‘As much as I’d like to take credit,’ Duiker said, ‘this is the work of Kulp and the squad sergeants.’

‘Kulp’s making things easier, then? No wonder they’ve turned the battle.’

The historian shook his head. ‘Kulp follows Coltaine’s orders, Bult. If you’re looking for a reason to explain your Wickans’ defeat, you’ll have to look elsewhere. You might start with the Seventh showing their true mettle.’

‘Perhaps I shall,’ the veteran mused, a glint in his small dark eyes.

‘The Fist called you Uncle.’

‘Aye.’

‘Well? Are you?’

‘Am I what?’

Duiker gave up. He was coming to understand the Wickan sense of humour. No doubt there would be another half a dozen or so brisk exchanges before Bult finally relented with an answer. I could play it through. Or I could let the bastard wait. . . wait for ever, in fact.

From the dust clouds a score of refugees appeared, wavering strangely as they walked, each of them burdened with impossible possessions – massive dressers, chests, larder-packed cupboards, candlesticks and antique armour. Flanking the mob in a protective cordon were soldiers of the Seventh, laughing and shouting and beating swords on shields as they made good their withdrawal.

Bult barked a laugh. ‘My compliments to Kulp when you see him, Historian.’

‘The Seventh’s earned a day of rest,’ Duiker said.

The Wickan raised his hairless brows. ‘For one victory?’

‘They need to savour it, Commander. Besides, the healers will be busy enough mending bones – you don’t want them with exhausted warrens at the wrong time.’

‘And the wrong time is soon, is it?’

‘I am sure,’ Duiker said slowly, ‘Sormo E’nath would agree with me.’

Bult spat again. ‘My nephew approaches.’

Coltaine and his Lancers had appeared, providing cover for the soldiers, many of whom dragged or carried the scarecrow refugees. The sheer numbers made it clear that victory for the Seventh had been absolute.

‘Is that a smile on Coltaine’s face?’ Duiker asked. ‘Just for a moment, I thought I saw ...’

‘Mistaken, no doubt,’ Bult growled, but Duiker was coming to know these Wickans, and he detected a hint of humour in the veteran’s voice. After a moment Bult continued, ‘Take word to the Seventh, Historian. They’ve earned their day.’

Fiddler sat in darkness. The overgrown garden had closed in around the well and its crescent-shaped stone bench. Above the sapper only a small patch of starlit sky was visible. There was no moon. After a moment he cocked his head. ‘You move quietly, lad, I’ll give you that.’

Crokus hesitated behind Fiddler, then joined him on the bench. ‘Guess you never expected him to pull rank on you like that,’ the young man said.

‘Is that what it was?’

‘That’s what it seemed like.’