‘You are here, Vedren of Barva, because you concern us. Which is to say, you are of interest, rather than you are a source of worry, although perhaps both may yet apply.’

He stayed tight-lipped.

‘You see, dear boy, we take great interest in the comings and goings of visitors to our city.’ Ah. There it was. She crinkled one corner of her mouth at the stiffness of his reaction. ‘You thought you’d slip in undetected, did you? Let me guess, some manner of exchange with the guards at the gates, some unpleasantness within the walls.’

They stopped at a wooden railing, hewn from the same narrow wood as the bent trees behind them. Laralim leaned on it, looking out over the estate, the rising columns of steam and smoke from the huts and gatehouses at the hill’s foot, the fiery orange gleam of evening sun searing the horizon.

‘There was a time, long before your birth, when our people left the heartland in great numbers.’ Presumably she meant the plains, somewhere far, far to the north-west, from which his people had apparently sprung. ‘It was a sad time, a hard time, of great upheaval and greater strife. Many of us perished, but some of us flourished.’

She gave a little smile, the evening light rich on the deep furrows of skin around her mouth. ‘Our people acquired a reputation for achieving tasks that others would not, or could not, and we were rewarded in turn, first with coin, then later with land and titles. In turn, more of us came, and for a while, at least, we continued dispatching the flower of our youth to expand our legacy.’

Laralim paused, and the smile ebbed away so fast it was hard to imagine it had ever been. ‘Times have changed. But some legacies remain. As I’m sure you have surmised, Merenghi, vile as it is, is ours. Think of it as an unpleasant but dutiful inheritance, say a nasty old uncle. The hut-folk and their confederates within the walls come with the territory, and as long as they keep to their business and keep their business discreet, we tolerate them.’

She sighed, her breath misting orange in the dying rays of the vainly resurgent sun. Laughter drifted up from the terrace below, a gaggle of no doubt grey-eyed children racing between twisting trunks. ‘Sadly, people like that are a fungus, an infection. They never stay where they’re put, always looking to seep and spread. Hence, as I said, we maintain an interest. The slum-dogs might claim to have the constables in their pocket, but they know who pays their wages.’

She turned to face him. ‘The sudden arrival of a ruthless hireling and one of our own? You can see it would have piqued our interest. Whatever the slum-dogs were planning, we will not permit it.’