Martel, his face pale with anger, had tried to draw near enough to hear, but Sephrenia stepped in front of him. His eyes flashed angrily, and with obvious effort he restrained his first impulse to thrust her out of his way.

She raised her chin and looked him full in the face. ‘Well?’ she said.

He muttered something, turned, and stalked to the far side of the tent where he stood gnawing at a knuckle in frustration.

Arasham still clung to Sparhawk’s neck. ‘My beloved son and deliverer,’ he cried with his rheumy eyes filled with tears. ‘Surely you have been sent to me by God Himself. We cannot fail now. God is on our side. Let the wicked tremble before us.’

‘Truly,’ Sparhawk agreed, gently disengaging the old man’s arms from about his neck.

‘A thought, holy one,’ Martel said shrewdly, though his face was still white with fury. ‘Sparhawk is only human, and therefore mortal. The world is full of mischance. Might it not be wiser to –’

‘Mischance?’ Sparhawk cut him off quickly. ‘Where is your faith, Martel? This is God’s design, not mine. God will not permit me to die until I have performed this service for Him. Have faith, dear brother. God will sustain and keep me against all perils. It is my destiny to fulfil this task, and God will see to it that I do not fail.’

‘Praise God!’ Arasham exclaimed ecstatically, ending the discussion.

The doe-eyed boy brought in the melons at that point, and the conversation shifted to more general matters. Arasham delivered another rambling diatribe against the Church while Martel sat scowling at Sparhawk. Sparhawk kept his eyes on his melon, which was surprisingly good. It had all been too easy, somehow, and that worried him just a little. Martel was too clever, too devious to have been so easily circumvented. He looked appraisingly across the tent at the white-haired man he had hated for so long. Martel’s expression was baffled, frustrated and that was also not like him. The Martel he had known as a youth would never have revealed such emotions. Sparhawk began to feel a little less sure of himself.

‘A thought has just occurred to me, Most Holy,’ he said. ‘Time is crucial in this affair, and it is essential that my sister and I return to Deira at once to advise his Majesty that all here in Rendor is ready and to convey to his ears alone that word which is locked in both our hearts. We have good horses, of course, but a fast boat could take us downriver and deliver us to the seaport at Jiroch days earlier. Perhaps you or one of your disciples – might know of some dependable boat-owner here in Dabour whom I could hire.’

Arasham blinked at him vaguely ‘A boat?’ he mumbled.