There was a soldier nearby. Galar Baras reined in sharply. ‘You there!’

The man turned, stared, and said nothing.

‘What has happened? What illness is this among you? Why aren’t the plague-flags flying?’

Abruptly the man laughed. ‘I was on picket, sir! On the lookout for enemies!’ He waved a hand. ‘Our relief never showed. I almost fell asleep – but I saw them, you know. They rode out, to the east. Gathered there, and then went on. The sun was not even up, sir. Not even up.’

‘Who? Who did you see riding away? Your relief? Why would they do that?’

‘Like ghosts, sir. In that gloom. Like ghosts.’ He laughed again, and now Galar Baras saw tears tracking down from the man’s eyes. ‘Corporal Ranyd came running in. He drew his sword. He should never have done that. Never, and never again.’

His mind is unhinged. Galar swung his mount round and rode for the commander.

She had stopped now, and stood in the centre of the compound, a ring of her soldiers facing her but keeping their distance.

He rode through that ring and reined in before her. ‘Sir!’

When she looked up at him, it seemed that she struggled to recognize him.

‘It’s Galar,’ he said, dismounting. ‘Commander, I was bringing word from Lord Henarald—’

‘Too late,’ she said, and then lifted the jug. ‘He left it. A parting gift. I did not think he could be so … understanding. Galar, my husband isn’t here, but you are, black skin and all, and you’ll have to do.’ Abruptly she sat down, worked free the stopper and held the jug up. ‘Join me, dear lover. I’ve been sober since the dawn and so it’s been a long day.’

He drew nearer, and then paused and looked across to the soldiers. They watched, silent. One turned away suddenly and fell to her knees, bringing her hands up to cover her face.

‘Galar,’ said Toras Redone. ‘Join me in this drink, will you? Let’s celebrate peace.’

‘Peace, sir? I bring news of war.’

‘Ah, well, I fear it’s over. Can you not hear how peaceful we are? No clamour, no blathering voices from fools who can’t stop talking, even though they have nothing of worth to say. Have you not ever noticed that? The mouths that run too fast make dead seeds of every word, flung to barren ground in their wake, yet on they rush – and you see in their eyes a kind of desperation, I think, as they long for a gardener’s touch, but no talent finds them, and never will, and surely they know it.’

‘Commander, what has happened here?’