Hork lifted his face to Muub; Muub read bitterness, apprehension and determination in Hork's round, tough features. He tried to put aside the interest shown by the Guard in his movements. Hork was a grieving son, he told himself. "Sir," he said slowly. "He's dead. I'm sorry. I..."

Hork's eyecups seemed to deepen. "I can see that, damn you." He glanced over his father's crushed body, picking at the Chair's fine robes.

"The staff here were afraid to tell you," Muub said.

"Do they have reason to be?"

Muub tried to judge Hork's mood. He was honest enough to admit to himself that he would have no compunction in delivering the hapless attendants here up to Hork's wrath, if he thought it were necessary to save himself. But Hork, though clearly shocked, seemed rational. And in his heart he wasn't a vindictive man. "No. They did everything they could."

Hork ran a hand over his father's thin, yellow hair. "Make sure you tell them I appreciate their work. See they understand they're under no threat for their part in this... And see they get on with treating the rest of the injured here."

"Of course." There was plenty of work for the medics here. As the Air-chariot had hurtled beneath the devastated hinterland, Muub had caught shocking, vivid glimpses of smashed fields — of coolies and uprooted wheat-stems drifting alike in the placid Air — of shattered, exploded buildings. Air-pigs had nosed among drifting corpses, seeking food. He shuddered. "I may be forced to stay here myself, sir, after you've departed. There is urgent work to be done, all around this area, finding and treating the wounded before..."