‘We’ve discussed that already.’ Philippa cut her off, and her voice was as acidic as plum pickle. ‘We’ve established what there was to establish. No one will be killed without an absolute need. Sabrina and Keira’s force will enter Rhys-Rhun as quiet as mice, on tiptoe, hush-hush. They’ll take Vilgefortz alive, without a single scratch, without a single bruise. We agreed on that. Although I still think we ought to make an example. So that those in the castle who survive the night will awake screaming to the end of their days when they dream of this night.’

‘Revenge,’ said the sorceress from Kovir, ‘is the delight of mediocre, weak and petty minds.’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed Philippa, with an apparently indifferent smile. ‘But that doesn’t stop it being a delight.’

‘Let’s drop it.’ Margarita Laux-Antille raised a goblet of sparkling wine. ‘I suggest we drink to the health of Madam Fringilla Vigo, thanks to whose efforts Vilgefortz’s hide-out was discovered. Solid, exemplary work indeed, Madam Fringilla.’

Fringilla bowed, responding to the salutes. She noticed something like mockery in Philippa’s black eyes, and dislike in the azure gaze of Triss Merigold. She couldn’t decipher the smiles of Francesca and Sheala.

‘They are beginning,’ said Assire var Anahid, pointing at the magical image.

They settled themselves more comfortably. Philippa dimmed the lights with a spell in order for them to see better. They saw swift, black shapes peeling off from the rocks, as silent and agile as bats. Saw them flying low and then plummeting onto the battlements and machicolations of Rhys-Rhun Castle.

‘I probably haven’t had a broom between my legs for a century,’ murmured Philippa. ‘I’ll soon forget how to fly.’

Sheala, staring at the screen, quietened her with an impatient hiss.

Fire flashed briefly in the windows of the black castle complex. Once, twice, thrice. They knew what it was. The bolted doors and hasps splintered asunder under the impact of ball lightning.

‘They’re inside,’ said Assire var Anahid softly. She was the only one not observing the screen on the wall, but was staring at a crystal ball on the table. ‘The strike force is inside. But something’s not right. Not how it’s meant to be…’

Fringilla felt the blood flowing from her heart to her belly. She now knew what wasn’t right.

‘Madam Glevissig,’ reported Assire, ‘is opening the direct telecommunicator.’

The space between the columns in the hall suddenly lit up. In the materialising oval they saw Sabrina Glevissig in male attire, her hair tied on her forehead with a chiffon scarf and her face blackened with stripes of camouflage pigment. Behind the sorceress’s back could be seen dirty stone walls, and on them shreds of rags, once tapestries. Sabrina extended a gloved hand hung with long strands of cobwebs towards them.

‘The only thing there’s plenty of here,’ she said, gesticulating wildly, ‘is this! Just this! Bloody hell, what stupidity… What a fiasco…’

‘Make yourself clearer, Sabrina!’