‘Then who sent it?’

‘Perhaps no-one.’

No wonder Coltaine’s had his black feathers ruffled.

After a few minutes Bult sighed loudly, stretching out his gnarled, bandy legs. ‘Kamist Reloe has prepared a welcome for us the other side of the River P’atha. We cannot afford to go around him. Therefore we shall go through him.’

‘You ride with the marines,’ Coltaine told Duiker.

The historian glanced at Captain Lull.

The red-bearded man grinned. ‘Seems you’ve earned a place with the best, old man.’

‘Hood’s breath! I’ll not last five minutes in a line of battle. My heart nearly gave out after a skirmish lasting all of three breaths the other night—’

‘We won’t be front line,’ Lull said. ‘There ain’t enough of us left for that. If all goes as planned we won’t even get our swords nicked.’

‘Oh, very well.’ Duiker turned to Coltaine. ‘Returning the servants to the nobles was a mistake,’ he said. ‘It seems the noble-born have concluded that you’ll not take them away again if they’re not fit to stand.’

Bult said, ‘They showed spine, those servants, at Sekala Crossing. Just holding shields, mind, but hold is what they did.’

‘Uncle, do you still have that scroll demanding compensation?’ Coltaine asked.

‘Aye.’

‘And that compensation was calculated based on the worth of each servant, in coin?’

Bult nodded.

‘Collect the servants and pay for them in full, in gold jakatas.’

‘Aye, though all that gold will burden the nobles sorely.’

‘Better them than us.’

Lull cleared his throat. ‘That coin’s the soldiers’ pay, ain’t it?’

‘The Empire honours its debts,’ Coltaine growled.

It was a statement that promised to grow in resonance in the time to come, and the momentary silence in the tent told Duiker that he was not alone in that recognition.

Capemoths swarmed across the face of the moon. Duiker sat beside the flaked embers of a cooking fire. A nervous energy had driven the historian from his bedroll. On all sides the camp slept, a city exhausted. Even the animals had fallen silent.

Rhizan swept through the warm air above the hearth, plucking hovering insects on the wing. The soft crunch of exoskeletons was a constant crackle.

A dark shape appeared at Duiker’s side, lowered itself into a squat, held silent.

After a while, Duiker said, ‘A Fist needs his rest.’

Coltaine grunted. ‘And a historian?’

‘Never rests.’

‘We are denied in our needs,’ the Wickan said.

‘It was ever thus.’

‘Historian, you joke like a Wickan.’

‘I’ve made a study of Bult’s lack of humour.’

‘That much is patently clear.’

There was silence between them for a time. Duiker could make no claim to know the man at his side. If the Fist was plagued by doubts he did not show it, nor, of course, would he. A commander could not reveal his flaws. With Coltaine, however, it was more than his rank dictating his recalcitrance. Even Bult had occasion to mutter that his nephew was a man who isolated himself to levels far beyond the natural Wickan stoicism.