At last, breathless, Alberic slumped over the arm of his chair, clutching his side. ‘Oh, this is wonderful!’ he managed. ‘Superb. Beyond belief! To rob a Relicmaster!’ He lifted the box and rubbed it as gently as if it had been a bird; then his head turned, and his eyes were cold and crafty.

‘This is the arrangement. I want the Sekoi. You have power, contacts. You’ll find him for me and get him back here alive. And then I might, I just might, give you your box of flames back.’ He stretched over for the wine and took a long drink, then climbed into his chair and sat back.

Galen said nothing. His look was dark.

Alberic shrugged. ‘Think about it. In the meantime you can try my hospitality.’

Godric came forward and led them to the door, but just as they got there the sly voice behind them said, ‘It doesn’t sound very inviting, does it? But one thing might interest you, Relicmaster. The Sekoi was headed for the city. The city of the Makers. Tasceron.’

Galen stood stock-still, as if the word had frozen him. Then, without turning, he stalked out of the room.

Alberic’s hospitality turned out to be a locked room, as filthy as the rest of the building, with one threadbare mattress and a window that let in a drizzle of rain and moonlight. Galen sat moodily in a corner, his knees drawn up and his arms resting on them, staring at nothing.

Raffi left him alone. He swept all the filthy straw and dung into one corner with his foot, tossed the mattress after it, then dragged their pack over, and the two plates of food a hand had just banged in through a grille at the base of the door.

He looked them over anxiously. ‘There’s some sort of meat. It looks all right. The bread’s stale. Cheese.’ He tasted the clear liquid in the wooden cup and scowled. ‘Water. He’s not stripping the apple tree for us, is he?’

Galen made a meaningless murmur. Raffi began to eat, hurriedly. He was hungry – he was always hungry – and even the stale bread could be moistened with water and broken up. With a few withered shar-roots and herbs from the pack it was almost tasty.

Swallowing a mouthful, he muttered, ‘So what do we do?’

Galen looked up. In the dim cell his face was haggard. ‘We agree.’

‘Just to get out of here? I mean, he’ll never give it back.’

Galen stirred. He reached into the pack and tugged out the stub of candle, clearing a place in the dust for it. Then he fumbled for the tinder-box.

The blue flame cracked, flared up. When it was steady and yellow Galen lifted a cup of water and drank thirstily. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. The spirit of the Makers is in the box. It won’t rest with Alberic. It will want to come back to us.’