‘Go somewhere else and look, neighbour,’ Sparhawk told him.

‘You can’t order me around. I got my rights.’

‘You want to look, is that it?’

‘That’s what I’m here for.’

Sparhawk seized him by the front of his canvas smock, lifted him out over the edge of the wall and dropped him. The wall was about fifteen feet high at that point, and the breath whooshed out of the drunken labourer as he hit the ground. ‘The approaching army’s out that way, neighbour,’ Sparhawk said pleasantly, leaning out over the edge and pointing southward. ‘Why don’t you stroll on out there and have a closer look – just to exercise your rights?’

‘You can be very abrasive when you set your mind to it, Sparhawk,’ Vanion chided his friend.

‘I didn’t like his attitude,’ Sparhawk grunted. ‘Neighbours,’ he said then to those crowded around them, ‘would anyone else like to assert his rights?’ He glanced over the wall. The drunken labourer was scrambling towards the questionable safety of the city, limping, gibbering with terror and with his eyes starting from his face.

A place on the top of the wall immediately opened for the two Pandions.

Vanion looked out at the approaching force of Cammorians and Rendors. ‘That’s sort of what I’d hoped,’ he said to Sparhawk. ‘The bulk of Martel’s forces are still marching up from the rear, and they’re piling up behind the bridges.’ He pointed at the vast dust-cloud rising for several miles to the south. ‘He won’t be able to get those men here until almost dark. I doubt that his deployment will be complete before noon tomorrow. That gives us a little bit of time at least. Let’s go back down.’

Sparhawk turned to follow his Preceptor, but then stopped and turned back. An ornate carriage with the emblem of the Church prominently embossed on its sides had just emerged from the south gate. The monk who was driving it had a suspiciously familiar set to his shoulders. Just before the carriage turned west, a bearded man wearing the cassock of a Patriarch peered briefly out of the carriage window. The carriage was no more than thirty yards away, so Sparhawk could easily identify the supposed clergyman inside.

It was Kurik.

Sparhawk started to swear.

‘What’s the matter?’ Vanion asked him.

‘I’m going to have a long talk with Patriarch Emban,’ Sparhawk grated. ‘That’s Kurik and Berit in that carriage.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’d recognize Kurik a hundred yards away on a dark night. Emban had no right to endanger them like that.’

‘It’s too late to do anything about it now. Come along, Sparhawk. I want to go and talk with Martel.’

‘Martel?’

‘Maybe we can surprise an answer or two out of him. Do you think he’s arrogant enough to honour a flag of truce – just to demonstrate his advantage at this point?’