‘We’re stuck here, then,’ said Hendrick, a sour look on his face. Aelyn could hear the bitterness in his voice, and the underlying tremor of self-doubt she’d detected these past few days. She could smell the old sweat on his skin, mingling with the acidic tang of rainwater and the hoppy scent of the ale in his tankard. Aelyn could filter such smells from amidst the fug that filled the inn’s common room, just as she could tease out the specific sounds of her companions’ voices, their breathing, even their heartbeats if she wished, all despite the tumult of conversation, scraping stools, clinking glass and the ferocious roar of the rain against windows and roof. Aelven senses were far sharper than those of humans or duardin. Aelyn had spent centuries honing her control over hers.

It didn’t take such heightened senses to detect the mood of despondent anger that had gripped her comrades since their brusque dismissal from the regent militant’s presence. Hendrick and Bartiman both looked sour and tired. Romilla had an air of betrayal. She kept shaking her head and touching her fingers to the hammer talisman she wore about her neck. Borik hadn’t spoken a word, but when he removed his helm upon entering the common room his thunderous expression had spoken volumes. Eleanora simply seemed anxious; after her initial entreaties that she still be allowed access to a workshop had fallen on deaf ears, she had fished tools and a gadget from her bag the first chance she got and was now working at it with a frown of furious concentration on her face. Only Olt had seemed ambivalent, perhaps even relieved. Yet his mood, too, had soured the moment Captain Morthan revealed they couldn’t leave the city. Olt now sat silently at the inn table with the rest of them, his hood still up and dripping rainwater into the ale clutched in his tattooed hands.

Captain Morthan sat opposite. She had shed her watch cloak and insignia, foisting them on one of her underlings in exchange for a heavy rain-cloak and one of the leather scald-shades covered with holy warding sigils that Aelyn had seen the city folk carrying. She had then led them to the nearest decent inn outside the Holyheart Wall, a place named the Drake’s Crown, and bought them a round of drinks.

‘You shouldn’t be here at all, the city’s entirely locked down,’ she said before taking a long, angry pull from her flagon and thumping it back onto the table. ‘I only let you through because I thought you might be able to convince Selvador to see sense.’

‘You used us,’ said Bartiman, jabbing a bony finger at her. ‘That was not the first time you’ve tried to sway the regent militant to your point of view, was it?’