The sapper shrugged. ‘The Red Blades are hunting someone. Not anything to do with us. Get back to your horse, lad. We’re leaving.’

‘Kalam?’

His forearms resting on the mule’s back, Fiddler hesitated, squinting against the glare bouncing from the bleached cobbles. ‘It may have reached them that the holy tome’s no longer in Aren. And someone’s delivering it to Sha’ik. No-one knows Kalam is here.’

Crokus looked unconvinced. ‘He met someone last night, Fiddler.’

‘An old contact who owes him.’

‘Giving him reason to betray Kalam. No-one likes being reminded of debts.’

Fiddler said nothing. After a moment he patted the mule’s back, raising a faint puff of dust, then went to his horse. The Gral gelding showed its teeth as he reached for the reins. He gripped the bridle under the animal’s chin. It tried tossing its head but he held firm, leaned close. ‘Show some manners, you ugly bastard, or you’ll live to regret it.’ Gathering the reins, he pulled himself up into the high-backed saddle.

Beyond Caravan Gate the coastal road stretched southward, level despite the gentle rise and fall of the sandstone cliffs that overlooked the bay on the west side. On their left and a league inland ran the Arifal Hills. The jagged serrations of Arifal would follow them all the way to the Eb River, thirty-six leagues to the south. Barely tamed tribes dwelt in those hills, pre-eminent among them the Gral. Fiddler’s greatest worry was running into a real Gral tribesman. The chance of that was diminished somewhat given the season, for the Gral would be driving their goats deep into the range, where both shade and water could be found.

They nudged their mounts into a canter and rode past a merchant’s train to avoid the trailing dust clouds, then Fiddler settled them back into a slow trot. The day’s heat was already building. Their destination was a small village called Salik, a little over eight leagues distant, where they would stop to eat the midday meal and wait out the hottest hours before continuing on to the Trob River.

If all went well, they would reach G’danisban in a week’s time. Fiddler expected Kalam to be two, maybe even three days ahead of them by then. Beyond G’danisban was the Pan’potsun Odhan, a sparsely populated wasteland of desiccated hills, the skeletal ruins of long-dead cities, poisonous snakes, biting flies and – he recalled the Spiritwalker Kimloc’s words – the potential of something far deadlier. A convergence. Togg’s feet, I don’t like that thought at all. He thought about the conch shell in his leather pack. Carrying an item of power was never a wise thing. Probably more trouble than it’s worth. What if some Soletaken sniffs it out, decides it wants it for its collection? He scowled. A collection easily built on with one conch shell and three shiny skulls.