‘Hmm.’ He reached out to a rack of tools, pulled out a metal rod with a flat iron head and placed it alongside other similar tools heating in a fire that burned in a wide pot. He left it there a while, gathering what he needed. A salve that smelt of honey, some leaves, gut twine, a curved needle, a roll of linen bandages. He placed them all on a table beside Maquin, then went back to the iron rod, checked its end.

‘Hold his legs,’ Alben ordered one of the healers.

‘I’ll do it,’ Fidele said, stepping forward.

‘He may kick out, my lady.’

‘Alben, this man has saved my life many, many times; he has kept me alive for two moons, brought me through the wild, slain Vin Thalun hunting parties against all odds. All for someone that he could have walked away from.’ She was going to say more but the words died on her tongue. ‘This is the least I can do.’

Alben studied her a moment, then nodded. ‘Hold them like so,’ he said, demonstrating for her.

She gripped his ankles and leaned all her weight upon them. Alben asked an attendant to hold Maquin’s shoulders while he rinsed the wound. There was so much blood Fidele wondered how Maquin could survive – but he had to. Alben took another long look at the gaping cut, then pressed the heated iron head into the wound. Maquin’s feet kicked, his body jerking, and he groaned. There was a hiss, the stench of cooking meat and Fidele felt her stomach lurch – she refused to look away. Alben pushed the rod a little deeper, then with a twist took it out, dropped it into a bowl of water. He cleaned up the wound, stitched it closed, then applied the honey-like salve and covered it over with a leaf. Finally he bandaged the wound.

‘Thank you,’ Fidele said, feeling suddenly weary beyond measure.

‘It’s a gut wound,’ Alben said. ‘If it’s pierced his intestines, he will most likely die, in agony.’

She felt something twist inside her, a cold fist clenching around her heart. No. Not after coming so far.

‘If they are not cut then he may still die – fever and the like. I have seen people live, but only a handful out of hundreds. He may wake at any time – there is seed of the poppy for his pain. No food, only water for the next day. Now, let me take a better look at you.’

‘I am fine, just scratches.’

‘They need to be cleaned. A scratch can still kill.’

A hand touched Fidele’s shoulder and she spun around. At first she thought it was a patient, a sickly-looking man staring at her, pale with lank hair, his frame gaunt, almost withered.

‘My lady,’ he said, his eyes touching her face.

Ektor, Lamar’s son.