel. She shut her eyes for a second, then hefted her sword and entered the tower. ‘But I want the next one alive. I need to ask questions.’