Brask folded her arms. “When we’re done.”

“You’ve something you want to say to me, lieutenant? An accusation, perhaps?”

“I just wonder why one of our own was caught breaking into a prison, and in the company of a southwealder. Especially when he’s on a roster of missing. The archimandrite’s had folk searching for you.”

“Nice of him.”

Kurkas met Brask’s stare. Now there was suspicion. A pity she was so close to the truth. It left him only one resort. Under other circumstances, he’d have felt guilty. As it was, it’d hardly make Halvor’s life more difficult.

“Her and me, we were comrades at Davenwood. Fought the shad-owthorns back-to-back.” He filled a scowl with chagrin. “Took me captive after. Hid me away in one of their rat-holes to use as leverage against Lord Akadra, but I escaped. The rest you know.”

“She had a ward-brooch.”

“Of course she did. One of the duke’s confidants, isn’t she? Helped win him round.”

Brask gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “I suppose treachery is all we can expect from her sort.”

With grand effort, Kurkas kept his face immobile. Brask was a little too convinced for his tastes. “Close to the archimandrite, are you?”

“I’d the good fortune to study beneath him before joining the army.”

“I thought it’d be something like that. Don’t suppose he’s here?”

“His eminence prefers to be among the people, though he visits the prisoner each day.”

“She giving you any trouble? Anastacia Psanneque, I mean.”

A small, sly smile. “Oh no. We’ve been quite thorough.”

A shiver darted along Kurkas’ spine. “She up to a conversation?”

“She’s in confinement. Contact is forbidden save with the archiman-drite’s personal approval.”

“I’ve Lord Akadra’s authority,” he lied.

“Which I’m sure his eminence will be delighted to discuss,” Brask said smoothly. “Anyway, she’s hardly worth listening to. Just sneers and heretical doggerel. What else can one expect from a demon?”

Kurkas rated his odds of swaying Makrov as rather dimmer than the sun over Eskavord, but it had to be attempted. Strange times demanded the insight of strange folk, and Anastacia was the oddest person he’d met in years.

“He’ll be here later, did I hear you say?”

A frown touched Brask’s face. “As it happens, he’s overdue.”

Bloody typical. Some poor wretch was suffering for that, Kurkas was sure.

The door creaked open. Dastarov entered.

“Ah,” said Kurkas. “Is that breakfast?”

“Yes . . . and, well . . . We’ve got a problem. At the gate.”

Branghall’s gatehouse possessed a modest rampart, just large enough to accommodate Kurkas, Brask and a crossbow-armed sentry. A dozen soldiers waited behind the closed gate, weapons readied, the rubicund proctor at their head clinging to a sun-staff as if it were his sole means of support.