‘Skin and flesh, blood and bone,’ Varandas said, ‘sticks and twine, leather and straw are all but traps for a wandering soul. The skill lies in the delicacy of the snare, but every doll is temporary. My art, mahybe, is one of soul-shifting. My latest dolls will seek out a rare, winged rock ape native to the old crags of a desert far to the south. I name this series Nacht.’

‘And what did you name the series you gave to me?’

‘Bolead. But I fear I made too many of them, especially given their flaws.’ He paused, and then said, ‘Creation involves risks, of course, but what is done is done, and by these words one can dismiss all manner of idiocy and atrocity. I utter the epigraph of tyrants without irony, are you not impressed?’

‘Very.’ She set out towards the side of the tower, out of the Jaghut’s sight.

Almost directly below, a tower erupted in a blinding concussion, staggering her. As she stumbled against the stone wall she felt it trembling against her. From the doorway Varandas called, ‘Not too far, mahybe! The argument below grows fierce.’

Korya shivered, but the rain was suddenly warm. She decided that she had gone far enough and crouched down to empty her bladder.

Thunder shook the hillside again.

‘Make haste,’ Varandas said. ‘The argument approaches.’

‘Frightening me doesn’t help!’ she retorted.

The hillside was thumping, as if to giant footsteps.

She straightened and quickly made her way back to the doorway.

Haut had joined Varandas, and Korya saw that he was in his armour and helm again, and in his gauntleted hands he held his axe, all of him glistening as if oiled. A massive shape was clambering up the slope, straight for them.

‘Ware!’ Haut bellowed.

The figure halted, looked up.

Varandas raised his voice to be heard over the rain, ‘I dwell here, Azathanai, and I have guests. But you do not count among them in your agitated state. Begone, unless you would see Captain Haut displeased unto violence.’

The huge figure remained motionless, and silent.

But no, not entirely silent: Korya thought she heard sniffling sounds drifting up the slope.

‘You are driven from the valley,’ Varandas continued, ‘and you bear wounds and so would unleash your temper. There are plenty of towers about that are unoccupied, and they will suffer your fury with poetic indifference. Alter your path, Azathanai, and recall the lessons in the valley below.’

The creature sidled sideways along the hillside, seeming to use its hands as much as it did its feet to move across the ground. Every now and then one of those hands reared back and punched the earth, sending thunder through the hill. The tower swayed to each impact with an ominous grinding of stone.

Slowly, the rain obscured the Azathanai’s form, and then stole it away, although the thumping punches continued, diminishing with distance.