‘An irresponsible demonstration,’ he said. ‘Furthermore, in your place I wouldn’t rid myself so lightly of imperial insignia. I feel the duty to inform you that as imperial officers, during the negotiations of the conditions of the peace treaty, you were guaranteed fair trials, lenient sentences and a swift amnesty…’

The elves crowded into the cul-de-sac roared in unison with laughter that thundered and boomed amidst the walls.

‘I also draw your attention to the fact,’ Hamilcar Danza added calmly, ‘that it’s only you we are handing over to the Nordlings. Thirty-two officers. And not one of the soldiers you commanded. Not one.’

The laughter in the cul-de-sac ceased in an instant.

The wind blew on the campfire, stirring up a shower of sparks and blowing smoke into their eyes. Again, howling could be heard from the pass.

‘They prostituted everything.’ The elf broke the silence. ‘Everything was for sale. Honour, loyalty, our bonds, vows, everyday decency… They were simply chattels, having a value as long as there was a trade in them and a demand. And once there wasn’t, they weren’t worth a straw and were discarded. Onto the dust heap.’

‘Onto the dust heap of history,’ the pilgrim nodded. ‘You’re right, master elf. That’s how it was back then in Cintra. Everything had its price. And was worth as much as it could be traded for. The market opened every morning. And like a real market, now and again there’d be unexpected booms and crashes. And just like a real market, one couldn’t help but get the impression somebody was pulling the strings.’

‘Am I hearing right?’ Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen asked in a slow, drawling voice, expressing disbelief in his tone and facial expression. ‘Do my ears deceive me?’

Berengar Leuvaarden, special imperial envoy, didn’t deign to reply. Sprawled in an armchair, he continued to contemplate the ripples of wine as he rocked his goblet.

Shilard puffed himself up, then assumed a mask of contempt and superiority. Which said, either you’re lying, blackguard, or you wish to trick me, test me out. In both cases I’ve seen through you.

‘So am I to understand,’ he said, sticking his chest out, ‘that after far-reaching concessions in the matter of borders, in the matter of prisoners of war and the repayment of spoils, in the matter of the officers of the Vrihedd Brigade and the Scoia’tael commando units, the emperor orders me to compromise and accept the Nordlings’ impossible claims regarding the repatriation of settlers?’

‘You understood perfectly, Baron,’ replied Berengar Leuvaarden, drawing out his syllables characteristically. ‘Indeed, I’m full of admiration for your perspicacity.’

‘By the Great Sun, Lord Leuvaarden, do you in the capital ever consider the consequences of your decisions? The Nordlings are already whispering that our empire is a giant with feet of clay! Now they’re crying that they’ve defeated us, beaten us, driven us away! Does the emperor understand that to make further concessions means to accept their arrogant and excessive ultimatums? Does the Emperor understand that if they treat this as a sign of weakness it may have lamentable results in the future? Does the Emperor understand, finally, what fate awaits those several thousand settlers of ours in Brugge and Lyria?’