‘Enough,’ Borik growled. ‘Varlen was possessed, or gibbering nonsense! For all we know, we were never here anyway by anything other than ill chance! We’ve a fair wind and a clear heading, Hendrick. Now, are you captain enough to lead us, or are you going to stay here chasing a deeper meaning that doesn’t exist until the Olmori tribe send another mercenary band to take their treasures back by force?’

‘People were eaten by insects!’ exploded Hendrick, thumping the table. ‘The food rotted! The livestock were taken by beasts and plagues! Does any of this sound like Sigmar’s work to you? Does it?’

He glared angrily around at his comrades. Romilla was drawing breath to answer when a new voice replied instead.

‘No, Sergeant Saul, it does not.’

‘Oh, rust take me,’ spat Borik as Captain Morthan emerged from the Drake’s Crown with a pair of watchmen in tow.

‘Captain, you don’t agree with the regent militant?’ asked Romilla.

‘I don’t wish to sound unconvinced of the regent militant’s divine wisdom, but no, in this instance I do not,’ replied Morthan, sitting. She waved her two watchmen back. They took up positions either side of the inn’s rear door, and to their credit Hendrick saw that they remained every bit as vigilant as if the rain had still been hammering down and the dark signs abounding.

‘The storm has gone, the dreams have stopped–’ began Romilla.

‘And yet three more of my watchmen vanished overnight,’ interrupted Helena. ‘And something, Sigmar only knows what, rampaged through an overcrowded poor-shelter in the early hours and left the place looking like an abattoir. And two separate drinking wells were found congealed into green slime this morning. This isn’t over just because the rain has dried up.’

Hendrick looked closer and realised that, behind her mask of professionalism, Morthan looked tired and close to panic.

‘What do you need from us?’ he asked.

‘The militia have stepped down their presence in line with Selvador’s decree, but I think I can get away with keeping the watch fully mobilised for another day, perhaps two under the justification that public order needs to be restored and the celebrations are likely to be rowdy. What I can’t do anything about is the feast of thanks that the regent militant is throwing at the palace tonight. He’s already ordered a minimal presence of both my watchmen and Kayl’s militia in case we “send the wrong message”. He’s forbidden either myself or the arch-lector from attending, if you can believe it. But I’ve managed to wrangle an invitation for all of you on the basis that you came to us with a warning that may well, in some way, have pertained to what’s transpired. At least in Selvador’s eyes, at any rate.’

‘You would have us attend the feast as, what, security?’ asked Romilla.