Finally they came to the top, a long dim room, full of smoke. The floor was made of wooden planks, sanded smooth; it spread before them, an empty expanse.

Their guide stood still. ‘Go on,’ he said curtly.

Through the smoke they saw a group of four people waiting for them, sitting and standing round a fire at the far end of the room. Galen glanced across. ‘Well?’

‘It doesn’t feel right.’

The keeper shrugged. ‘Too late.’ He stalked forward; Raffi followed him down the hall, his heart hammering with nerves.

Talk hushed. The men and woman waiting stood up, all but one, the man in the centre. As Raffi came closer he saw to his astonishment that the man was tiny, his feet resting on a box, his body far too small for the great cushioned chair in which he sat. His face was narrow and clever, his hair stubbly; he wore a gold collar and a green quilted jacket slashed with red.

Galen stood still, and looked down at him. ‘I was told to ask for Alberic,’ he said, gravely.

The dwarf nodded, his eyes sharp. ‘You’ve found him,’ he replied.

3

Though the Makers are gone, their relics remain. Let the keepers seek them out. For the power in them is holy.

Litany of the Makers

IT WAS A trap.

Raffi knew that, as soon as he saw Alberic. He had a sudden vivid sense of the empty room behind him, the stairs, the maze of corridors, the gate and spikes and ditches. It was a trap, and they were well inside it.

But Alberic only grinned. ‘So you’re Galen Harn. You took some finding.’

Galen said nothing. His face was stern.

‘And a pupil!’ The dwarf’s shrewd eyes glanced over Raffi. ‘Bursting with sorceries, no doubt.’

Someone sniggered behind him. Alberic leaned back into the cushions, the candlelight soft on the silk of his jerkin. ‘Sit down, please,’ he said amiably.

A big, black-haired man lifted a gilt chair from the wall and thumped it down in front of Galen. As he straightened up, he smirked at them and they recognised the horseman from the forest. He still wore the breast-plate; close up it looked thin, pitted with rust.

Galen ignored the chair. Someone edged a small stool towards Raffi, and he gave it a longing glance, but stayed standing.

‘We came here,’ Galen said ominously, ‘because of your message. A relic…’

‘Ah yes!’ The small man put his tiny fingers together and grinned over them. ‘I’m afraid there might have been a slight misunderstanding there.’ He gave the briefest of nods. The sense-lines snapped; instantly Raffi found himself being shoved on to the stool by a girl in snaky armour, and glancing round he saw they had forced Galen to sit too, the black-bearded man and another standing over him.