‘Bastard? There are two kinds of men. Corruptible bastards and incorruptible bastards. That is all.’

‘What are we, then?’

‘We make common cause. Pigface has already shown his true self, so we do not trust him.’

‘Why should I trust you, then? I mean, I don’t really know you. We just happened to be in the same shift. That, and we survived together.’

Stanislav walked away, ostensibly to retrieve his stick. He scooped it up, and idly scraped the thin end against the wall.

Dalip persisted. ‘Like where did you learn to fight with a knife? Some of the things you say, they’re … hard. Like nails hard.’

‘My history is the other side of the door, and that is where it will stay. The wolfman was right when he told us all that matters is what we do now. You ask me to help you train, yes? How and why I can do that, is something you do not need to ask.’

Dalip wanted to know. He wanted to know how a railway engineer with an Eastern European accent and a better command of English than most English people knew which end of a pig to stick with a knife. He also didn’t want to know, because none of the scenarios that he was constructing were ones in which Stanislav had been a good, decent man. By not knowing the truth, he didn’t have to make a decision.

And, he discovered, he was content with that.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s none of my business.’

‘That is not true. However, it is not relevant for now. When we have killed the geomancer, her dragon and her steward, freed the slaves and escaped from the castle, then perhaps we can talk more.’ Stanislav raised his stick. ‘One more bout.’

‘I’m tired.’

‘You think that matters to your enemies? You think they will wait while you have a little sleep, a meal? When you can fight exhausted better than they can fresh – then we can stop.’

Dalip ached. He was tired and hungry and dirty. His hair, normally washed and combed every morning, was a bound rope thick with oils. His boilersuit was becoming stiff with sweat and dirt. His kachera … he was ashamed of them. He should be clean. It was one of his sacred duties.

And this man, this gadfly, wouldn’t let him rest. Dalip wasn’t lazy. He worked hard, at everything, as was right and proper. A moment’s respite was all he wanted.

‘First strike?’

‘Then make sure it counts. None of your dabbing at me.’

Dalip assumed his stance, and so did Stanislav, and they began to circle each other. Now, the older man seemed tireless: relentless would be a better word. Driven. Determined never to lose. He was the same last thing at night as he was first thing in the morning, pushing himself, and pushing Dalip. He saw any slackening of the regime as intolerable weakness.