Gruntle swung to her. ‘Hold on, now. I’m not buying into any faith when I enter, am I?’

She smirked. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘I mean, I’m not. Understand me? And Keruli had better understand, too. And his hoary old god! Not a single genuflection, not even a nod to the altar, and if that’s not acceptable then I’m staying out here.’

‘Relax, no-one’s expecting anything of you, Gruntle. Why would they?’

He ignored the mocking challenge in her eyes. ‘Fine, so lead the way, woman.’

‘I always do.’ She strode to the door and pulled it open. ‘Local security measures – you can’t kick these doors in, they all open outward, and they’re built bigger than the inside frame. Smart, eh? The Grey Swords are expecting a house by house scrap once the walls fall – those Pannions are going to find the going messy.’

‘The defence of Capustan assumes the loss of the walls? Hardly optimistic. We’re all in a death trap, and Keruli’s dream-escape trick won’t help us much when the Tenescowri are roasting our bodies for the main course, will it?’

‘You’re a miserable ox, aren’t you?’

‘The price for being clear-eyed, Stonny.’

She ducked as she entered the building, waving for Gruntle to follow. He hesitated, then, still scowling, stepped through.

A small reception chamber greeted them, bare-walled, clay-tiled, with a few lantern niches set in the walls and a row of iron pegs unadorned by clothing. Another doorway was opposite, a long leather apron providing the barrier. The air smelled of lye soap, with a faint undercurrent of bile.

Stonny unclasped her cloak and hung it on a hook. ‘The wife crawled out of the main room to die here,’ she said. ‘Dragging her entrails the whole way. Raised the suspicion that her suicide wasn’t voluntary. Either that or she changed her mind.’

‘Maybe a goat’s milk hawker knocked on the door,’ Gruntle suggested, ‘and she was trying to cancel her order.’

Stonny studied him for a moment, as if considering, then she shrugged. ‘Seems a bit elaborate, as an explanation, but who knows? Could be.’ She swung about and entered the inner doorway in a swish of leather.

Sighing, Gruntle followed.

The main chamber ran the full width of the house; a series of alcoves – storage rooms and cell-like bedrooms – divided up the back wall, a central arched walkway bisecting it to lead into the courtyard garden beyond. Benches and trunks crowded one corner of the chamber. A central firepit and humped clay bread-oven was directly before them, radiating heat. The air was rich with the smell of baking bread.

Master Keruli sat cross-legged on the tiled floor to the left of the firepit, head bowed, his pate glistening with beads of sweat.

Stonny edged forward and dropped to one knee. ‘Master?’