They’d taken him, hooded, in a cart or wagon, something horse-drawn, the smell and clop of the beast in front unmistakable. He’d been packed in between the two barrel-chested men, rocked against them, crushed at each bump, barely able to breathe let alone squirm. He’d thought he’d heard Rennic shouting somewhere, muffled by the hood and the sounds of the vehicle’s travel, but he was far from certain. There was no sign of the mercenary now, only the cuboid man watching him. Another Andriz, another desert bloom like him. The first of his people he’d seen since Sab, and since he’d left home before that.

‘I said, where am I?’

He knew where he was. He’d felt the climb around the hillside, heard the groan of a gate and echoes of enclosure. He’d heard animals, voices. He was in the settlement that overlooked the city. He’d been taken by the Wards. They truly didn’t care for the medicinal trade.

‘Remove the jacket too, please.’

Grimacing, he did so, his shoulder grumbling. The Andriz watched with steady eyes, hands clasped behind his wide back. The heavy baton at his belt clunked as he shifted position, and Chel’s mind clicked. No wonder the boy was so terrified, he thought. Dark cloak, something like a mace, and Andriz features. I look just like them.

He stood at last in only his breeches and silk shirt. ‘Where is my—’

‘Follow, please.’

This one was not a talker.

A panelled hallway, warmer than the library, led them to a wider, octagonal area, a receiving room of sorts, the blaze of snow-mirrored daylight cracking through slot-like windows high overhead. His escort strode directly up the weave-draped stairs at the chamber’s far side, nodding to the guard who stood beside the wide doors. Needless to say, the guard was another Andriz, not quite as bulky as the first, but clearly a man who could carry a pig under each arm up a steep hill without breaking sweat. Chel looked closer as he approached, meeting the guard’s curious gaze. His features were quite distinct from his escort’s, but the same hairstyle, same outfits, even the same posture, made them all seem cast from the same mould.

He waggled an eyebrow at the guard as he passed, as he imagined Lemon might, and then he was inside. The room beyond the doors had the same high ceiling as the receiving room before it, the same slants of white and watery light from high windows, casting diagonal shafts of drifting motes through the room’s upper gloom. Four fires burned in wide, stylized hearths at opposing corners, and oil-wick lamps glowed from alcoves along the walls. A wide table dominated the room’s centre, dark-wood and burnished, half an octagon to match the surroundings. The four chairs at the table’s far side were tall, imposing and occupied.