No matter how much Llian scratched, he could not stop the itching. He was filthy and covered in red lines of bedbug bites. The innkeeper had snorted into his ale when Llian asked about a bath; the place did not have one.

He was lurking in the darkest corner of the barroom of the seediest tavern in Chanthed, waiting for the hue and cry to die down so he could sneak across town and break into the college archives. He had spent long days here while the invasion clock ticked ever more loudly. More than three weeks had passed since Sulien’s nightmare and he had made no progress. Less than five until their world ended. The thought was paralysing.

As was the knowledge that the magiz could be attacking Karan and Sulien right now. He was desperate for news but had no way of getting any.

“You have come down in the world,” said Thandiwe, slipping into the seat opposite him. She was also dressed cheaply but, being Thandiwe, her clothes enhanced her figure. She would look magnificent wrapped in a tent fly.

“How did you find me?”

“You’re predictable.”

“What do you want?” he hissed.

“I may be able to do something for you,” said Thandiwe.

“What happened to I’m going to utterly destroy you?”

“I happened on a secret admirer of your work.”

“Bully for you.”

“I’m trying to help you, Llian.”

“For the next thousand years, whenever anyone hears your name, it’ll be Llian the Liar, the Cheat, the Perverter of the Great Tales. Remember?”

“There’s gold in it for me,” she said grudgingly. “For arranging things.”

And she needed it desperately. “Go on.”

“Your admirer can get you out of Chanthed and give you a hiding place…”

Llian’s eyes narrowed. It seemed too good to be true and probably was. “What would I have to do in exchange?”

Thandiwe’s mouth turned down. “Write a brief tale and dedicate it to him.”

She envied Llian. She wanted a Great Tale desperately, and private commissions were the icing on a very rich cake. For the privilege of dining with such a teller and having a tale dedicated to himself, a wealthy connoisseur would pay more than a master at the college would earn in a decade.

“What’s his name?”

“I can’t say.”

“Sorry,” said Llian. “Not interested.”

She had not expected that. “Why the hell not?”

Llian hesitated. The fewer people who knew about his quest the better, but if he thwarted Thandiwe she would have the constables here in minutes.

“You know about the Merdrun?” said Llian.

“Of course; all the chroniclers are talking about them.”

“I’ve got to get into the secret archives.” He sketched out his plan.

Thandiwe sat back, weighing it up. Since she always had an ulterior motive, she was bound to think he had one as well. “Your admirer can easily get you in.”

“You’re sure?” said Llian.

“Absolutely. But he’ll want to meet you first.”

What choice did he have? If he refused she could – no, would – betray him. “All right.”

She stood up. “Let’s go.”

“Right now?”

“He doesn’t live far away. Have you got any reason to delay?”

Thandiwe led him out the back door. A large coach was waiting around the corner. He climbed inside, she joined him, and they were rolling down the street when it occurred to him that this was a little too convenient.

“I’ve got to know who —”

She pulled the window blinds down. “You’ll soon be safely out of Chanthed, in a place where no one would think of looking for you.”

“Assuming we can pass the city gates.” Llian had not been game to try.

“We’ll pass.”

The knot in his belly tightened. How could she be so sure? Where were they going? Who was the patron? He was tempted to kick the door open and leap out into the night, but then he would be hunted again, and public feeling against Wistan’s cowardly killer was running high. If they caught him they might hang him without a trial.

“There’s another thing,” said Thandiwe after they had been waved through the town gates and the coach was rolling along the north-eastern road not far from the meandering River Gannel. “Your admirer wants your help.”

“What for?”

“A secret project.”

He sat up, his interest piqued. “Oh?”

“Something Mendark worked on for ages, before his death.”

“What about?”

“Mancery.”

“I hardly think I can help anyone with mancery. What about it?”

“I wasn’t told.”

An hour passed. They might have gone as much as ten miles. The coach stopped and Llian heard the coachman’s deep voice, then another man’s laughter. A gate was opened and the coach passed through onto a driveway. Gravel crunched under the iron-shod wheels. Llian reached for the nearest window blind.

Thandiwe caught his hand. “Leave it.”

Rich men could be obsessive about their privacy. The coach took a sharp turn to the left, throwing her against Llian, and she clung to him far longer than was necessary. Considering her previous threats, it was disturbing. What was she up to?

The coach stopped and the door was opened. The coachman was holding up a lantern; they were in a coach house that smelled of fresh paint. The floor, which was pale pink marble, was almost impossibly clean. Llian climbed out. A liveried servant was waiting, and also a tired young woman with black hair, wearing a green kimono of watered silk. She was extraordinarily beautiful. She studied Llian and he caught the faintest hint of disgust.

“You will bathe and dress. This way.”

He followed her down a tiled path, her lantern casting moving fans of light to either side. The grass was so neatly clipped it might have been done with scissors. He looked back and Thandiwe was still standing by the coach. She looked anxious, lost and not a little afraid. Llian felt not a trace of pity.

The young woman led him in through the back door of a villa, a large rectangular building of three storeys with two-storey wings running off either end. Inside, all was in darkness save for her lantern beams, which did not reveal anything above waist height. She went up two flights of stairs, along a corridor, opened a door and ushered him into a large bathing room, beautifully tiled in green, banded serpentinite. She lit the lamps and turned on taps in a large tub. Hot and cold water gushed out.

“Put your clothes in the basket for burning,” she said. “Your boots as well.” She studied him in a measuring way. “I will fetch clean garments directly, and ointment for your bites.” She went out.

What kind of a man was Llian’s patron? Well, for the luxury of a hot bath, clean clothes and easy access to the archives, he could be any kind of a man he damn well pleased. Llian dumped his ruined clothes and battered boots but kept his belt, for Rulke’s little key was hidden in it.

After Llian had bathed she led him into a room the size of a ballroom, though its only occupant was an elegantly dressed, bronze-haired man sitting at a leopardwood desk at the far end. His forehead was high, his nose regal, his chin cleft and his Cupid’s bow lips full and sensual. A large armchair near the window had its back to him.

She escorted Llian over to the desk, which was bare save for a bound book the man was reading. After several minutes he looked up into Llian’s eyes.

“Thank you for agreeing to come,” he said in a rich, slow voice in which each word was perfectly enunciated. He rose, came around the desk and extended his hand. Llian shook it. “You know my subordinate, I believe.”

The armchair rotated to reveal Basible Norp. Cold crept over Llian. Subordinate?

“Yes,” said Llian, “though I don’t know your name.”

“A scandalous oversight on Ifoli’s part,” said the bronze-haired man. “I am Cumulus Snoat.”

The scales fell from Llian’s eyes. Snoat, who had tried to kill Tallia and nearly succeeded, who was now making ruthless war on Iagador and trying to take control of the college. Llian had been manipulated – no, conned.

He stared at the book on the table. It was inside a protective cover, which was why he had not recognised it before. It was his Tale of the Mirror, and there was nothing he could do to get it back. He felt a mad urge to drive his head into Snoat’s belly, grab the book and dive through the window.

How disastrously he had blundered by writing to Snoat in the first place. And how catastrophically he had compounded that error by voting for Norp instead of Thandiwe.

Wistan must be turning in his grave, and one of Snoat’s cutthroats had probably sent him to it. But Llian’s final blunder was by far the worst. Why, after all Thandiwe’s threats, had he come here with her? Because he’d had absolutely no choice.

With heart-stopping horror, something even worse occurred to him. If Snoat got Wistan’s dirt book he could identify and attack the allies, and it would undermine any defence they tried to make against the Merdrun. Why hadn’t he hidden it when he’d had the chance – or failing that, burned it as soon as he’d been framed for murder?

“I’ve been thinking about your proposal,” said Llian. “I’m afraid it’s not for me, but thank you for the offer.”

Snoat raised a hand and a squat, muscle-bound man appeared in the doorway to the left, wearing only a groin strap. His head was as round as a melon and his entire body had been shaved about a week ago. All over his body stubs of hair stood out like bristles on an old, coarse boar.

“Yorgee,” said Snoat. “Would you be so kind as to convince the Zain to stay?”

By the time Llian appreciated what Snoat was saying, Yorgee was only a yard away. He was half a head shorter than Llian but must have been twice his weight. Yorgee caught Llian by the shoulder in a grip that ground the bones together, then punched him in the belly so hard that it drove the wind out of him.

“Cumulus wishes you to stay until the job is done,” said Yorgee.

“I’ll stay,” gasped Llian.

“Cumulus thanks you,” said Yorgee.

He thumped Llian again to reinforce the point. Llian flew backwards and his impact with the floor jarred a small book from his pocket. The beautiful woman picked it up and, after a small hesitation, handed it to Snoat.

“Ahh!” he said.

Wistan’s dirt book, and all its secrets, was now in the hands of the enemy. Llian’s quest was in tatters; there was no hope of finding out about the summon stone now. He would be lucky to get out of here with his life.