‘Are they wearing those traditional black Rendorish robes?’ Emban pressed, his eyes intent.

‘It’s rather difficult to say, Your Grace,’ Berit replied. ‘They’re beyond the rivers and there’s a great deal of dust out there. They seemed to be dressed differently from the Cammorians, though. That’s about all I can really say.’

‘I see. Vanion, is this young man any good?’

‘Very good, Your Grace,’ Sparhawk answered for his Preceptor. ‘We have high expectations for him.’

‘Good. Can I borrow him? And I think I’ll want your squire Kurik as well. I need something, and I want them to go and get it for me.’

‘Of course, Your Grace,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘Go with him, Berit. Kurik’s at the chapterhouse. You can pick him up there.’

Emban waddled away with Berit close behind him.

‘We’d better split up, My Lords,’ Preceptor Komier suggested. ‘Let’s go and have a look at those gates. Ulath, you’re with me.’

‘Yes, My Lord.’

‘Sparhawk,’ Vanion said, ‘you come with me. Kalten, I want you to stay close to Patriarch Dolmant. Annias might try to take advantage of the confusion, and Dolmant’s the one he has to worry about the most. Do your very best to keep His Grace inside the Basilica. It’s a little safer in here.’ Vanion put on his plumed black helmet and turned with a swirl of his inky cloak.

‘Which way, My Lord?’ Sparhawk asked when they emerged from the Basilica and started down the marble steps to the broad court below.

‘We’ll go to the south gate,’ Vanion said grimly. ‘I want to have a look at Martel.’

‘Right,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘I’d be the last in the world to say “I told you so”, Vanion, but I did, you know. I wanted to kill Martel right from the start.’

‘Don’t push it, Sparhawk,’ Vanion snapped tersely as he hauled himself up into his saddle. His face became grimly set. ‘The situation’s changed, though. You have my permission now.’

‘It’s a little late,’ Sparhawk muttered as he mounted Faran.

‘What was that?’

‘Nothing, My Lord.’

The south gate of the city of Chyrellos had not been closed for over two centuries, and its condition was painfully obvious. Many of its timbers showed signs of dry rot, and the massive chains that operated it were thick with rust. Vanion took one look and shuddered. ‘Totally indefensible,’ he growled. ‘I could kick that thing down all by myself. Let’s go on top of the wall, Sparhawk. I want to see these armies.’

The top of the city wall was crowded with citizens, artisans, merchants and common labourers. There was an almost holiday air in the colourfully-dressed throng as they milled about atop the wall, gaping at the approaching army.

‘Watch who you’re shoving,’ one workman said belligerently to Sparhawk. ‘We got our right to look the same as you.’ He smelled strongly of cheap ale.