The guard captain listened to the translation, then stood for a moment, tugging at the ends of his moustache. ‘Here. Wait.’ He muttered something to his men then walked away, into the darkness of the inner structure. Chel shuffled up to Tarfel and Loveless, flanked by the guards, and nodded in acknowledgement. Tarfel was maintaining his regal bearing, despite the obvious scepticism of those around them and his entirely un-regal appearance.

A liveried rider came galloping into the gatehouse from the road, flushed and dust-stained, dismounted and ran into the darkness after the guard captain. A moment later, a groom appeared and led the foaming horse away.

As they waited, Chel looked at the brutal yards-thick walls, the etching and carving around the second gateway, set off from the outer. Beyond, in the gathering gloom, he saw the flicker of torches marking the passageway to the third and final gate, and a sliver of light that might have been the open air on the far side. For a gatehouse, Korowan was enormous; for a fortress, it was dense, tightly packed, its sole aim to block the pass to the lands beyond. Three huge gates, portcullises and deployable blockades between them, arrow-slits and trenches overhead: any invading force would be shredded in its depths.

Chel felt some part of him unclench, wavering on the point of relaxation. Corvel’s agents could not follow. None could pass the Stop. As long as Tarfel could get them in.

The guard captain returned, one hand fidgeting with his moustache. He marched to Tarfel, stopped, then bowed. Chel let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

‘Come.’

‘Wait, my retinue. Loveless, tell him!’

‘Retinue? Are you—’

‘Tell him!’

She rattled off a translation, and the guard waved a hand in impatient acknowledgement. She turned to Chel. ‘Get the others. Fast.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘That rider was a messenger. Something’s happening. Go, now!’

By the time he returned, a long, upholstered wagon had appeared beneath the gate, drawn from some hidden stable and pulled by two fine-looking horses with ornate collars. Mutters from the queue of traffic behind them had turned to angry shouts, especially when they had pulled the cart onto the roadside and driven up the slope, kicking up ever more of the arid dust.

Loveless met them at the long wagon, her hood still pulled low. ‘Leave the cart, they’ll bring it. Get on board. Fast as you can.’ Tarfel was already seated on the wagon, on one of the two facing benches that ran along its length. Two of the guards sat beyond him, apathetic, their spears couched between their knees.

‘Aye, right, what kind of wagon is this then?’

‘Troop transport. Ferrying bodies to and from the city.’

‘And they’ll be bringing our gear, will they?’

‘Get a fucking move on, Lemon!’