Hetch was strong. And he was fast. He pulled me towards the daylight now, my hand squeezed so tightly in his that it almost crushed my rescued fingers.

Torchlight behind us, I felt fresh air on my face, and we were out! We made our way across a kind of bridge that spanned part of the courtyard thoroughfare, through a doorway and back into the main citadel.

Suddenly, at the sound of many footsteps, Hetch stopped. I slammed right into his back, the sandrat looping around his head to gnash long fangs towards my face. I backed away; Hetch pulled me in.

We were at the edge of a grey hall that ran between a pair of colonnaded aisles. Through it, out of a series of grey foyers, a procession of people was moving. Their footsteps whispered on the stone and murmurs echoed in a high ceiling. I saw the Caliph of Verunia, recognising him from the day when he and his people had arrived at the city. He wore purple, as he had then, but this time a finer, longer garment with red brocades. Close behind him walked a fat man robed in a cream-coloured cloth; over his head a wide tallith that jangled beads. There was a square-faced man too, with silvering hair and guardsman’s—

Before I could call out to Captain Mondric, the dwarf’s clammy palm clapped the word back in my mouth. Just in time. Not far behind the Captain, the blue-and-white uniform flashed into view from the same foyers.

Hetch hissed, ‘Head down!’ and shoved it down. Shunting my body to his side, he moved his grip to my elbow and pulled me on. Keeping to the shadows of the aisle, we kept pace with the procession of folk; between the passing columns I glimpsed their robes and gowns swishing, dreamlike. They were all heading towards an atrium at the other end of the hall where sunlight streamed through open doors.

Our own aisle ended in a much gloomier wall and smaller door. In place of a handle, knob or keyhole, this door bore a strange double-hexagon of tarnished metal. Hetch grabbed the narrow T-shaped bar that stuck out of it and pulled, turned, pushed in, turned, and pulled again. Swore and repeated. Then opened the door, jostled me into a stale-smelling darkness and patted me twice on the head. ‘Stay here,’ he said, and shut me in.

Dark and cold. I hugged my arms.

What was going on? What had happened back there in the “Iron Keep,” as he’d called it? That blue-and-white official had told the dwarf ‒ this Hetch man ‒ to cut off one of my fingers for being in a district that I shouldn’t have been in, so why hadn’t he? Why had he spared it? Why disobey and bring me here, wherever here was? He didn’t know me. Did he?

Blood stirred by running, my battered temple throbbed even harder. Other pains bloomed all over me. To distract myself, I reached out and felt the door, wondering if it had a proper handle on this side. It did, though I nearly knocked something over right beside it: a spindly wooden stand as I saw when I opened the door a crack. And looked out.

He was there, the blue-and-white. The arriving folk had all now stopped in front of the atrium to stand and talk, and he was there among them, discussing something seriously with some other robed person. I watched him for a little while; as my body throbbed and stung from his blows, sickly fascinated by those thin, dark lips and the deep sockets of his eyes. Then someone else at the top of the hall must have called him away; he moved out of sight. From here I couldn’t see the Captain either. Or Hetch.

I closed the door. And waited a long time. Or at least it felt a long time, standing there in the dark with only my soreness to think about. But the conversations were still murmuring out in the hall when I heard firm bootfalls coming to the door. It was pulled open—wide open—and I flinched.

Then almost smiled: High Commander Plamen stood there, framed by the grey light of the hall behind him. Although his headdress was off, for the first time revealing short, wiry black hair, he was like a shining champion in white. The relief flooded my aching body. I was safe now, had to be.

But there was no softness in his eyes.

‘Do you have any idea of how seriously you have jeopardised the refuge of your people?’ His voice was low ‒ dangerously low ‒ and it wasn’t what I’d expected him to say. The headdress hung loose in his hand, but as I gaped, searching for a reply, he flopped it down onto the stand and pulled a breath in through his nose. ‘Shall I repeat myself?’

‘No,’ I said, still struggling to find an answer. ‘I mean . . . I’m sorry, I know, I . . .’

‘You do not know,’ he cut me off. ‘I wonder how many men of power you think there are in this city with the welfare of foreign refugees at heart.’

Though he made me nervous, I raised my voice. ‘How was I supposed to know—’

‘The risks were explained to you clearly,’ he said, raising his own. ‘Yet you parade yourself in public and provoke the Iron Shield.’

‘I didn’t provoke anyone!’

‘You will level your tone.’

That shut me up. It was the way he said it, with that self-possessed calmness, the knowing that I would obey. That was his power. Command, I thought. He strode forward and I backed deeper into the room. A circular room: vaguely, I’d realised that it was practically empty; some forgotten bubble in the stone. Plamen came right up to me but didn’t move to touch me. His grey eyes roved over the injuries on my face.

I had to know. ‘Did someone help him? My friend, Con, did someone take him to the healers?’

‘The older boy? He is dead.’

Of course he was; I’d known already. And if I’d been looking for compassion, I’d opened my heart to the wrong man. I stopped the feeling as it started.

‘A credit to the Captain’s guards, the body was removed from the courtyard discreetly. It wasn’t yours so be grateful. All the same, nothing justifies the carelessness you have shown. The Viceroy believes you have a head on your shoulders. A mind fit for mining, were his words. You’ll forgive me if I do not share his opinion after this.’

I shied from his contempt. But then rallied. ‘Who are the blue and white guards?’

He raised his chin, slowly exhaled. ‘They are not guards. The Iron Shield are the eyes and protectors of the throne. Only they are permitted near His Majesty the Satrap at this time, aside from royal physicians, and now the Viceroy of course. Nor are they military. Their order is subservient to the Satrap alone. As such, neither I nor the Viceroy hold any authority over the likes of Jharis—the Lieutenant Shieldman you have crossed.’

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Frowning, but understanding, I considered this against what the engineer had said about them yesterday.

‘Caliph Symphin said we shouldn’t even be here,’ I said. ‘He said we’d be in danger if the Satrap knew about us. But they know we’re here, don’t they?’

‘Oh yes, they know.’ His words knocked my eyes to the floor and I stared at it miserably, again feeling the horror rising up. I squashed it down.

‘I don’t want to go back,’ I said. ‘Not now. Not now that this has happened.’

‘Nor will you,’ he replied. I looked up to catch the flicker of a sneer. ‘Don’t look surprised, child. You have now prodded at lions with a stick. If someone does not act to quiet them, immediately, much attention will fall upon that little shelter of yours. Regardless of where it should suit you to live.’

‘From the Satrap, you mean?’

He sighed, yes. ‘Something, in your wisdom, you may seek to avoid.’

‘What about the Lion Shield?’

‘Iron Shield.’

‘If they’re his eyes, won’t they tell—’

‘Enough,’ said Plamen. I swallowed, trying hard to read some expression in his face. But I couldn’t. His mouth was flat and the one eye I could properly make out in the dimness was more like a pale shell sitting in his head than anything human. As he stepped away from me, adjusting the sleeves of his white robe, I knew he’d share no more about it. Not with me.

But I still dared it: ‘What will you do?’

‘What I’ve already done is no concern of yours. Clearly there is so little one might leave to your discretion,’ he said, adding in a mutter, ‘And now you’ve made me late for council.’

‘Are my people safe?’

He looked back. ‘Yes. For now. But your time with them is finished. Symphin made you an offer of employment. You will accept it. You will also forget what occurred in the courtyard today. The deaths. The arrest. The Iron Shield. My involvement. None will be mentioned again.’

‘Not even to Caliph—’

‘No.’ The word dropped like a hammer and I gaped back at him, confused. He shook his head with what looked like scornful pity, as if astonished at just how little of his big world I understood. ‘The Viceroy’s position is more precarious than yours. He stands at the centre of everything in Antissa, his every movement and decision watched by hundreds. Both his actions and reactions.’ He paused. ‘If your people are to survive here, it will be because their existence remains outside the sphere of royal notice. And if you are prudent—if you can possibly achieve that much for their sake—then you will allow them no closer than you’ve brought them already. Symphin is not to know of this.’

It made a grim kind of sense, I had to admit to myself. Just for now, anyway, it would have to be enough that Commander Plamen had saved my finger, maybe even my life.

‘I understand,’ I told him.

‘Doubtful.’

As he turned again, the sandrat darted in across the floor towards my feet like a sudden nightmare of slithering skin. I minced away from it, disgusted. Then Hetch appeared in the doorway with a lantern, bowl and folded linen. ‘All has been done as you instructed,’ he said to the Commander.

Plamen looked past him at the people in the hall; they’d started to move on through the big doors.

‘What of the body?’

‘It burns.’

‘Hm. The two guards?’

‘Will hold their silence.’

‘Have them advised to expect a stipend of royal merit.’

‘Yes, ekharan,’ said Hetch. ‘There was . . . one other boy, refugee boy, in the courtyard. But the gutterwaifs tailed him. If he got as far as the North District, he’ll be toothless by now, more likely dead, sir. Won’t be noticed down there, shouldn’t think.’

‘No. Good,’ said Plamen and swung his hard gaze back to me. ‘You see now what comes of not heeding our warnings.’

I said nothing. The Commander took his headdress from the stand; with practiced movements he returned it to his head and rearranged its many folds while I simply stood there, staring, trying to rid my mind of the image of Con’s body burning. Plamen refitted the silver band around his now covered temple, pointing its blood-red jewel forward. He was cruel. But he was right.

It was so cold in this room.

‘This door will be locked. As you’ve succeeded in destroying the garments provided you by the Viceroy, here are new ones. Water also. Your face is filthy. Wash it, dress and be ready when I return.’

Hetch shuffled forward, although under his hessian cowl I couldn’t tell if he met my eyes. He set the items on the floor and shuffled out just as quickly. The sandrat’s tailless rear-end, like a puckered, rot-pocked vegetable, was the last thing I saw before the door was banged shut.

The chugs and twists of that locking block thudded through the wood. Then bootfalls mingled with the pattering of shoes and murmured voices; I heard his dull voice give some greetings, then disappear. Big doors groaned closed. And there was silence.

Silence and pain. More silence, worsening pain.

And Con . . .

No, not that. Cringing, I crouched in the lantern’s shallow pool of light and peeled my shirt off. Ribs, knees, shoulders and arms all ached in different colours and my temple was on fire. There wasn’t soap but I was able, if very slowly, to wash. The shirt was white like the first one, its open neck cross-hatched with lace. It too was long and so I tucked it through the binding of my breeches. My heart sank at the same silly width of its sleeves; I rolled them back behind my elbows. Surely no one would notice, or care.

The light was weak. I picked up the lantern by its handle and held it out to the curved walls; only now, as I cast shadows on the stone, noticing that there was another little door. It too was locked when I tried it, and had no metal unlocking block, let alone a handle. I set my ear against the wood and held my breath. Which also hurt.

There were voices. Arguing voices, like the hagglers of the street-markets; first one, then all at once. I rattled the door. There was a latch, I could feel it, on the other side.

I’d need a tool.

Well, the lantern was almost dead anyway. The first thing I tried to do was detach its handle, but it was too thoroughly fused to the box. So instead I flipped the catches of the panes and lifted them. Inside, the triglycerate crystal glowed meekly ‒ like fireflies of the river-plain that used to get inside the huts in summertime. I shook that memory away and pinched the element between my fingers. Warm. The inner rods holding the crystal in place were of a metal more brittle than copper. “Undercopper,” I’d heard it called. And sure enough, when I tugged it sharply, it snapped.

With the crystal for light I eased my undercopper lever between the wood of the door and the stone, and after several aching minutes of careful sliding in and up, snared just enough of the latch. I prised it clear and heard it swing, then nudged the door in with my toe.

The pale green light fell on a spiral stairway, leading up from here. The voices echoed from above.

I climbed towards them.