‘The sorcerer. Like an untethered kite, this way and that, trailing streamers of blood.’

‘How poetic, Truth. Go back to being a marine.’

He reddened, turned away.

Baudin spoke behind her. ‘The lad’s too good for you and that’s what makes you mean.’

‘What would you know?’ she sneered without turning.

‘I can’t scry you much, lass,’ he admitted. ‘But I can scry you some.’

‘So you’d like to believe. Let me know when that hand starts rotting – I want to be there when it’s cut off.’

The oars clacked in counterpoint to the thundering drum. The wind arrived like a gasping exhalation, and the sorcerer’s storm was upon them.

Something ragged across his brow awoke Fiddler. He opened his eyes to a mass of bristle ends that suddenly lifted clear to reveal a wizened black face peering critically down. The face concluded its examination with an expression of distaste.

‘Spiders in your beard ... or worse. Can’t see them, but I know they’re there.’

The sapper drew a deep breath and winced at the throbbing protest from his broken ribs. ‘Get away from me!’ he growled. Stinging pain wrapped his thighs, reminders of the gouging claws that had raked them. His left ankle was heavily bandaged – the numbness from his foot was worrying.

‘Can’t,’ the old man replied. ‘No escape is possible. Bargains were sealed, arrangements made. The Deck speaks plain in this. A life given for a life taken, and more besides.’

‘You’re Dal Honese,’ Fiddler said. ‘Where am I?’

The face split into a wide grin. ‘In Shadow. Hee hee.’

A new voice spoke from behind the strange old man. ‘He wakens and you torment him, High Priest. Move aside, the soldier needs air, not airs.’

‘It’s a matter of justice,’ the High Priest retorted, though he pulled back. ‘Your tempered companion kneels before that altar, does he not? These details are vital to understanding.’ He took another step back as the massive form of the other speaker moved into view.

‘Ah,’ Fiddler sighed. ‘The Trell. Memory returns. And your companion ... the Jhag?’

‘He entertains your companions,’ the Trell said. ‘Feebly, I admit. For all his years, Icarium has never mastered the social grace necessary to put others at ease.’

‘Icarium, the Jhag by that name. The maker of machines, the chaser of time—’

The Trell showed his canines in a wide, wry smile. ‘Aye, lord of the sand grains – though that poetic allusion’s lost on most and awkward besides.’

‘Mappo.’

‘Aye again. And your friends name you Fiddler, relieving you of the guise of a Gral horsewarrior.’

‘Hardly matters that I awoke out of character, then,’ Fiddler said.

‘There’s no punishment awaiting the lapse, soldier. Thirsty? Hungry?’

‘Good, yes and yes. But first, where are we?’

‘In a temple carved into a cliff. Out of the Whirlwind. Guests of a High Priest of Shadow – whom you’ve met. Iskaral Pust.’

‘Pust?’

‘Even so.’