‘We’ve existing employers waiting for us to deliver their goods,’ said Borik. ‘That takes precedence. Shouldn’t have diverted to begin with.’

‘The Moonshadow brings death to Draconium,’ shouted Eleanora, making them all jump. Her voice, normally quiet and hesitant, rang out clear as she recited Varlen’s last ravings word for word. ‘The Moonshadow brings death to Draconium. Beware the squirming beasts and the eyes that see into your soul, trust the omens, watch not out but down, for moonrise brings the lurking ones and their tainted curse.’

Hendrick felt a chill run down his spine. He hadn’t remembered his brother’s exact last words, had been too lost to the mayhem and the horror of the moment to take them in. Now Eleanora’s recitation brought that awful night flooding back. It ripped away the comforting veil of a half-turning’s slow forgetting and filled his mind’s eye with the image of his brother, flesh twisted, body burning in the pyre’s flames, eyes wild but horribly clear as he screamed out the words the crown had made him say.

‘We have to give them the warning,’ said Eleanora, shying from his sudden, fierce glare. ‘If they won’t let us in then we have to give it from here.’

Hendrick took a deep breath, glared up at the gatehouse and around at his companions, then stomped off into the fringe of the marsh.

‘We wait,’ he said in a tone that brooked no further argument. ‘Olt, Romilla, get us a shelter up. Bartiman, hot food. The rest of us will stand guard in case they get any stupid ideas of running us off.’

‘If they let us in then I can use their workshop,’ he heard Eleanora explaining to Romilla as he stomped away. He scowled, feeling bad for upsetting the young engineer but too angry to trust himself to speak right now. They would wait in this biting rain, he could sit and hate himself for a while, and if nothing had changed by dawn tomorrow then Hendrick promised himself he’d think of something. But he wasn’t going to just give up.

He owed Varlen that much.

An hour passed, then another. The rain drummed upon the thick canvas of the shelter that Olt and Romilla had raised. Water dripped from its edges and found its way in on gusts of wind to dampen their spirits and their cookfire both. Romilla prayed quietly for guidance. Aelyn faded into the marsh, saying she preferred to keep watch where she could commune with the land. Bartiman pored over an old tome, shielding it with the hem of his cloak and tutting occasionally at some gust of wind or rain. Eleanora had dug some new gadget from her pack to tinker with, breaking off every now and then to stare longingly towards the city gates, while Olt crouched near the fire and sharpened his axes over its flame with a whetstone.