And not a word about him either, he thought, pursing his lips and looking at Dijkstra, who was observing the parade with a distinctly bored expression.

It will be necessary, thought the hierarch, to issue the kings with instructions regarding Dijkstra. His presence is an insult to decent people.

He’s a heathen and a scoundrel. May he disappear without trace. And may he be forgotten.

Over my dead body, you sanctimonious purple hog, thought Philippa Eilhart, effortlessly reading the hierarch’s feverish thoughts. You’d like to rule, you’d like to dictate and influence? You’d like to decide things? Over my dead body.

All you can make judgements about are your piles, which don’t count for much beyond your own arse.

And Dijkstra will remain. As long as I need him.

You’ll make a mistake one day, thought priest Willemer, looking at Philippa’s shining, crimson lips. One day, one of you will make a mistake. Your vainglory, arrogance and hubris will be your undoing. And your scheming. Your immorality. The baseness and perversion you give yourselves unto, in which you live. It will come to light. The stench of your sins will spread when you make a mistake. Such a moment has to come.

And even if you don’t make a mistake, an opportunity will arise to blame you for something. Some misfortune, some disaster, some pestilence, perhaps a plague or an epidemic, will fall on humanity… Then your guilt will descend on you. You will not be blamed for having been unable to prevent the plague, but for being unable to remove its effects.

You shall be to blame for everything.

And then fires will be lit under stakes.

The stripy old tomcat, called Ginger because of its colouring, was dying. Dying hideously. He was rolling around, writhing, scratching the ground, vomiting blood and mucus, racked by convulsions. On top of that he had bloody diarrhoea. He was meowing, although it was beneath his dignity. Meowing mournfully, softly. He was weakening fast.

Ginger knew why he was dying. Or at least guessed what was killing him.

Several days before, a strange freighter, an old and very dirty hulk, a neglected tub, almost a wreck, had called at the port of Cintra. ‘Catriona’ announced the barely visible letters on the hulk’s prow. Ginger–naturally–couldn’t read the letters. A rat climbed down the mooring line to alight on the quay from the strange old tub. A single rat. The rat was hairless, lousy and sluggish. And only had one ear.

Ginger killed the rat. He was hungry, but instinct prevented him from eating the hideous creature. However, several fleas, big, shiny fleas, teeming in the rodent’s fur, managed to crawl onto Ginger and settle in his coat.

‘What’s up with that sodding cat?’

‘Someone probably poisoned it. Or put a spell on it!’

‘Ugh, abomination! He doesn’t half stink, the scoundrel. Get him off those steps, woman!’