“Pick and Querc are doing good work,” Corvus said. “Almost ready.”

“Then why not just get out while we can?”

“I would like to know what this Autochthon knows.”

And then, for the second time that Prim had seen, Corvus transformed himself into the shape of a man.

“Ugh!” he hawked, when the thing was done. “I hate this. It’s why I have you people. But where we go next, wings are worse than useless.” He borrowed clothes from Mard and Lyne, and put a dagger on his belt for appearances’ sake. But for the most part he had no idea what to do with his arms, to say nothing of his hands, and so he strutted about with his thumbs jammed in his belt, just to prevent his upper limbs from flailing.

The new contingent of Beedles made no effort to be subtle about their approach. Quite the opposite, as it was their habit to intone marching chants (“songs” was not quite the right word) to keep in step on the trail. If their purpose was also to intimidate, then it worked. By the time they drew up along the edge of the no-man’s-land, just out of the range where archery would be of much use, it was perfectly obvious to all the members of the Quest that they could with ease simply run up the slope, protecting themselves with shields, and take the camp with few if any casualties.

After allowing a few minutes to pass, the sole Autochthon stepped forward, flanked by a couple of shield-bearing Beedles. He had the same fair, fine looks as the officers Prim had met at Secondel. He came up the slope boldly until Lyne and Prim both nocked arrows. Then he stopped, smiled, and displayed empty hands. “I just hate shouting,” he explained.

“We can hear you,” said Fern. They’d agreed she would speak for them.

“Thirsty? We have tons of water. Literally tons.”

“We are fine, thank you.”

“You’d be the smuggler. Fern.”

“You may certainly address me as Fern,” she allowed.

“I am Harrier. Where’s the big crow? He going to peck my eyes out?”

“Taking his ease in the delicious shade, Harrier.”

“Is it nice up there? I’m told that if you go too far in, there’s a nasty surprise.”

“We have used it to bury our dead.”

“You’ve noticed, then, that El’s military is taking all of this more seriously than the many voyages you have made along this coast in the past,” Harrier said.

“It had not escaped me.”

“Perhaps you’re associating with the wrong sorts,” said Harrier. “I’ve admired you from a distance—a frustratingly enormous distance—for years. Our futile pursuits of Silverfin have been a fine training exercise for our crews. No better way to find out which Beedles still have strength to draw oars and which are ready to be . . . reassigned. This time it’s different though.”

“Why is it different?”