‘Two of his men are going to the wall, Rennic. They’ll find my sister!’

‘No shit.’ He changed direction. ‘I’ll deal with it. Stay here, keep princeling quiet.’

Rennic’s hand moved to the knives at his belt.

He had no knives. He had no belt.

Chel held his gaze. ‘What are you going to do?’

The big man paused only a moment.

‘Improvise.’

***

Rennic came barrelling back into the office only a short time later, before Chel had started to really panic. One side of his face was sprayed dark and a guard’s sword hung loose and bloodied in each hand; he left dark footprints in his wake. He looked out of breath.

Chel was on his feet immediately. ‘What happened? Are you hurt?’

Rennic pushed one of the weapons into Chel’s grip. Its hilt was sticky. ‘Fine. Where are Count Pig-Dog and his minions? Have they left the stables?’

Chel shook his head. ‘We haven’t heard—’

‘Fucking hells. Fine. Princeling! Take us to the armoury.’

The thick door to the armoury was unguarded. Tarfel fished around for a set of keys, gabbling the whole time.

‘Borrowed these from the seneschal’s office, didn’t even have to use subterfuge, turns out nobody wants to refuse a prince, well, aside from that monster in the dungeon. I suppose, that could have been—’

‘Shut up.’ Rennic cuffed the back of his head.

‘Righto.’

The armoury was less impressive inside than Chel had hoped: a rack of spears that had seen better days, some rusted mail and low-grade swords. Wherever the confessors were keeping their blessed blades and fancy new breastplates, it wasn’t here. Chel poked at a pile of unstrung bows, their wood cracked and snarled. Through the narrow windows, voices drifted up from the stables below. Pressed to the wall at the window-side, Rennic’s scowl deepened. ‘Basar is down there, he’s searching the stables.’ He looked up at the others. ‘Find me something that can shoot.’

Chel went back to the cracked bows, hoping to find one he could salvage. Tarfel began to sift in the room’s other corner, looking under canvas coverings and rummaging in crates. A moment later, he cried in triumph. ‘Crossbows!’

‘Levers and quarrels?’

‘Er …’

‘Keep looking, dung-muncher!’

Rennic marched to a long, low chest that sat beneath the windows. He ripped it open then crowed with delight, reaching in a gleeful hand to make sure. Chel looked up from his search. ‘What, what is it? Quarrels?’

Rennic withdrew an armful of interwoven panels of leather and steel, a little frayed but still robust. His lamellar armour. He shook it out, then slung it straight around his shoulders.

‘Little man, come and give me a hand with this.’

Tarfel piped up. ‘I’ve found crossbow bolts, I think. And some kind of rod.’

‘Good, good, now … Oh …’