Pigface came for Dalip sooner than he’d thought. Three days of merciless physical training had left him aching in places he didn’t know he could ache. He felt all but boneless, loose and unconnected. He’d had extra food – for all he knew it was Pigface’s own rations, and Stanislav had bullied them out of him – but nowhere near enough time for anything to make a difference.

The older man’s demeanour had changed in captivity: he was now all sharp edges and abrupt actions, as if he knew exactly what would put their gaolers on the back foot. And Dalip was afraid to ask where he’d got that knowledge.

‘On your feet, little lion man. She wants you.’

Dalip raised himself from the stone floor. He’d been stretching, feet out in front of him and bending from the hips, trying to get his head as close to his knees as he could. He was, as Stanislav had told him, stiff like an old man, and he needed to be supple in order to fight.

Despite the hours of knife-work, of slow, deliberate blocks, slices and stabs, he was certain that he didn’t know enough to defend himself yet.

‘No. I’m not ready.’ He stood at the back of his cell, so that Pigface would have to come all the way in and drag him out.

‘She doesn’t care, and I don’t care. To the pit with you.’

‘Where’s Stanislav? I want Stanislav.’

‘The Slav’s not been called for. You have.’ Pigface had armed himself with a club, as well as his knife.

‘I need to talk to him before I fight.’

‘No. Get to the pit. She’s waiting, and you don’t keep her waiting.’

‘Then go and get Stanislav, and you won’t keep her waiting.’ Dalip put his hands behind his back and planted his feet, and they stared at each other, both in shadow, one silhouetted by the door, the other limned with light from the window.

Pigface took a step towards Dalip, but it was hesitant and betrayed his weakness. It would come down to whether he wanted a fight with Dalip, risking the fight he was supposed to be putting on for the geomancer, or whether he thought he’d be able to get his work done quicker by letting the prisoners dictate the terms of their imprisonment.

He muttered something under his breath, and left, heading up the corridor to Stanislav’s cell, leaving Dalip’s door open. He wasn’t a very good gaoler at all: either that, or he was a coward and a bully, and didn’t know how to take being challenged.