Esk eyed both men, gauging the shock on their faces. ‘What the fuck did you expect to happen, you fools? This is a civil war. How crowded do you want the steps to the throne? We’re here, clearing the path. Skelenal’s dead. Now it’s time to see his wife join him.’

By her measure, the barracks should have been fired by now, but thus far the storm’s wild gale was sweeping away all other sounds from outside. Despite this, someone in the main building would see the lurid glow of the flames before too long.

‘We have to move. Billat, you’re point on the stairs. Rathadas, cover my back. Let’s get going.’

They were reluctant, as if dragging free of treacle, but Esk bit back on her frustration, her growing fury. Soldiers followed orders. This was unquestioned, beyond challenging. The Legion obeyed, making for a simpler, sweeter world. There was no need to fret about the royal blood staining her left hand, or its grislier counterpart still dripping from her sword. Skelenal was no king. He had elected to become a priest, to join an order worshipping a now dead god. In her mind, he’d simply made a bad cast of the bones, making his eventual murder if not inevitable, then likely.

Billat reached the top of the stairs, then suddenly withdrew, back down a step. A hand gesture froze both Esk and Rathadas. He edged down another step and leaned close to whisper in Esk’s ear.

‘Two guards, at hall’s end. Either side of a large door.’

Some careless indulgence, she concluded, had left Skelenal alone in the main chamber, an old man asleep in a chair by the hearth. But here, before what had to be Sheccanto’s private chamber, diligence remained. Frowning, Esk brought her sword down, tugging her wolfskin cloak over to hide the weapon, and then, indicating with a nod that her soldiers remain where they were, she climbed past them both and stepped out into the corridor.

At the far door, both warrior monks rose from the wooden chairs upon which they had been sitting.

Smiling, Esk approached. ‘I was told that the Higher Grace would receive me, no matter how late my arrival. Friends, I have important word from Lord Urusander.’

The monk to the right of the door took two steps forward. There was a short-handled throwing axe tucked into his belt, but in his left hand he held a heavy knife with an angled blade. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Come ahead. She will be pleased to see you.’

With her gaze fixed on the monk who was speaking, Esk barely registered the blur of motion from the other man. With ten paces between her and the nearer monk, Esk felt a heavy blow to her left shoulder, of such force as to half spin her round. Looking down, she saw an axe, its blade buried deep in her shoulder.