‘There was a chill,’ he replied, ‘and an overpowering sense that whatever it was hated me. I’ve been hated before, Sephrenia, but not like that. It was inhuman. ’

‘All right, we can rely on that then. It’s something supernatural. Anything else?’

‘I was afraid of it.’ He admitted it flatly.

‘You? I didn’t think you knew what the word meant.’

‘I know, all right.’

She thought about it, her tiny, perfect face creased with thought. ‘Your original theory was really quite shaky, Sparhawk,’ she told him. ‘Would it really make much sense for Azash to have some brigand kill you and then to have to chase down the brigand in order to retrieve Bhelliom from him?’

‘It’s a little cumbersome and roundabout, I suppose.’

‘Exactly, let’s look at the possibility of pure coincidence. ’

‘I’m not supposed to do that, little mother. Providence, you understand.’

‘Stop that.’

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘Suppose that Martel subverted Perraine on his own – without consulting with Annias – that’s assuming that it’s Annias who’s the one dealing with Otha and not Martel.’

‘I don’t really think Martel would go so far as to have personal dealings with Otha.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure, Sparhawk. But let’s assume that killing you was Martel’s idea and not Otha’s – or some involuted scheme Azash came up with. That would cover the hole in your logic. The shadow could still be related to Azash and have absolutely no connection whatsoever with the attempts on your life.’

‘What’s it doing then?’

‘Watching, most likely. Azash wants to know where you are, and He definitely wants to know where Bhelliom is. That might explain why you almost always see that shadow when you remove the jewel from the pouch.’

‘This is starting to make my head ache, little mother. But if everything goes the way Dolmant’s planned it, we’ll have both Martel and Annias in custody before long. We ought to be able to get a few answers out of them – enough to clear up my headache anyway.’

Colonel Delada, commander of the Archprelate’s personal guard, was a stocky, solidly-built man with short-cut reddish hair and a lined face. Despite his largely ceremonial position, he carried himself like a warrior. He wore the burnished breastplate, round embossed shield and the traditional short sword of his unit. His knee-length cape was crimson, and his visorless helmet had a horse-hair crest. ‘Are they really that big, Sir Sparhawk?’ he asked as the two of them looked out at the smoking ruins from the flat roof of a house abutting the inner city wall.

‘I really don’t know, Colonel Delada,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘I’ve never seen one either. Bevier has, though, and he tells me that they’re at least as big as a fair-sized house.’

‘And they can really throw rocks the size of oxen?’

‘That’s what they tell me.’