The week seemed to drag, although there were many, many things that had to be done. Houses were pulled down and their rubble used to block the three gates which Komier had decided were only marginally defensible. Kurik continued to train selected church soldiers in the use of their crossbows. Berit gathered a group of young monks, and they traded off keeping watch from the cupola atop the Basilica dome. Emban scurried about inside the Basilica itself, trying to maintain his hold on votes, although that grew more and more difficult. None of the defenders had the temerity to refuse the Patriarchs of the Church the right to ascend the walls to look out at the city, and the view from those walls was not very encouraging. A fair number of Patriarchs, several of them in the very forefront of the fight to keep the Primate of Cimmura off the throne, lamented bitterly as the fires approached those quarters of the city in which their houses lay, and not a few told Emban to his face that he could forget about any future support. Emban grew drawn-looking, and he began to complain of pains in his stomach as he watched his support melting before his eyes.

Annias did nothing. He simply waited.

And Chyrellos continued to burn.

Sparhawk stood atop the wall early one evening looking out over the burning city. His mood was sombre. He heard a slight clinking behind him and turned quickly.

It was Sir Bevier. ‘Not too promising, is it?’ the young Arcian said, also looking out at Chyrellos.

‘Not really,’ Sparhawk agreed. He looked directly at his young friend. ‘How long do you think these walls will stand up to a mangonel, Bevier?’

‘Not very long, I’m afraid. The walls were built in antiquity. They weren’t meant to stand up to modern siege-engines. Perhaps Martel won’t bother to construct them. They take a long time to build, and the workers have to know exactly what they’re doing. A poorly constructed mangonel will kill more of its crew than it will the enemy. There’s a great deal of stress involved when you load one.’

‘We can hope, I suppose. I think these walls will stand up to ordinary catapults, but if he starts lobbing half-ton boulders at us –’ Sparhawk shrugged.

‘Sparhawk.’ It was Talen. The boy came quickly up the stairs from below. ‘Sephrenia wants to see you at the chapterhouse. She says it’s urgent.’

‘Go ahead, Sparhawk,’ Bevier said. ‘I’ll keep watch here.’

Sparhawk nodded and went down the stairs to the narrow street below.

Sephrenia met him in the lower hall. Her face was even more pale than usual.

‘What is it?’ Sparhawk asked her.

‘It’s Perraine, dear one,’ she replied in a hushed voice. ‘He’s dying.’

‘Dying? There haven’t been any attacks yet. What happened to him?’

‘He’s killed himself, Sparhawk.’

‘Perraine?’