Helsarn’s cold demeanour returned as he nodded, then he remounted and, driving his spurs viciously into his horse’s flanks, galloped off down the street.

A little later, the carriage was upright again and, bearing both the injured driver and the dead body of Hagen, was following the same route as the Captain. It was a strange procession. Not that the sight of carriage, escort and prisoners was strange in Dirynhald, but normally it would provoke little or no response from the passing citizens. Now, however, despite the time of day, the streets were almost empty and such few people as were about were ill-at-ease and either stared fretfully or conspicuously averted their eyes and strode out purposefully.

It did not need Helsarn’s words, ‘match in this tinder-box’, to heighten Vintre’s nervousness further and he closed his men up and moved them to the trot, notwithstanding the discomfort of the ‘witnesses’ jogging between the two files. News of Hagen’s death had obviously run through the city as fast as legs could carry it, and who could say what consequences would ensue. It was a long time since there had been any serious, or even open opposition to the Gevethen, but though an insidious mixture of sustained terror and familiarity was gradually sapping its will, the opposition was there, brooding and ominous – in many ways very little different in its demeanour now from that of the Gevethen themselves. Vintre’s mind wandered… Perhaps this year they would at last find the Count and stamp out the remaining spark of resistance that his continued existence maintained.

A disturbance behind him brought Vintre sharply back to the grey street, but it was only one of the prisoners being dragged to his feet after stumbling. He reproached himself angrily for drifting into daydreams. Now was a time to be alert. Lord Counsellor Hagen had been the Gevethen’s closest adviser, and his death would undoubtedly be used as an excuse for them to tighten further their grip on the city and its people.