Sparhawk motioned to Flute, and she came to him obediently. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked directly into her face. ‘I want you to stay here with Kurik,’ he told her

She looked at him gravely, then impudently crossed her eyes at him.

‘Stop that,’ he said. ‘Listen to me, young lady, I’m serious.’

‘Just ask her, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia advised. ‘Don’t try to order her around.’

‘Please, Flute,’ he implored. ‘Will you please stay here?’

She smiled sweetly, put her hands together in front of her, and curtsied.

‘You see how easy it is?’ Sephrenia said.

‘Since we’ve got some time, I’ll fix you all something to eat,’ Perraine said, rising to his feet.

‘Did you know that all your bottles are leaking, Sir Perraine?’ Kurik said, pointing at the dripping vessels hanging from the rafters.

‘Yes,’ Perraine replied. ‘They make a mess on the floor, but they help to keep it cool in here.’ He went to the hearth and fumbled for a few moments with flint, steel and tinder. He built up a very small fire of twigs and twisted chunks of the branches of desert shrubs. Then he set a kettle on the fire, took a large pan, and poured oil in it. He set the pan on the coals and took several chunks of meat out of a covered bowl. As the oil began to smoke, he dropped the meat into the pan. ‘I’m afraid it’s only mutton,’ he apologized. ‘I wasn’t expecting company.’ He spiced the sizzling meat liberally to disguise its flavour, then brought heavy plates to the table. He went back to the fire and opened an earthenware jar. He took a pinch of tea from the jar, dropped it into a mug, and poured hot water from the kettle into the mug. ‘For you, little mother,’ he said, delivering the mug to her with a flourish.

‘How very nice,’ she said. ‘You’re such a dear, Perraine.’

‘I live but to serve,’ he said a bit grandiosely He brought fresh figs and a slab of cheese to the table, then set the smoking pan in the centre of it.

‘You’ve missed your calling, my friend,’ Sparhawk said.

‘I learned to cook for myself a long time ago. I could afford a servant, but I don’t trust strangers.’ He sat down. ‘Be careful out there, Sparhawk,’ he cautioned as they began to eat. ‘Arasham’s followers are a bit limp between the ears, and they’re all obsessed with the idea of catching some neighbour committing a minor transgression. Arasham preaches every evening, after the sun goes down, and he manages to come up with some new prohibition every night.’

‘What’s the latest one?’ Sparhawk asked.

‘Killing flies. He says that they’re the messengers of God.’

‘You’re not serious.’