‘Really? And shall I hold you to that, Wizard?’

Quick Ben’s eyes widened.

‘Never mind,’ Paran growled, gathering his reins. ‘Let’s quit this city ... before we find ourselves in a whole new war. Corporal Picker.’

‘Sir?’

‘Why are you just standing here on your own?’

She quickly glanced around. ‘The bitch,’ she whispered.

‘Corporal?’

‘Nothing. Sorry, sir. I was just resting.’

‘When you’re done resting, Corporal, go retrieve Antsy, Spindle and the others. Send Arard to the Thrall, with word that the real representatives of Onearm’s Host will see him shortly, should he wish an audience.’

‘Understood, Captain.’

‘I hope so.’

She watched the two men ride off down the street, then spun around. ‘Where are you, you coward?’

‘Sir?’ Blend queried, emerging from the shadows of the temple’s entrance.

‘You heard me.’

‘I’d noted something inside this hovel, went to investigate—’

‘Hovel? Shadowthrone’s sacred abode, you mean.’

She was pleased to see Blend suddenly pale. ‘Oh. I’d, uh, forgotten.’

‘You panicked. Hee hee. Blend panicked. Smelled a scene about to happen and fled into the nearest building like a rabbit down a bolt-hole! Just wait until I tell the others—’

‘An unseemly version,’ Blend sniffed, ‘malignly twisting a purely coincidental occurrence. They’ll not believe you.’

‘That’s what you—’

‘Oh oh.’

Blend vanished once again.

Startled, Picker looked round.

Two black-cloaked figures were coming down the street, making directly for the corporal.

‘Dear soldier,’ the taller, pointy-bearded one called out.

Her hackles rose at the imperious tone. ‘What?’

A thin brow arched. ‘Respect is accorded ourselves, woman. We demand no less. Now listen. We are in need of supplies to effect the resumption of our journey. We require food, clean water and plenty of it, and if you could direct us to a clothier ...’

‘At once. Here—’ She stepped up to him and drove her gauntleted fist full into his face. The man’s feet flew out from under him and he struck the cobbles with a meaty smack. Out cold.

Blend stepped up behind the other man and cracked him in the head with the pommel of her short sword. With a high-pitched grunt, he crumpled.

Closing fast behind them was an old man in ragged servant garb. He skidded to a halt five paces away and raised his hands. ‘Don’t hit me!’ he shrieked.

Picker frowned. ‘Now why would we do that? Are these two ... yours?’

The manservant’s expression was despondent. ‘Aye,’ he sighed, lowering his hands.

‘Advise them,’ Picker said, ‘of proper forms of address. When they awaken.’

‘Absolutely, sir.’

‘We should get moving, Corporal,’ Blend said, eyes on the two unconscious men.

‘Yes. Yes, please!’ the manservant begged.

Picker shrugged. ‘I see no point in dawdling. Lead on, soldier.’