‘No. But he’s low physically, and his spirits are down too.’

‘Is he going to be all right?’ Pallidea asked.

Before anyone could answer, the door to Kinsel’s room opened. Serrah and Phoenix came out.

‘How is he?’ Darrok said.

‘Malnourished, ill-treated and depressed,’ Serrah replied. ‘Just about what you’d expect, in fact.’

‘He’s very distraught,’ Phoenix added. ‘I’ve given him a powerful sleeping draught. He’ll be out for some time yet.’

‘We couldn’t get him to say much on the way back here,’ Caldason told them. ‘How was he with you?’

‘Confused,’ Serrah answered. ‘We have to remember that a lot’s happened while Kinsel’s been away. Not just to him, to all of us. He’d been told about the migration here, but not much else. But he had only one real concern.’

‘Tanalvah.’

‘Yes. Tan and the kids. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him we’ve no idea how they are.’

‘I couldn’t either.’

‘But we have to assume they’re all right, Reeth, and we’ve got to get word to Tan about Kinsel. We owe it to her.’

‘How? Getting messages off this island hasn’t exactly proved easy.’

‘I might be able to help with that,’ Darrok offered.

‘Really?’ Serrah said. ‘What do you have in mind?’

‘Just a little something I’ve been keeping by. I’ll check to see if it can be done.’

‘It’s not another accelerated boat, is it?’ Caldason ventured, adding, ‘Which, by the way, was a brilliant idea, Phoenix.’

The sorcerer nodded, modestly.

‘That’s not something we’re likely to repeat,’ Darrok said. ‘We can’t be so lavish with dragon’s blood in future.’

‘Pity. It might have come in handy on my trip.’

‘You’ll have to rely on conventional means. We need the powder here.’

‘Since when were you so enthusiastic about magic, Reeth?’ Serrah wanted to know.

Kutch looked as though he was about to make the same point.

‘I’m not so dim as to ignore something that could speed the journey,’ Caldason said. ‘But that’s as far as it goes. I wouldn’t use magic by choice.’

‘So you’re thinking of setting out soon?’ Serrah asked.

‘I said I wouldn’t go until we did our best for Kinsel. That’s done. There’s nothing to keep me now.’

‘So when are we going?’

‘The next day or two.’

‘That soon?’

‘You don’t have to come, Serrah. You or Kutch. In fact, you know how I feel about-’

‘No. I’m still coming.’

‘Me, too,’ Kutch put in.

‘This is all very well,’ Phoenix pronounced. ‘But what do we do about Kinsel?’

Like the proverbial iceberg, Prince Melyobar’s court showed only a tenth of itself to the world. Not physically, but in terms of the hierarchy of functionaries, servants and labourers needed to service it. Naturally, the bottommost echelons of the pecking order consisted of menials, toiling at jobs those higher up would rather not think about, let alone undertake.

Two such workers, holders of the rank of private in the Palace Guard Auxiliary, had one of the more onerous tasks. Their duties took them to the lowest depths of the palace, to ignored and feared zones where the court’s less salubrious business was conducted.

This chilly dawn they walked dank corridors that were badly lit and unheated, so that the winter cold seeped through lichen-covered walls.

‘Just one from last night, Nechen,’ the older of the duo declared. He was brawny and grizzled.

‘Thank the gods for that,’ his slightly younger, marginally less grizzled and brawny companion replied. ‘I hate it when we have a heap of ’em first thing.’

‘There’ll be more as the day wears on, you can count on that.’ He hawked and spat. ‘Damn, but the air down here plays havoc with my tubes.’

‘Their number never goes down though, does it, Welst? I mean, when did we last have a day without any?’

‘It’s in the nature of this place. There’s bound to be a steady stream, given the Prince’s way of doing things.’

‘Yeah, but-’

‘Ours is not to reason why,’ Welst cautioned. ‘We do as we’re told. Unless we want to end up down here ourselves. And not walking about, if you get my drift.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t mind being assigned to other duties, I can tell you that,’ Nechen said. ‘This kind of work has a way of getting a man down.’

‘The best chance we have of that is by doing this job well.’ He gave his companion a penetrating glare. ‘And by not complaining.’

They trudged on in silence, their footsteps echoing in the bleak stone corridors. At length they rounded a bend and came to a set of heavy doors. A gaggle of guards sat on benches beside them.

The sentries knew the privates well, and waved them on without formality. One of the watchmen rose and took a huge bunch of keys from its hook. The doors were unlocked, emitting a throaty creak as the guard pushed them open.

Beyond lay a further labyrinth of corridors, housing the palace’s dungeons. The turnkey led the way, and several minutes later they arrived at a particular door. A stretcher was waiting for them, propped against the wall outside.

‘It’s in there,’ the jailer announced. He leaned forward and undid the door, then backed off. ‘You’ll find this one’s a bit…ripe. I’ll, er, leave you to it.’ He scampered away.

‘As usual,’ Nechen muttered. ‘Leave it to the poor bloody infantry. Let’s get it over with, shall we?’

Welst laid a restraining hand on his companion’s shoulder. ‘Not so fast.’ He dug out a couple of grubby face masks. ‘We’re supposed to put these on, remember.’

‘If we must,’ Nechen sighed.

They tied on the cloth masks, covering their mouths and noses. Welst plucked a torch from its bracket and pushed open the cell door. Even with their masks, the odour was overpowering. It was pitch black inside, so Welst held up the brand, casting light. Things scuttled into the shadows.

‘Well, there he is.’ He nodded at the bunk, the cell’s only piece of furniture.

A body was sprawled face down across it, knuckles touching the floor on one side, feet on the other. They approached, crunching over rank straw.

‘Good clothes,’ Nechen said. ‘Must be an aristo. Wonder what the poor sod did to warrant the Prince sending him down here.’

‘Perhaps he used the wrong teaspoon. Like I said, ours is not to-’

‘Yes, yes, I know.’

‘Come on, we haven’t got all day. Turn him over.’

‘Why me? Isn’t it your turn?’

‘I did it last time,’ stated Welst.

‘No, you didn’t. It was me yesterday, too. Why do I have to-’

‘Just do it. The quicker we get this done, the quicker we’re out of here.’

Nechen sighed and rolled the corpse. ‘Gods, he’s in a bit of a state, isn’t he?’

‘Been lying here more than a few days, I reckon. Go and get the stretcher.’

‘It’s my turn for that as well, is it?’

Welst shot him another look.

Fuming, Nechen stumbled out of the cell. Welst watched him go, then bent to the body. Quickly, he searched the man’s clothing. All he found was a few coins, and a glamoured locket bearing the animated, smiling likeness of a woman. The locket was too risky, so he stuffed it back. Grumbling at the poor pickings, he slipped the coins into his pocket.

‘What was that?’ Nechen said, dragging the stretcher in.

‘Nothing. Just…just saying a prayer for the poor wretch.’

‘Really? Oh, that’s nice. I never had you down for the sentimental type, Welst.’

‘Yes, well, I’ve got hidden depths.’ He added briskly, ‘Let’s get on with this, shall we?’

They lifted the body, dumped it on the stretcher and threw a filthy blanket over it. Then they manoeuvred their load through the door.

The guards at the sentry post held their noses as they went past.

A lengthy journey stretched before them, back along winding corridors, up and down flights of steps, through numerous doors. Yet for all the thousands who populated the palace, they met few other people.

In a long, completely deserted corridor, dimly lit by glamour orbs, they put the stretcher down and stopped for a breather. Propped on a ledge, Welst took out his clay pipe and began thumbing dark, coarse tobacco into its bowl.