‘That,’ Duiker said, ‘was superbly done.’

A soft sigh escaped Mallick Rel. ‘Savage timing, a beast’s sense of challenge, then contempt. Statement for the guards. For us as well?’

‘Coltaine’s a snake,’ the captain said, ‘if that’s what you’re asking. If the High Command at Aren thinks they can dance around him, they’re in for a nasty surprise.’

‘Generous advice,’ Rel acknowledged.

The captain looked as if he’d just swallowed something sharp, and Duiker realized that the man had spoken without thought as to the priest’s place in the High Command.

Kulp cleared his throat. ‘He’s got them in troop formation – guess the ride to the barracks will be peaceful after all.’

‘I admit,’ Duiker said wryly, ‘that I look forward to meeting the Seventh’s new Fist.’

His heavy-lidded eyes on the scene below, Rel nodded. ‘Agreed.’

Leaving behind the Skara Isles on a heading due south, the fisherboat set out into the Kansu Sea, its triangular sail creaking and straining. If the gale held, they would reach the Ehrlitan coast in four hours. Fiddler’s scowl deepened. The Ehrlitan coast, Seven Cities. I hate this damned continent. Hated it the first time, hate it even more now. He leaned over the gunnel and spat acrid bile into the warm, green waves.

‘Feeling any better?’ Crokus asked from the prow, his tanned young face creased with genuine concern.

The old saboteur wanted to punch that face; instead he just growled and hunched down deeper against the barque’s hull.

Kalam’s laugh rumbled from where he sat at the tiller. ‘Fiddler and water don’t mix, lad. Look at him, he’s greener than that damned winged monkey of yours.’

A sympathetic snuffling sound breathed against Fiddler’s cheek. He pried open one bloodshot eye to find a tiny, wizened face staring at him. ‘Go away, Moby,’ Fiddler croaked. The familiar, once servant to Crokus’s uncle Mammot, seemed to have adopted the sapper, the way stray dogs and cats often did. Kalam would say it was the other way around, of course. ‘A lie,’ Fiddler whispered. ‘Kalam’s good at those—’ like lounging around in Rutu Jelba for a whole damn week on the off-chance that a Skrae trader would come in. ‘Book passage in comfort, eh, Fid?’ Not like the damned ocean crossing, oh no – and that one was supposed to have been in comfort, too. A whole week in Rutu Jelba, a lizard’ infested, orange-bricked cesspool of a city, then what? Eight jakatas for this rag-stoppered sawed-in-half ale casket.

The steady rise and fall lulled Fiddler as the hours passed. His mind drifted back to the appallingly long journey that had brought them thus far, then to the appallingly long journey that lay ahead. We never do things the easy way, do we?

He would rather that every sea dried up. Men got feet, not flippers. Even so, we’re about to cross overland – over a fly- infested, waterless waste, where people smile only to announce they’re about to kill you.

The day dragged on, green-tinged and shaky.