Another Seregahl, missing the lower part of his left leg, the ruptured knee joint gushing blood, made a wild cavort of hops before falling seven or eight paces from the wall’s gate. Haut watched as the Thel Akai woman walked up to the cursing Toblakai and put the tip of her sword through his neck. The curses ended in a spitting gurgle.

‘Get her away from us!’ rasped the Seregahl leader, rolling on to his hands and knees. One hand scrabbled at his belt and drew out a knife the size of a shortsword. ‘Seregahl! To me!’

The others quickly moved in close around their leader, forming a defensive cordon. Many of them bore wounds from the grasping roots and branches of the frenzied forest of gnarled trees now crowding the house’s yard. And by Haut’s count, five warriors were missing. The Thel Akai woman stood over the corpse of the man she had just slain, eyeing the troop with an air of vague disappointment.

The tumult in the yard was dying down, although the occasional sharp retort of a snapping branch lingered. Someone was still busy in there. Glancing at the house, he saw that the shutters had been opened on the top level of the squat tower that formed one corner of the building. Two figures were leaning on the sill, their attention fixed on the yard below.

Haut frowned up at them.

‘How did they get in?’

He turned to find the Thel Akai woman now at his side, her gaze fixed on Korya and Arathan.

‘I’ve seen the girl,’ she continued. ’Tiste make my skin crawl. I don’t know why. She wanders your camp, stirring up trouble.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

The woman shrugged. ‘She mocks them. Hood’s followers.’

‘The easy disdain of the young,’ Haut said, nodding. He paused, and then added, ‘I don’t know how they got into the Azath House.’

The woman was now regarding the huddle of battered Seregahl. Her lip curled, but she said nothing.

The gate slammed open off to their right and a moment later a figure stumbled into view. Haut drew a sudden breath, and then stepped forward.

A Jaghut, his clothes rotted, his leathers stained with mould. Roots threaded his long, unkempt hair, and soil had mottled the skin of his face and arms. Five hundred years buried beneath the yard had not treated him well. Sighing, Haut drew closer, and then spoke. ‘Gethol, your brother will be pleased to see you.’

The Jaghut slowly shifted his gaze, glancing briefly at Haut and then away again. He brushed feebly at the dirt covering him. ‘Not dead yet then.’

‘He’s working on it.’

Gethol spat mud from his mouth, and then coughed and looked over to the Seregahl. ‘Five went down,’ he said. ‘That should do.’

‘The house has the old god?’

‘Well enough.’ Gethol coughed and spat again.

‘Ah,’ said Haut. ‘That is a relief.’

‘Where is Cadig Aval?’