As the first light of dawn crept up the eastern sky, there came the measured tread of hundreds of feet some distance up the narrow street outside the front gate of the chapterhouse. Then the Patriarch Dolmant, astride a white mule, came into view at the head of a battalion or more of red-liveried soldiers.

‘Your Grace,’ the soot-smeared captain who had been blocking the gate of the chapterhouse exclaimed, rushing forward with a salute.

‘You are relieved, Captain,’ Dolmant told him. ‘You may return with your men to your barracks.’ He sniffed a bit disapprovingly. Tell them to clean up,’ he suggested. They look like chimney sweeps.’

‘Your Grace,’ the captain faltered, ‘I was commanded by the Patriarch of Coombe to secure this house. May I send to him for confirmation of your Grace’s counter-order?’

Dolmant considered it. ‘No, Captain,’ he said. ‘I don’t think so. Retire at once.’

‘But, your Grace!’

Dolmant slapped his hands sharply together, and the troops massed at his back moved into position, their pikes advanced. ‘Colonel,’ Dolmant said in the mildest of tones to the commander of his troops, ‘would you be so good as to escort the captain and his men back to their barracks?’

‘At once, your Grace,’ the officer replied with a sharp salute.

‘And I think they should be confined there until they are presentable.’

‘Of course, your Grace,’ the colonel said soberly. ‘I myself shall conduct the inspection.’

‘Meticulously, Colonel – most meticulously. The honour of the Church is reflected in the appearance of her soldiers.’

‘Your Grace may rely upon my attention to the most minute detail,’ the colonel assured him. ‘The honour of our service is also reflected by the appearance of our lowliest soldier.’

‘God appreciates your devotion, Colonel.’

‘I live but to serve Him, your Grace.’ The colonel bowed deeply.

Neither man smiled nor winked.

‘Oh,’ Dolmant said then, ‘before you leave, Colonel, bring me that ragged little beggar boy. I think I’ll leave him with the good brothers of this order – as an act of charity, of course.’

‘Of course, your Grace.’ The colonel snapped his fingers, and a burly sergeant dragged Talen by the scruff of the neck to the patriarch. Then Dolmant’s battalion advanced on the captain and his men, effectively pinning them against the high wall of the chapterhouse with their pikes. The sooty soldiers of the Patriarch of Coombe were quickly disarmed and then marched off under close guard.

Dolmant affectionately reached down and patted the slender neck of his white mule; then he looked critically up at the parapet. ‘Haven’t you left yet, Sparhawk?’ he asked.

‘We were just making our preparations, your Grace.’

‘The day wears on, my son,’ Dolmant told him. ‘God’s work cannot be accomplished by sloth.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind, your Grace,’ Sparhawk said. Then his eyes narrowed, and he stared hard down at Talen. ‘Give it back,’ he commanded.