I saw Gradeolous stride from the château, Mizar trailing in his wake. He roared at the combatants and they lowered their fists, avoiding each other’s gaze. But this was apparently insufficient. The nearest of the pair, perhaps the instigator or simply the closest target, was backhanded across the face. It was an impressive blow, launching him several feet. And it certainly helped restore discipline amongst the warring troops.

‘Get on with it, you cur!’

I stiffened at the sound. I knew Stylee’s voice well enough, its range straddl­ing obsequious toadying and ill-concealed contempt. But here he sounded furious.

I turned my attention back to the pict. It still showed the corridor, but the shot was moving now. Kikazar had also recognised the voice, or was perhaps attracted by the aggressive tone. Either way, it had rounded a corner, tucked high and close to the wall.

There was Stylee, accompanied by two footmen. They had peeled away the bark covering on the far wall, and were clawing at it with barbed hooks. Even with the subdued light and questionable pict quality, I could see the wood was infested with the fungal blight. The footmen tore sections clear as they sought to cut away the rot. I do not know why, for it was clear the wood was beyond saving. But still the two laboured, peeling out rotten sections, replacing it with an emulsified paste whilst Stylee paced.

‘Faster,’ he snapped. ‘We have to tear out this whole section by morning. The governor intends to take a craft and visit the botanical garden. She always takes this route when attending the gardens. It needs to be spotless, every hint of rot must be torn away.’

‘If we clear it all there will be no bloody walls left,’ one of the footmen muttered. He hadn’t raised his voice, but neither was he quiet.

Stylee swung to him, quivering with rage, and for a moment I thought he would strike the man. Perhaps he intended to, but the footman was a stout fellow with a jaw like rockcrete. This could be why Stylee relented, or perhaps fatigue sapped his ire. Either way, he sighed, leaning back against the wall and reaching into his gown for a flask. He took a swig, hesitating just a moment before offering it to the others.

‘We just need to hold it together until she leaves for the winter,’ Stylee said. ‘Then we can strip it clean without interruption. It will recover by spring, it always does.’

‘Maybe,’ the footman mumbled, taking a drink from the flask before handing it back to Stylee. ‘I’ve never seen it this bad.’

‘We always treat the lower levels.’