‘We shall. The journey will be fraught. Icarium has decided to guide you.’

‘Then it truly exists.’

‘I certainly hope so.’

‘I think it’s time we rejoined the others.’

‘And recount for them our thoughts?’

‘Hood’s breath, no!’

The Trell nodded, pushing himself to his feet.

Fiddler hissed.

‘What is it?’ Mappo asked.

‘The lantern’s out. Has been for some time. We’re in the dark, Trell.’

The temple was oppressive to Fiddler’s mind. The squat, cyclopean walls leaned and sagged in the lower levels, as if buckling under the weight of the stone overhead. Dust sifted like water from the ceiling joins in places, leaving pyramids on the paving stones. He limped in Mappo’s wake as they made their way to the spiral stairs that would take them back up to the others.

Half a dozen bhok’arala shadowed them on the way, each gripping leafy branches that they used to sweep and swat the stones as they scampered along. The sapper would have been more amused if the creatures had not achieved such perfection in their mimicry of Iskaral Pust and his obsession with spiders – right down to the fierce concentration on their round, wrinkled black faces.

Mappo had explained that the creatures worshipped the High Priest. Not like a dog its master, but like acolytes their god. Offerings, obscure symbols and fitful icons crowded their awkward rituals. Many of those rituals seemed to involve bodily wastes. When you can’t produce holy books, produce what you can, I suppose. The creatures drove Iskaral Pust to distraction. He cursed them, and had taken to carrying rocks in a sack. He flung the missiles at the bhok’arala at every opportunity.

The winged creatures gathered those god-sent objects and clearly revered them – the High Priest had found the sack carefully refilled when he awoke this morning. Pust had flown into a spitting rage at the discovery.

Mappo nearly stumbled over a cache of torches on the way. Darkness was anathema to shadows. Pust wanted to encourage an escort of his god’s minions. They lit one each, sardonically aware of their ulterior value. While Mappo could see well enough without their aid, Fiddler had been left groping, one hand clutching the Trell’s chest harness.

They reached the staircase and paused. The bhok’arala held back a dozen paces down the aisle, twittering among themselves in some obscure but vehement argument.

‘Icarium has passed this way recently,’ Mappo said.

‘Does sorcery heighten your sensitivity?’ Fiddler asked.

‘Not precisely. More like centuries of companionship—’

‘That which links you to him, you mean.’

The Trell grunted. ‘Not one chain but a thousand, soldier.’

‘Is your friendship such a burden, then?’

‘Some burdens are willingly embraced.’

Fiddler was silent for a few breaths. ‘It’s said Icarium is obsessed with time, true?’

‘Aye.’

‘He builds bizarre constructs to measure it, places those constructs in locations all over the world.’

‘His temporal maps, yes.’