‘He feels he is nearing his goal, doesn’t he? He’s about to find his answer – the one you would do anything to prevent. Is that your vow, Mappo? To keep the Jhag ignorant?’

‘Ignorant of the past, yes. His past.’

‘That notion frightens me, Mappo. Without history there’s no growth—’

‘Aye.’

The sapper fell silent again. He’d run out of things he dared to say. There’s such pain in this giant warrior. Such sadness. Has Icarium never wondered? Never questioned this centuries-long partnership? And what is friendship to the Jhag? Without memory it’s an illusion, an agreement taken on faith and faith alone. How on earth is lcarium’s generosity born from that?

They resumed their journey, climbing the saddle-backed stone steps. After a short pause, punctuated by what Fiddler was convinced was heated whispering, the bhok’arala fell silent and slipped into their wake once again.

Emerging onto the main level, Mappo and Fiddler were accosted with the harsh echo of a shouting voice, bouncing down the hallway from the altar chamber. The sapper grimaced. ‘That would be Crokus.’

‘Not in prayer, I take it.’

They found the young Daru thief at the extreme edge of his patience. He held Iskaral Pust by the front of his robe, pushed up against the wall behind the dusty altarstone. Pust’s feet dangled ten inches above the flagstones, kicking feebly. Off to one side stood Apsalar, arms crossed, watching the scene without expression.

Fiddler stepped forward and laid a hand on the lad’s shoulder. ‘You’re choking the life out of him, Crokus—’

‘Precisely what he deserves, Fiddler!’

‘I won’t argue that, but in case you haven’t noticed, there’s shadows gathering.’

‘He’s right,’ Apsalar said. ‘Like I said before, Crokus. You’re moments from Hood’s Gates yourself.’

The Daru hesitated; then, with a snarl, he flung Pust away. The High Priest skidded along the wall, gasping, then straightened and began adjusting his robe. He spoke in a rasp. ‘Precipitous youth! I am reminded of my own melodramatic gestures when I but toddled about in Aunt Tulla’s yard. Bullying the chickens when they objected to the straw hats I had spent hours weaving. Incapable of appreciating the intricate plaits I devised. I was deeply offended.’ He cocked his head, grinned up at Crokus. ‘She’ll look good in my new and improved straw hat—’

Fiddler intercepted Crokus’s lunge and grappled with the lad. With Mappo’s help he pulled him back as the High Priest scampered away, giggling.

The giggle broke into a fit of coughing that had Pust staggering about as if suddenly blinded. One groping hand found a wall, which he sagged against like a drunkard. The cough ended with a last hack, then he wiped his eyes and looked up.

Crokus growled, ‘He wants Apsalar to—’