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placing it where it could never be found.
    ‘The mailshirt is destroyed. I destroyed it,’ Jelindel said.
    The Preceptor tensed. ‘For your sake, you had better be lying,’ he said. ‘Fetch the truthseer,’ he ordered Kantor. ‘This spawn of a fool will tell us nothing willingly.’
    ‘Let me stimulate her again, my lord,’ Kantor said. His harsh voice sounded like the vocal chords had been replaced by a machine.
    The Preceptor waved his hand, dismissing the idea. ‘I am in too much of a hurry, and I do not trust her to speak the truth even under torture.’
    Kantor bowed and departed. The Preceptor poured himself a drink and crossed to the roaring fire. He stood before it, backlit and ominous.
    ‘How did you like my enhanced deadmoon warriors?’
    ‘You mean Fa’red’s enhanced deadmoon warriors, don’t you?’
    The Preceptor went still, eyeing her over the rim of a goblet. ‘You would do well not to irk me, Countess. I can make your passing a thing of perpetual pain, such that peasants a thousand years from now will shudder to recount.’ He paused, sipping his wine.
    Outwardly urbane, as if he were entertaining a dinner guest, the Preceptor smiled. Jelindel shuddered. Thus does a shark smile moments before it tears its victim apart, she thought.
    ‘Where is your Adept 12 tonight?’ Jelindel asked. ‘Surely he would want to be here for such an important interrogation.’
    ‘Away on business. A pity. As you say, he would not wish to miss this.’
    ‘Especially after the destruction of his deadmoon warriors.’
    The Preceptor almost spilt his wine. ‘What’s that you say?’
    Jelindel stared at him. The two levitating warriors had not told the Preceptor what had transpired at the Temple the previous night. Obviously, they owed their allegiance to Fa’red rather than the Preceptor. A thought, Jelindel could clearly see, that was beginning to form in the Preceptor’s mind as well.
    He slammed his wine glass down, snapping the stem, and roared for his attendants. A small knot came bursting through the door like a scrum of kutark ball players.
    The Preceptor’s eyes picked out a tall skinny man whose clothing and accoutrement indicated he was a counsellor of some rank. ‘What is the report on the Temple attack?’ he demanded in a sibilant voice. It left the listener in no doubt that one false word or gesture would cause the Preceptor to lash out.
    The counsellor cleared his throat nervously. His voice was a soft squeak: ‘Report? Of course, your lordship. The report was … I mean, is … in other words, the report reports that …’
    His voice trailed off. A smaller man, stocky of carriage, spoke up. ‘Your deadmoon warriors were … perhaps inadequate for the task set them, my lord. We believe the witch was responsible. Many fell to their deaths. A handful returned.’ He bowed low and was silent.
    ‘A handful?’ the Preceptor shouted. ‘Are you insane? These were deadmoon assassins. None can stand against them. None but lindraks, and them I had slaughtered to the last of their order. A handful!’
    He dismissed the cowering men with a wave of his hand and turned to Jelindel, his dark eyes simmering. He drew an iron from the fire. Its end, shaped like a pike’s blade, glowed white-hot. He advanced towards her.
    ‘Iron for the witch,’ he said, as though not in his own mind. ‘And fire for the flesh. The truthseer can wait. I will have the answer I seek from you or I will sear the skin from your bones.’
    Jelindel fought to clear her mind of the panic that almost consumed it. She uttered a binding word and the blue sparks lashed themselves about the Preceptor’s legs. He fell with a cry and the glowing poker clattered across the floor. It came to rest against the wall, beneath ornate curtains. The Preceptor uttered an oath and Jelindel added an extra small binding word that fastened his lips. He could not cry out for help, although he thrashed across the slate floor.
    In moments, the