The flaming fingers steepled. “Then these would be the so-called Foragers.”

The statement chilled Sardec. The idea that his company had caught the attention of the Inquisition was not a pleasant one. Cold eyes, at odds with the mellow voice, fixed Sardec with their gaze. They reminded him of a hunting hawk staring at its prey.

“I believe you and I have some things to talk about, Lieutenant,” said the High Inquisitor. The cleansing flames had died away but the ancient runes on his gauntlets glowed with their own internal light.

Sardec said, “I would be delighted to escort you through the city. Halim can be quite dangerous. It’s not just the undead; there are bandits and rebels and highway robbers.”

The Inquisitor’s coach was nearby. Hungry folk had already stripped meat from the dead horses. The remainder of the animals had fled or been stolen. Trunks and other gear lay strewn all around.

“Someone around here has considerable presence of mind,” said Joran. He laughed as at a mildly humorous joke. “No one came to our aid but they found time to loot our possessions.”

“People are desperate and they have little love for Taloreans here,” said Sardec.

“No doubt you are correct. I would be very grateful if your men could help us. Those trunks contain valuable papers.”

“Of course,” said Sardec, turning to the Foragers. “You five gather up those chests and stow them away on the coach. Sergeant, take ten men and go to the Palace. Explain the situation and have them send more horses and a cavalry escort. I will help guard the Inquisitor.”

“At once, sir,” said Hef. There was no humour in the Sergeant’s manner now. The presence of the Inquisitor and his retinue daunted him. Sardec was pleased to note that Hef had the presence of mind to take Weasel and the Barbarian. Those two were the last people he would have wanted falling under Joran’s eye.

Several of the Inquisitor’s henchmen eyed the soldiers coldly, as if they expected them to try and make off with the sacred relics. Sardec knew the sort of Terrarchs they were likely to be; fanatics of the most intolerant kind. He was suddenly aware that Joran had moved up to him. The smell of incense and something else, perfumed oil perhaps, clung to those white robes.

“You are familiar with the Lady Asea,” Joran said. It did not sound like a question.

“I commanded her escort during her visit to Harven.”

“You were there when she made her daring escape from the city.”

Sardec nodded. He could still recall the eerie night flight out of the great seaport. He forced himself to meet the Inquisitor’s gaze. He was a loyal Terrarch of a proud and ancient family.