“We have only received news in the past few hours ourselves.” The Kirghiz lifted his broad shoulders and raised his chin, staring at them across his flat brown cheeks. “We are not speakers of nonsense here. He means Barbarians,” the translator added again. “We have radios, and we are in touch with our fortresses. We even bathe when the rivers are full or we are garrisoned.”

“We have all due respect for the illustrious Kirghiz soldiers of the Rhus of Azovian Miskna,” Atta said, glancing at Oresias. “We are intruders, and we humbly beg your mercy, which under the sky of God and the grass of the Riding Devils, we feel sure the great horsemen Batur Chinghiz will grant us.” Oresias narrowed his eyes, but did not object to Atta’s attempt at formulaic diplomacy.

“I am pleased by your kind and understanding words. But mercy is not mine to give. I am, as you say, soldier and not master. Enough of this. Can you enlighten me further before I request orders for your disposition?”

Rhita shivered. The clavicle had been taken from her when they had been dragged out of the beecraft; she had no idea what was happening with the gate, but darkness was coming. More than anything, she wanted to be away from this place, relieved of responsibility to her grandmother, to the Akademeia and her Imperial Hypsēlotēs—whatever had happened to her now…

She was terrified. The past few hours had given her time to absorb a few facts she had until now managed to ignore. She was mortal; these people would gladly kill her and all her companions. Lugotorix could not protect her, although when the time came—if it came—he would attempt to die first trying.

This situation was her doing. She could not easily pass the blame on to her father or Patrikia. She had agreed to come; the outcome of bringing the news to Kleopatra could not have been foreseen, but…

She shivered.

The Kirghiz troops prodded and shoved them out of the tent and into a hastily made enclosure of tent poles and canvas gleaned from the emergency supplies in the cargo gullcraft. The enclosure had no roof; it lay open to the cool wind and the deepening twilight. “I think we’re dead,” Atta murmured as the final section of canvas was erected and tied by a Kirghiz infantryman, who regarded them with narrow, curious eyes.

Their prison was flimsy at best, but they didn’t dare even touch the canvas; they had been given, by gestures of rifles and hands striking the fabric, the distinct impression that bullets were ready for anyone who made a ripple in the barricade.