Mallet helped Whiskeyjack to a dome of rock above the beach, where they sat. The healer's gaze hesitated on the figure of Quick Ben, standing with shoulders hunched and staring across the lake. He followed the wizard's gaze. Moon's Spawn hung low on the horizon, a gold cast to its ravaged basalt. Mallet grunted. 'It's heading south. I wonder what that means?'

Whiskeyjack squinted against the glare. He began to massage his temples.

'More headaches?' Mallet asked.

'Not so bad, lately,' the grizzled man said.

'It's the leg that worries me,' the healer muttered. 'I need to work on it some more, and you need to stay off it awhile.'

Whiskeyjack grinned. 'As soon as there's time,' he said.

Mallet sighed. 'We'll work on it then.'

From the forested slope behind them Hedge called, 'They're coming in!'

The healer helped Whiskeyjack stand. 'Hell,' he whispered. 'It could've been a lot worse, right, Sergeant?'

Whiskeyjack glared across the lake. 'Three lost ain't that bad, considering.'

A pained expression crossed Mallet's face. He said nothing.

'Let's move,' Whiskeyjack growled. 'Captain Paran hates tardiness. And maybe the Moranth have good news. Be a change, wouldn't it?'

From the beach, Quick Ben watched Mallet supporting his sergeant up the slope. Was it time? he wondered. To stay alive in this business, no one could afford to let up. The best plans work inside other plans, and when it's right to feint, feint big. Keeping the other hand hidden is the hard part.

The wizard felt a stab of regret. No, it wasn't time. Give the old man a chance to rest. He forced himself into motion. He wouldn't let himself look back – never a good idea. The scheme was hatched.

'Whiskeyjack's going to howl when he hears this one,' he whispered to himself.

Captain Paran listened to the others on the beach below, but made no move to join them. Not yet. His brush with Ascendants seemed to have left him with a new sensitivity – or perhaps it was the Otataral sword scabbarded at his side. But he could sense her, now, already in her adolescence, plump as he knew she'd be, smiling with her heavy-lidded eyes deceptively sleepy as she studied the morning sky.

I will come to you, he promised her. When this Pannion Seer and his cursed holy war is crushed, I will come to you then, Tattersail.

I know.

He stiffened. That voice in his head had not been his own. Or had it? He waited, waited for more. Tattersail? Only silence answered him. Ah, my imagination, nothing more. To think you would call up enough of your old life, to find the feelings you once held for me, find them and feel them once again. I am a fool.