Esen Basar, novel Grand Duke of Denirnas Port and Doromin province, his smug and handsome face still bearing the mark of Rennic’s knife-throw, took a preening step beneath the awning and saw Chel. Immediately he blanched, his eyes and nostrils wide, one hand jumping to his scar.

‘The traitorous sand-crab,’ he hissed. ‘I will not—’

‘Wait in the wagon, your grace,’ Vashenda snapped, and he stiffened, turned, and returned to the transport, passing the last of the party on his way in. Chel watched this last arrival with a sense of leaden disappointment.

Fest looked rumpled and off-kilter in his confessor’s robes, but he grinned when he recognized Chel. His hair had been cropped short, his blessed armour seemingly no different from the wild-eyed young men escorting them, but he swaggered apart, confidence undimmed.

‘The Eagle’s totem! We must be in the right place.’ He gave Vashenda a knowing grin, which she ignored.

‘Sand-flower,’ she said, stepping beneath the awning. She was sweating in the robes, clear beads proud on her brow, but she gave them no acknowledgement. ‘You live. Does the prince?’

Matil took a step forward, jaw set. ‘Perhaps some introductions would be polite?’

Chel rose to his feet beside her. ‘Exalted Matil, this is Vashenda, sister of the Order of the Rose, executive prelate of Denirnas Port.’

Vashenda inclined her head, far less than the bow due to Arowan’s Keeper. ‘Please the Shepherd, Acting Herald of the Merciful Forces of Divine Unification.’

‘The other one is Fest, a double-crossing piece of shit.’

The man’s grin widened. ‘As if the Eagle spoke through him, one hand up his arse, working the mouth with his grubby fingers.’

The corners of Vashenda’s mouth twitched downwards. ‘And you are Matil of Arowan. You speak for your mother?’

‘I speak for myself.’

‘Oho?’

‘My mother is deceased, the city mourns. You may address me as Keeper.’ Matil smiled, small, hard.

‘Oho.’

Chel found his legs were trembling, his fingers tingling, fighting the urge to shiver. ‘Shall we get to it? I’m sure Fest has graves to rob.’

Vashenda nodded at Matil, deeper this time, although still too shallow. ‘With your permission, Exalted?’

‘Speak.’

‘First we must ask after the health of Prince Tarfel. His brother, our emperor-in-waiting, cares deeply for him, and wishes only to see him safe.’

‘He is well. He is under the city’s protection. Safe.’

Vashenda nodded. ‘That would be a matter of opinion.’

Chel clenched his jaw, fighting its nascent chatter. ‘What do you want, Vashenda?’

She looked straight at him, and he was back in the Denirnas lowport, transfixed by her cold fury. ‘You’ve survived, sand-flower, but it seems you have not learnt. Now be quiet. The adults are talking.’

‘I am here as the prince’s second, to speak as he might.’

‘Including your descriptions of Master Fest?’ Matil asked, a tight smile pulling at one corner of her mouth.

‘Let’s assume so.’