‘On the surface,’ the Shield Anvil said quietly, ‘all that I have told you seems of vital import. Yet, as I see you now comprehend, it is in truth all meaningless. Five weeks, Prince. Leave them to their vengeance, if you will, for that is all they might manage. And even then, given their limited numbers—’

‘Are these Brukhalian’s conclusions, or yours?’

‘Both, I regret to say.’

‘You fools,’ the young man grated. ‘You Hood-damned fools.’

‘Sire, we cannot withstand the Pannions for five weeks.’

‘I know that, damn you! The question now is: why do we even try?’

Itkovian frowned. ‘Sir, such was the contract. The defence of the city—’

‘Idiot – what do I care about your damned contract? You’ve already concluded you will fail in any case! My concern is for the lives of my people. This army comes from the west? It must. Marching beside the river—’

‘We cannot break out, Prince. We would be annihilated.’

‘We concentrate everything to the west. A sudden sortie, that flows into an exodus. Shield Anvil—’

‘We will be slaughtered,’ Itkovian cut in. ‘Sire, we have considered this. It will not work. The Septarch’s wings of horsemen will surround us, grind us to a halt. Then the Beklites and Tenescowri will arrive. We will have yielded a defensible position for an indefensible one. It would all be over within the span of a single bell.’

Prince Jelarkan stared at the Shield Anvil with undisguised contempt and, indeed, hatred. ‘Inform Brukhalian of the following,’ he rasped. ‘In the future, it is not the task of the Grey Swords to do the prince’s thinking for him. It is not their task to decide what he needs to know and what he doesn’t. The prince is to be informed of all matters, regardless of how you judge their relevance. Is this understood, Shield Anvil?’

‘I shall convey your words precisely, sire.’

‘I must presume,’ the prince continued, ‘that the Mask Council knows even less than I did a bell ago.’

‘That would be an accurate assumption. Sire, their interests—’

‘Save me from any more of your learned opinions, Itkovian. Good day.’

Itkovian watched the prince stalk away, towards the compound’s exit, his gait too stiff to be regal. Yet noble in its own way. You have my regret, dear prince, though I would not presume to voice it. I am the will of the Mortal Sword. My own desires are irrelevant. He pushed away the surge of bitter anger that rose beneath these thoughts, returned his gaze to the two Barghast still seated on the rug.

The trance had broken. Hetan and Cafal were now leaning close to the brazier, where white smoke rose in twisting coils into the sunlit air.

Startled, it was a moment before Itkovian stepped forward.