‘It may well be that once she has uncovered our plan, she will attempt deception, and what better way to deceive you than to send false messengers to you to declare that his Majesty is in readiness when indeed he is not? Thus the Church could defeat you and your disciples one by one.’

Arasham frowned. ‘That’s true, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘But how may we avoid being deceived?’

Sparhawk pretended to think about it. Then he suddenly snapped his fingers. ‘I have it!’ he exclaimed. ‘What better way to confound the deceitfulness of the Church than by the word – a word known only to you and to me and to King Obler of Deira? Thus may you know that a message is genuine. Should any come to you with the message that the time has come, but who cannot repeat the word to you, that man will be most surely a serpent of the Church sent to deceive you, and you should deal with him accordingly’

Arasham thought about it. ‘Why, yes,’ he mumbled finally ‘I believe that might indeed confound the Church. But what word can be so locked in our hearts that none may seek it out?’

Sparhawk threw a covert glance at Martel, whose face was suddenly filled with chagrin. ‘It must be a word of power,’ he said, squinting at the roof of the tent as if deep in thought. The whole ploy was obvious even childish, but it was the kind of thing that would appeal to the senile old Arasham, and it provided a marvellous opportunity to settle a few scores with Martel, just for old times’ sake.

Sephrenia sighed and lifted her eyes in resignation. Sparhawk felt a little ashamed of himself at that point. He looked at Arasham, who was leaning forward in anticipation, chewing upon emptiness with his toothless mouth and setting his long beard to waggling.

‘I will, of course, accept your pledge of secrecy without question, Most Holy,’ Sparhawk said in feigned humility ‘I, however, swear by my life that the word I am about to give you in profoundest secrecy shall never again pass my lips until I divulge it to King Obler in Acie, the capital of his kingdom.’

‘And I also pledge my oath to you, noble friend Sparhawk,’ the old man cried in an excess of enthusiasm. ‘Torture will not drag the word from my lips.’ He made some attempt to draw himself up regally.

‘Your pledge honours me, Most Holy,’ Sparhawk replied with a deep Rendorish bow. He approached the old man, bent, and whispered, ‘Ramshorn.’ Arasham, he noted, didn’t smell very good.

‘The perfect word!’ Arasham cried. He seized Sparhawk’s head in a pair of wiry arms and kissed him soundly full on the mouth.