A small, spare room with grey walls, cold and smelling slightly of damp. A mean fire flickered in the grate, a sagging shelf was stacked with books. A portrait of the King of the Union stared regally down from one wall. A lean man in a black coat sat writing at a cheap desk. He looked at West for a while, then carefully put down his pen and rubbed at the bridge of his nose with an inky thumb and forefinger.

'We have a visitor,' grunted the Practical.

'So I see. I am Inquisitor Lorsen, commandant of our little camp.'

West gave the bony hand the most perfunctory of squeezes. 'Colonel West. I am here with Prince Ladisla's army. We are camped a dozen miles to the north.'

'Of course. How might I be of assistance to his Highness?'

'We are desperately in need of skilled metal-workers. You run a foundry here, correct?'

'A mine, a foundry, and a smithy for the manufacture of farming tools, but I fail to see what—'

'Excellent. I will take a dozen or so men back with me, the most skilled men you have available.'

The commandant frowned. 'Out of the question. The prisoners here are guilty of the most serious crimes. They cannot be released without a signed order from the Arch Lector himself.'

'Then we have a problem, Inquisitor Lorsen. I have ten thousand men with weapons that need sharpening, armour that needs mending, horses that need shoeing. We might be called into action at any moment. I cannot wait for orders from the Arch Lector or anyone else. I must leave with smiths, and there it is.'

'But you must understand that I cannot allow—'

'You fail to realise the gravity of the situation!' barked West, his temper already fraying. 'By all means send a letter to the Arch Lector! I will send a man back to my camp for a company of soldiers! We can see who gets help first!'

The commandant thought about that for a while. 'Very well,' he said eventually, 'follow me.'

Two dirty children stared at West from the porch of one of the shacks as he stepped out of the commandant's building, back into the incessant drizzle.

'You have children here?'

'We have whole families, if they are judged a danger to the state.' Lorsen glanced sideways at him. 'A shame, but holding the Union together has always required harsh measures. I gather from your silence that you disapprove.'

West watched one of the shabby children limping through the muck, doomed, perhaps, to spend their whole life in this place. 'I think it's a crime.'