He prised himself out of bed and found his clothes – dry, but still dusty with mud – slung over the back of a chair. Dressing swiftly as injuries permitted, he stalked into the hallway. His wounded leg bore weight better than he’d expected. Still, he propped himself against the wall every few paces, leaving dusty smears against the faded paintwork.

A soldier in the king’s blue of the 12th intercepted him halfway down the corridor.

“Captain Kurkas, you’re awake?”

Kurkas didn’t recognise the youth, though clearly his own appearance hadn’t drifted so far into vagabondage that he’d gone unrecognised. Then again, he was somewhat distinctive. “So it’d seem, lad.”

“Lieutenant Brask would like to speak with you.”

He nodded. The head of Branghall’s garrison lay roughly third in line of Kurkas’ priorities, after Halvor and Anastacia, but you took matters as you found them. “I’m sure he . . .”

“She, sir.”

“. . . she does. Lead on.”

The soldier led Kurkas along the hallway, down a narrow set of servants’ stairs and thence into a small library with high windows. A young woman glanced up from the desk as Kurkas entered, then scrambled to her feet.

“Captain Kurkas. Glad to see you up and about. Given your injuries, I wasn’t sure . . .”

Kurkas sank gratefully into a fraying armchair, its leather cool where it touched his skin. “Thought I was soft, just because I’m a hearthguard, and not a ‘proper’ soldier?”

Brask’s lips pinched tight. “Not at all. I meant no offence.”

But nor did she see fit to offer the honorific that went with superior rank. Too young to realise that the differences between hearthguard and regular army were of little account, and too arrogant to offer proper deference.

Brask stared past Kurkas to the doorway, where his escort still waited. “Dastarov? I’m sure our guest’s hungry.”

“Sir.” Dastarov bowed and withdrew.

Brask rounded the desk and perched on its outer edge. “What were you doing climbing the wall?”

“Trying to get in.”

“We’ve a gate for that.”

Kurkas scratched at his eyepatch. Brask didn’t sound suspicious, though you never could tell. “Weren’t possible, given the circumstances . . . The woman. Where is she?”

Brask snorted. “The southwealder? We’ve turned a wine cellar into a jail, just for her. Two of my lot had to drag her off you.”

“Did they now?” Kurkas stared at his feet. His last hope that he’d somehow misremembered events crumbled to dust. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. “She seem normal to you?”

“By whose standards?” Brask shook her head. “Southwealders aren’t like the rest of us. They’re barbarians, little better than the Hadari.”

Should he ask about the eyes? No. Better to see for himself. Just because his memory wasn’t playing tricks with the broader canvas didn’t mean the details were true. “I’d like to see her.”