‘Against one army, sure,’ Lull said, ‘but we’re facing two now—’

The historian lifted his head. ‘Two?’

‘The liberators of Guran,’ the captain known to Duiker said. ‘Can’t recall if we were ever introduced. I’m Chenned. That’s Captain Sulmar.’

‘You’re it for the Seventh’s ranking officers?’

Chenned grinned. ‘Afraid so.’

Captain Sulmar grunted. ‘Not quite. There’s the man in charge of the Seventh’s sappers.’

‘The one who never shows at these briefings.’

‘Aye.’ Sulmar looked dour, but Duiker already suspected that the expression was the captain’s favourite. He was dark, short, appearing to have Kanese and Dal Honese blood in his ancestry. His shoulders sloped as if carrying a lifetime of burdens. ‘Though why the bastard thinks he’s above the rest of us I don’t know. Damned sappers’ve been doing nothing but repairing wagons and collecting big chunks of stone and getting in the cutters’ way.’

‘Bult commands us in the field,’ Captain Chenned said.

‘I am the Fist’s will,’ the Wickan veteran rumbled.

There was the sound of horses pulling up outside, the jangle of tack and armour, then the door thumped once and a moment later swung open.

Coltaine looked unchanged to Duiker’s eyes, as straight as a spear, his lean face wind-burned to the colour and consistency of leather, his black feather cape bellying in his wake as he strode into the centre of the large room. Behind him came Sormo E’nath and half a dozen Wickan youths who spread out to array themselves haphazardly against walls and pieces of furniture. They reminded the historian of a pack of dock rats in Malaz City, lords over the small patch they held.

Sormo walked up to Duiker and held out both hands to grip his wrists. Their eyes met. ‘Our patience is rewarded. Well done, Duiker!’

The boy looked infinitely older, lifetimes closing in around his hooded eyes.

‘Rest later, Historian,’ Coltaine said, fixing each person in the room with a slow, gauging study. ‘I made my command clear,’ he said, turning at last to Bult. ‘Where is this captain of the Engineers?’

Bult shrugged. ‘Word was sent. He’s a hard man to find.’

Coltaine scowled. ‘Captain Chenned, your report.’

‘Third and Fifth companies are across the ford, digging in. The crossing’s about four hundred and twenty paces, not counting the shallows on both sides, which add another twenty or so. Average depth is one and a half arm-spans. Width is between four and five most of the way, a few places narrower, a few wider. The bottom’s about two fingers of muck over a solid spine of rocks.’