‘That, little man, presupposes an overabundance of the alchemist’s black powder and its constituents. Sounds like your escapades in the caves may have cleared out the precursors. We’ve got nothing but what’s steeping in the workshops as we speak.’

Chel’s jaw was jutting. ‘Then what should we be doing? If everything is so dire, and all our plans are fruitless? Hm?’

Rennic’s eyes gleamed in the gloom. ‘Sally in the night. Cross their bridge before they do, kill the sentries, take them in their beds. Set the camp aflame, and whatever witchfire remains, before they wake.’

Chel was staring back in horror. ‘But they might be on the verge of surrender!’

‘Something like that should make up their minds for them.’

‘… And I don’t believe we have the manpower to launch such an assault,’ Tarfel said ruefully. ‘Speaking of which, would you happen to know the location of our alchemical friend? I understand she was in Lady Matil’s chambers earlier, and left in a state of some distress.’

‘We saw her, yeah. She left. Don’t know where she is now. Probably skulking in the workshops.’

‘I see.’

‘How is the Keeper?’ Chel asked.

‘She still has yet to wake, but she lives. There is hope.’ The prince turned to the plateau, watching it glow red in the light of the waning sun. ‘Vedren is correct: while the workshops stand, impaired as they are, we retain our strength. But the structures that underpin this city are desperately weakened. If Corvel had any idea, he’d exploit it to the hilt.’

Rennic moved next to him. ‘And if the people of the city knew that handing you over would end this in a heartbeat, they’d throw you across the gorge.’

Tarfel didn’t blink. ‘Then they had best remain ignorant.’

Rennic’s lips curled, something like a smile. Then his brow lowered.

‘Movement at the head of the bridge. They’re coming again.’ He straightened. ‘Looks like no surrender after all.’

THIRTY-SEVEN

Rennic returned from a further conference with the remaining guards and their captain, tightening the straps on his armour as he traversed the rubble-strewn courtyard. Chel picked at his own mail shirt, still hanging together despite its rough treatment, heavy and hot in the day’s thick heat.

‘They’re making preparations,’ the big man said, then stopped and looked Chel up and down. Something burned behind his eyes, something dark and driven, but it wasn’t aimed at Chel. ‘You got the strength for this, little man? You want to head back, sit this one out with Lemon and Foss, I’d get it. You need the rest.’