Meanwhile, back in Jewel . . . the Fugleman was being unchained from the desk for the last time. His guards, of course, did not know that it was the last time. He took care not to let them see the smile of anticipation that flickered across his face.

They were not smiling. There had been no further messages from Spoke, and it was clear that something had gone wrong with the rescue. The children were lost, perhaps even dead. The guards muttered among themselves, trying to decide who was responsible.

They blamed the mysterious Harrow. With a little encouragement from the Fugleman, they blamed the Protector. They blamed everyone except the Fugleman himself.

Which was exactly as it should be.

When the first shots sounded in the distance, they almost fell over with astonishment. The Fugleman could see it on their faces. Gunfire? In Jewel?

‘Don’t mind me,’ he murmured. ‘I’m sure it is your duty to go and see what is happening. Just lock me in my cell and I’ll be here when you return.’

They did as he told them, fools that they were. He waited until he could no longer hear their voices, then he strode to the middle of the cell and, for the first time in days, drew himself up to his full height. The mask of false humility fell away. He raised his fists in the air – and laughed. He was the Fugleman, the leader of the Blessed Guardians and spokesman for the Seven Gods!

Soon his mercenaries would fight their way to his side. The moment they freed him, he would go and visit his dear sister.

He laughed again, glorying in the thought of what was to come. This was surely the end for the Protector! But for him it was just the beginning . . .