There was a landing perhaps twenty steps down the narrow stairway, and Kalten and Mirtai stopped there, stepping somewhat apart to give themselves room.

Santheocles, wearing his gleaming breastplate and crested helmet, came bounding up the stairs two at a time with his sword in his hand. He stopped suddenly when he reached the landing, staring at Kalten and Mirtai in stupefied disbelief. He waved his sword at them and issued a peremptory command in his own language.

‘What did he say?’ Talen demanded.

‘He ordered them to get out of his way,’ Aphrael replied.

‘Doesn’t he realize that they’re his enemies?’

‘“Enemy” is a difficult concept for someone like Santheocles,’ Ehlana told him. ‘He’s never been outside the walls of Cyrga, and I doubt that he’s seen more than ten people who weren’t Cyrgai in his entire life. The Cyrgai obey him automatically, so he hasn’t had much experience with open hostility.’

Ekatas came puffing up the stairs behind Santheocles. His eyes were wide with shock and his wrinkled face ashen. He spoke sharply to his king, and Santheocles placidly stepped aside. Ekatas drew himself up and began speaking sonorously, his hands moving in the air before him.

‘Stop him!’ Bevier cried. ‘He’s casting a spell!’

‘He’s trying to cast a spell,’ Aphrael corrected. I think he’s in for a nasty surprise.’

The High Priest’s voice rose in a long, slow crescendo and he suddenly leveled one arm at Kalten and Mirtai.

Nothing happened.

Ekatas held his empty hand up in front of his face, gaping at it in utter astonishment.

‘Ekatas,’ Aphrael called sweetly to him, ‘I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but now that Cyrgon’s dead, your spells won’t work any more.’

He stared up at her, comprehension and recognition slowly dawning on his face. Then he spun and bolted through the door on the left side of the landing and slammed it behind him.

Mirtai moved quickly after him. She briefly tried the door, then stepped back and kicked it to pieces.

Kalten advanced on the sneering King of the Cyrgai. Santheocles struck a heroic pose, his oversized shield extended, his sword raised, and his head held high.

‘He’s no match for Kalten,’ Bevier said. ‘Why doesn’t he run?’

‘He doth believe himself invincible, Sir Bevier,’ Xanetia replied. ‘He hath slain many of his own soldiers on the practice-field, and thus considers himself the paramount warrior in all the world. In truth, however, his subordinates would not strike back or even defend themselves, because he was their king.’

Kalten, grim-faced and vengeful, fell on the feeble-minded monarch like an avalanche. The face of Santheocles was filled with shock and outrage as, for the first time in his life, someone actually raised a weapon against him.

It was a short, ugly fight, and the outcome was quite predictable. Kalten battered down the oversized shield, parried a couple of stiffly formal swings at his head and then buried his sword up to the hilt in the precise center of the burnished breastplate. Santheocles stared at him in sheer astonishment. Then he sighed, toppled backward off the blade, and clattered limply back down the stairs.

‘Yes!’ Ehlana exulted in a savage voice as the most offensive of her persecutors died.

From beyond the splintered door came a long, despairing scream fading horribly away, and Mirtai emerged with an expression of bleak satisfaction.

‘What did you do to him?’ Kalten asked curiously.

‘I defenestrated him,’ she replied with a shrug.

‘Mirtai!’ he gasped. ‘That’s awful!’

She gave him a baffled look. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘That’s a terrible thing to do to a man!’

‘Throw him out of a window? I can think of much worse things to do to somebody.’

‘Is that what that word means?’

‘Of course. Stragen used to talk about it back in Matherion.’

‘Oh.’ Kalten flushed slightly.

‘What did you think it meant?’

‘Ah – never mind, Mirtai. Just forget I said anything.’

‘You must have thought it meant something.’

‘Can we just drop it? I misunderstood, that’s all.’ He looked up at the others. ‘Let’s go on down,’ he suggested. I don’t think there’ll be anybody else in our way.’

Ehlana suddenly burst into tears. I can't!’ she wailed. ‘I can’t face Sparhawk like this!’ She put one hand on the wimple that covered her violated scalp.

‘Are you still worrying about that?’ Aphrael asked.

‘I look so awful!’

Aphrael rolled her eyes upward. ‘Let’s go into that room,’ she suggested. ‘I’ll fix it for you – if it’s so important.’

‘Could you?’ Ehlana asked eagerly.

‘Of course.’ The Child Goddess squinted at her. ‘Would you like to have me change the color?’ she asked. ‘Or maybe make it curly?’

The Queen pursed her lips. ‘Why don’t we talk about that a little?’ she said.

The Cynesgans who manned the outer wall of the Hidden City were not particularly good troops in the first place, and when the Trolls came leaping out of No-Time to scramble up the walls toward them, they broke and ran.

‘Did you tell the Trolls to open the gates for us?’ Vanion asked Ulath.

‘Yes, my Lord,’ the Genidian replied, ‘but it might be a little while before they remember. They’re hungry right now. They’ll eat breakfast first.’

‘We have to get inside, Ulath,’ Sephrenia said urgently. ‘We have to protect the slave-pens.’

‘Oh, Lord,’ he said. I forgot about that. The Trolls won’t be able to distinguish slaves from Cynesgans.’

‘I’ll go have a look,’ Khalad volunteered. He swung down from his horse and ran forward to the massively timbered gates. After a couple of moments he came back. ‘It’s no particular problem, Lady Sephrenia,’ he reported. ‘Those gates would fall apart if you sneezed on them.’

‘What?’

The timbers are very old, my Lady, and they’re riddled with dry-rot. With your permission, Lord Vanion, I’ll take some men and rig up a battering-ram. We’ll knock down the gate so that we can get inside.’

‘Of course,’ Vanion replied.

‘Come along then, Berit,’ Khalad told his friend.