‘It’s a military decision, Cholda,’ Dolmant replied calmly. ‘We don’t have enough men to defend the whole of Chyrellos. We’ve had to pull back inside the walls of the old city.’

‘Are you mad? My house is out there!’

‘I’m sorry, Cholda,’ Dolmant told him, ‘but there’s nothing I can do.’

‘But I voted for you!’

‘I appreciate that.’

‘My house! My things! My treasures!’ Patriarch Cholda of Mirischum stood wringing his hands. ‘My beautiful house! All my furnishings! My gold!’

‘Go and take refuge in the Basilica, Cholda,’ Dolmant told him coldly. ‘Pray that your sacrifice may find favour in the eyes of God.’

The Patriarch of Mirischum turned and stumbled back down the stairs, weeping bitterly.

‘I think you lost a vote there, Dolmant,’ Emban said.

‘The voting’s all over, Emban, and I’m sure I could live without that particular vote anyway.’

‘I’m not so sure, Dolmant,’ Emban disagreed. ‘There’s still one ballot yet to come. It’s fairly important, and we might just need Cholda before it’s over.’

‘They’ve started,’ Tynian said sadly.

‘What has?’ Kalten asked him.

‘The fires,’ Tynian replied, pointing out across the city as a sudden pillar of golden orange flame and black smoke shot up through the roof of a house. ‘Soldiers always seem to get careless with their torches when they’re looting at night.’

‘Isn’t there something we can do?’ Bevier asked urgently.

‘Not a thing, I’m afraid,’ Tynian said, ‘except maybe pray for rain.’

‘It’s the wrong season for it,’ Ulath said.

‘I know,’ Tynian sighed.

Chapter 12

The looting of the outer city continued throughout the day on into the night. The fires spread quickly, since no one was available to check them, and the city was soon enveloped in a thick pall of smoke. From the top of the wall, Sparhawk and his friends could see wild-eyed mercenaries running through the streets, each carrying an improvised sack over his shoulder. The crowd of citizens gathered before the gates of the inner city to plead for admittance melted away as Martel’s mercenaries began to appear.

There were murders, of course – many of them in plain sight – and there were other atrocities as well. One unshaven Cammorian dragged a young woman from a house by the hair and disappeared with her up an alley. Her screams quite clearly told the watchers what was happening to her.

A red-tunicked young church soldier standing beside Sparhawk atop the city wall began to weep openly. Then, as the somewhat shame-faced Cammorian emerged from the alley, the soldier raised his bow, aimed and released all in one motion. The Cammorian doubled over, clutching at the arrow buried to the feathers in his belly.

‘Good man,’ Sparhawk said shortly to the young fellow.

‘That could have been my sister, Sir Knight,’ the soldier said, wiping at his eyes.