“Blacktooth.”

“Oh, him. Did he count them?”

“Er, no, I don’t think so.”

“Good. There’s five loaves. We’ll have half a loaf each—that’ll leave three and a half. Nobody’ll notice the difference.”

They tore hungrily at Goody Stickle’s brown oven loaves.

Upstairs, Martin had managed to wrap one of the ropes around a stone column. Soldiers were jeering at the efforts of the patrol to get him away and up the stairs. “Yah, what’s the matter, lads, are you scared of him?”

Blacktooth turned on the mocking group. “Any of you lot fancy having a go at him? No, I thought not.”

The door opened behind them, and snow blew in with a cold, draughty gust. A fox wearing a ragged cloak trotted past them and up the broad flat stairs to their first floor. The soldiers found a new target for their remarks.

“Hoho, just you wait, fox. You’re late.”

“Aye, old Greeneyes doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“I’d keep out of Lady Tsarmina’s way, if I were you.”

Ignoring them, the fox swept quickly up the stairs.

Martin tried to make a dash for the half-open door to the parade ground but he was carried to the floor by weight of numbers. Still he fought gamely on.

The jeering soldiers started shouting and calling humorous advice again. Blacktooth tried freezing them into silence with a stern glance, but they took no notice of him this time.

Splitnose sniffed in disgust. “Discipline has gone to the wall since Lord Verdauga’s been sick.”

* * *

Fortunata the vixen waited nervously in the draughty antehall of Kotir. A low fire cast its guttering light around the damp sandstone walls. Slimy green algae and fungus grew between sodden banners as they slowly disintegrated into threadbare tatters suspended from rusty iron holders. The vixen could not suppress a shudder. Presently she was joined by two ferrets dressed in cumbersome chain mail. Both bore shields emblazoned with the device of their masters, a myriad of evil green eyes watching in all directions. The guards pointed with their spears, indicating that the fox should follow them, and Fortunata fell in step, marching off down the long dank hall. They halted in front of two huge oaken doors, which swung open as the ferrets banged their spearbutts against the floor. The vixen was confronted by a scene of ruined grandeur.

Candles and torches scarcely illuminated the room; the crossbeams above were practically lost in darkness. At one end there were three ornate chairs occupied by two wildcats and a pine marten. Behind these stood a four-poster bed, complete with tight-drawn curtains of musty green velvet, its footboard carved with the same device as the shields of the guards.

The marten hobbled across and searched the satchel Fortunata carried. The vixen shrank from contact with the badly disfigured creature. Ashleg the marten had a wooden leg and his entire body was twisted on one side as if it had been badly maimed. To disguise this, he wore an overlong red cloak trimmed with woodpigeon feathers. With an expert flick, he turned the contents of the satchel out on to the floor. It was the usual jumble of herbs, roots, leaves and mosses carried by a healer fox.