The historian had set three lanterns down, casting sharp light upon three sides of the Azathanai bronze, which someone had rather uninspiringly called ‘The Savaging of the Hound’. He had then circled the work, studying it from varying heights and angles. He had made a window with his hands to block out all but the details. He had drawn close to smell the metal and its patina of greasy dust, and had set fingertips against the verdigris where it coated the beasts like mange.

Despite the steady, unwavering light, the animals seemed to blur with motion, spinning round their snarling victim. He had read from some treatise that, if seen from above, it was clear that the circling hounds actually formed an inward spiral of flesh and rending canines; and the scholar had gone on to suggest – to a subsequent chorus of disbelief – that the animal in the centre, by virtue of its own writhing, twisted form, was itself spiralling inward. The man’s final outrage was to wonder if the sculpture depicted, not many beasts, but one: an animal destroying itself, turning round and round and ever inward into a vortex of self-annihilation.

For the historian, the only appalling thing about the scholar’s interpretation was its plausibility. After all, had the artist not sought to convey a hidden meaning with this scene, the beast in the centre of this violent storm would have been a stag, perhaps, or a bull.

Though he heard the door to the chamber squeal with motion, Rise Herat did not turn round until the newcomer spoke.

‘Here, historian? In the name of Dark, why?’

Rise Herat shrugged. ‘It is private enough.’

Cedorpul grunted. ‘The only spies in the Citadel are our own.’

‘Yes, curious, that. After all, isn’t the purpose of spying the protection of our own people? Have we descended into insouciance so far, priest, as to claim, with a straight face, that we are protecting our people from themselves?’

The round-faced man pursed his lips, and then waved dismissively.

Rise Herat smiled. ‘ “Oh deadly language, how so you offend me!” ’

Scowling, Cedorpul said, ‘Remind me not of that wretched man, our court coward, our sneering seneschal of high mages! His elevation was shortlived. I will stand in his stead.’

The historian turned back to ‘The Savaging of the Hound’. ‘Do you recall this, priest?’

‘Before my time. It is ghastly. No wonder it hides here. Only in darkness could you now bless this. Douse the lights – we’ve no need of them.’

‘It is Azathanai.’

‘Is it now? Well, then yes, I can see why you’d be curious.’

‘All the others in here, however, are Tiste.’