“You know,” he said. “It would save us all a lot of time if you just spilled my blood right here. You could say I resisted arrest. It would be so much easier, in the long run.”

“I don’t think so,” the commander said. “Brother Sequilious was quite adamant that he wanted you all taken alive.”

A hood was thrown over Stanwick’s head and he was hustled from the room. He fell twice on the steps up to the surface — once so badly that he sprained his ankle — and by the time he was bundled through a narrow door and onto a bench, his leg was singing with pain. He bit back tears, not wanting the Swords to witness his grief, but he couldn’t stop a sob escaping his lips.

“Stanwick? Stanwick Tassiter?” a voice said, close by. A hand fumbled into his. “Yes, it’s Stanwick, all right. I’d recognise those soft academic’s hands anywhere.”

It was Alex, the blind weaver who lived not far from Stanwick.

“Alex, what are you doing here?”

He knew full well that the weaver regularly paid his dues at the local church. He couldn’t begin to imagine how the old man had come to the attention of the Swords.

“It sounds like the whole of Westbay is being rounded up.” Alex said.

The room lurched and there was the sound of wheels rumbling over cobbles. Stanwick realised then that he was surrounded by people whimpering and praying. He recognised many of the voices amongst the multitude, all people he knew would never consider defying the Final Faith. Why had Makennon ordered this mass abduction?

The carriage travelled for about ten minutes before coming to a halt. Stanwick could now hear the sound of waves pounding against rocks and, just below that, voices raised in song.

The door of the carriage was opened and Stanwick was herded out, along with the rest of the villagers. Alex still held his hand, until it was batted away by the flat of a blade. Chains were looped around Stanwick’s wrists and ankles.