‘Yes. The unmanned one plies the chaos on the edge of Hood’s realm. The other has more arcane interests – a summoner, of formidable power.’

‘We cannot abandon them, none the less.’

‘As you wish.’ The Bonecaster hesitated, then said, ‘Shield Anvil, the injured mortals are, one and all, dreaming.’

‘Dreaming?’

‘A familiar flavour,’ the T’lan Imass said. ‘They are being ... protected. I look forward to their awakening, in particular the priest. Your soldiers displayed considerable skill in healing.’

‘Our Destriant is High Denul – we are able to draw on his power in times of need, though I imagine his mood is dark at the moment. Exhausted, knowing that healing has occurred, but little else. Karnadas dislikes uncertainty. As does the Mortal Sword, Brukhalian.’ He gathered his reins, straightened in the saddle. ‘The eunuch has completed his task. We may now proceed. We shall ride through the night, sir, greeting the dawn at Capustan’s gates.’

‘And the presence of the T’lan Imass and T’lan Ay?’ Pran Chole enquired.

‘Hidden, if you please. Excepting those ay pulling the travois. They shall lead their charges through the city and into the compound in our barracks.’

‘And you have reason for this, Shield Anvil?’

Itkovian nodded.

The sun low at their backs, the entourage set off.

Hands folded on his lap, the Destriant looked upon Prince Jelarkan with deep sympathy. No, more than that, given the man’s obvious exhaustion ... empathy. Karnadas’s head pounded behind his eyes. His Denul warren felt hollow, coated with ash. Were he to have left his hands on the tabletop, their tremble would have been obvious.

Behind him, the Mortal Sword paced.

Itkovian and two wings rode the plain to the west, and something had happened. Concern echoed in every restless step at the Destriant’s back.

The prince of Capustan’s eyes were squeezed shut, fingers kneading his temples beneath the circlet of cold-hammered copper that was his crown. Twenty-two years old, his lined, drawn face could have belonged to a man of forty. His shaved pate revealed the scatter of moles that marked his royal line, as if he had been sprayed in blood that had since dried and grown dark. After a long sigh, the prince spoke. ‘The Mask Council will not be swayed, Mortal Sword. They insist that their Gidrath occupy the outlying strongpoints.’

‘Those fortifications will become isolated once the siege begins, Prince,’ Brukhalian rumbled.

‘I know. We both know. Isolated, dismantled, every soldier within slaughtered ... then raped. The priests fancy themselves master strategists in warfare. A religious war, after all. The temples’ own elite warriors must strike the first blows.’

‘No doubt they will,’ Brukhalian said. ‘And little else.’

‘And little else. Perhaps corridors, a series of sorties to effect a withdrawal—’