'Well,' Logen had to admit, 'there is that.' Luthar's head dropped even lower, and Logen clapped him on the arm. 'But you didn't get killed! Cheer up, boy, you're lucky! You're still alive, aren't you?' He gave a miserable nod. Logen slid his arm round his shoulder and guided him back towards the horses. 'Then you've got the chance to do better next time.'

'Next time?'

'Course. Doing better next time. That's what life is.'

Logen climbed back into the saddle, stiff and sore. Stiff from all the riding, sore from the fight in the gorge. Some bit of rock had cracked him on the back, that and he'd got a good punch on the side of his head. Could have been a lot worse.

He looked round at the others. They were all mounted up, staring at him. Four faces, as different as could be, but all with the same expression, more or less. Waiting for his say. Why did anyone ever think he had the answers? He swallowed, and dug his heels in.

Let's go.

Prince Ladisla's Stratagem

Prince Ladisla's Stratagem

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'You really should spend less time in here, Colonel West.' Pike set down his hammer for a moment, the orange light from his forge reflecting in his eyes, shining bright on his melted face. 'People will start to talk.'

West cracked a nervous grin. 'It's the only warm place in the whole damn camp.' It was true enough, but a long way from the real reason. It was the only place in the whole damn camp where no one would look for him. Men who were starving, men who were freezing, men who had no water, or no weapon, or no clue what they were doing. Men who'd died of cold or illness and needed burying. Even the dead couldn't manage without West. Everyone needed him, day and night. Everyone except Pike and his daughter, and the rest of the convicts. They alone seemed self-sufficient, and so their forge had become his refuge. A noisy, and a crowded, and a smoky refuge, no doubt, but no less sweet for that. He preferred it immeasurably to being with the Prince and his staff. Here among the criminals it was more… honest.

'You're in the way, Colonel. Again.' Cathil shoved past him, a knife-blade glowing orange in the tongs in one gloved hand. She shoved it into the water, frowning, turning it this way and that while steam hissed up around her. West watched her move, quick and practised, beads of moisture on her sinewy arm, the back of her neck, hair dark and spiky with sweat. Hard to believe he'd ever taken her for a boy. She might handle the metal as well as any of the men, but the shape of her face, not to mention her chest, her waist, the curve of her backside, all unmistakably female…