Dathenar whipped his sword blade downward, shedding gore from its length. ‘Wise words, Prazek, are rarely understood.’

Their horses stamped and snorted, eager for another charge into the press, but both men were quick to quiet them.

Prazek eyed the deserters. ‘Few enough now, I think, to see them march in proper cadence.’

‘The cadence of the limp, yes.’

‘The limp, the shuffle, the stagger and the reel.’

‘You describe the gait of the defeated and the cowed, the battered and the bruised.’

‘I but describe what I see before me, Dathenar. Which of us, then, shall round up and make them proper?’

‘ ’Twas your stirring speech, was it not?’

‘Was it? Why, I thought it yours!’

‘Shall we ask Biskin?’

Prazek sighed. ‘Alas, Biskin tried to swallow my horse’s left forehoof. What remains of his brain bears the imprint of a horseshoe, decidedly unlucky.’

‘Ah, and do we see the other two from the front? One I know flung his head out of the path of my sword.’

‘Careless of you.’

‘No, just his head. His body went the other way.’

‘Ah, well. This is poor showing on our part, as the other man lost his hat.’

‘He wore no hat.’

‘Well, the cap bearing most of his hair, then.’

Dathenar sighed. ‘When leaders wrongly lead, why, best that others step in to take their place. You and I, perhaps? See, they recover – those that can – and look to us with the broken regard of the broken.’

‘Ah, so I see. Not goats then after all.’

‘No. Sheep.’

‘Shall we dog them, brother?’

‘Why not? They’ve seen our bite.’

‘Enough to heed our bark?’

‘I should think so.’

‘I should, too.’

Side by side, the two officers rode back to the deserters. Overhead, crows had already gathered, wheeling and crying out their impatience.

BOOK TWO

In One Fleeting Breath

CHAPTER NINE

BENEATH THE FLOOR OF THEIR FATHER’S PRIVATE ROOM THERE was a hypocaust, through which lead pipes ran, the hot water in them serving to heat the chamber above. There was height enough to crawl, and to kneel, if one was careful to avoid the scalding pipes.

Envy and Spite sat cross-legged, facing each other. They were rank and scrawny, their clothes and skin smeared with soot, grease and dust. Of late, their meals had consisted of rats, mice and spiders, and the occasional pigeon that lingered too long on a ledge within reach. Both girls had become adept at hunting since the new kitchen staff had arrived, and with them a host of other strangers, replenishing the household. Raiding the pantry was no longer possible, and guards now paced the corridors at night.

The taste of misery could be sweeter with company, but the two daughters of Lord Draconus looked upon one another with venom rather than camaraderie. For all that, circumstances were what they were, and both understood the necessity of their continued alliance. For now.

When they spoke, it was in hushed whispers, despite the gurgle of the pipes.