towards this, up the backdoor steps – heard hasty footfalls behind them, Moria’s
swift pace, Mor-am’s dragging foot. The iron gate creaked shut.
‘Get him in,’ Ischade hissed at their backs; and there was not, at the moment,
any choice.
Light flickered, the beginnings of fire in the fireplace, candles beginning to
light all at once. Mradhon looked about in panic, at too many windows, a house
too open to defend. The Stepson dragged at him. He sought a place and with
Haught’s help bestowed the man on the orange silk-strewn bed, the gruesomeness
of it all niggling at his mind – that and the windows. He looked about, saw
Moria close to the shelf-cluttered wall, by the window – saw the gleam of fire
through the shutter-slats.
‘Come out!’ a thin voice cried, ‘or burn inside.’
‘The hedges,’ Haught said, and Ischade’s face was set and cold. She lifted her
hand, waved it as at inconsequence. The lights all brightened, all about the
room, white as day.
‘The hedges,’ said Mor-am. ‘They’ll burn.’
‘They’re close.’ Moria had sneaked a look, got back to the safe solidity of the
wall. ‘They’re moving up.’
Ischade ignored them all. She brought a bowl, dipped a rag, laid a wet cloth on
the Stepson’s ravaged face, so, so tenderly. Straightened his hair. ‘Stilcho,’
she addressed the man. ‘Lie easy now. They’ll not come inside.’
‘They won’t need to,’ Mradhon said between his teeth. ‘Woman, they don’t care if
he fries along with us. If you’ve got a trick, use it. Now.’
‘This is your warning,’ the voice came from outside the walls. ‘Come out or