Kalam nodded. 'I pulled some old threads,' he said, squinting against the harsh morning light. 'Somebody high up has us marked. Could be the court itself, or maybe the nobility – there's rumours they're back at it behind the scenes.' He grimaced. 'And now we've got some new captain from Unta eager to get our throats cut. Four captains in the last three years, not one worth his weight in salt.'

Quick Ben stood ten feet away, at the hill's crest, his arms crossed. He now spoke. 'You heard the plan. Come on, Whiskeyjack. That man slid straight out of the palace and into our laps on a stream of—'

'Quiet,' Whiskeyjack muttered. 'I'm thinking.'

Kalam and Quick Ben exchanged glances.

A long minute passed. On the road below troop wagons rattled in the ruts leading into the city. Remnants of the 5th and 6th Armies, already battered, almost broken, by Caladan Brood and the Crimson Guard. Whiskeyjack shook his head. The only force intact was the Moranth, and they seemed determined to field only the Black regiments, using the Green for lifts and drops – and where the hell was the Gold he'd been hearing so much about? Damn those unhuman bastards anyway. Pale's gutters still ran red from their hour of retribution. Once the burial shifts were through, there'd be a few more hills outside the city's walls. Big ones.

There would be nothing to mark thirteen hundred dead Bridgeburners, though. The worms didn't need to travel far to feast on those bodies. What chilled the sergeant to his bones was the fact that, apart from the few survivors, nobody had made a serious effort to save them. Some low-ranking officer had delivered Tayschrenn's commiserations on those lost in the line of duty, then had unloaded a wagonload of tripe about heroism and sacrifice. His audience of thirty-nine stone-faced soldiers had looked on without a word. The officer was found dead in his room two hours later, expertly garotted. The mood was bad – nobody in the regiment would have even thought of something so ugly five years ago. But now they didn't blink at the news.

Garotte – sounds like Claw work. Kalam had suggested it was a set-up, an elaborate frame to discredit what was left of the Bridgeburners. Whiskeyjack was sceptical.

He tried to clear his thoughts. If there was a pattern it would be a simple one, simple enough to pass by unnoticed. But exhaustion seeped in like a thick haze behind his eyes. He took a deep lungful of the morning air. 'The new recruit?' he asked.

Kalam rose from his haunches with a grunt. A faraway and long-ago look entered his eyes. 'Maybe,' he said finally. 'Pretty young for a Claw, though.'

'I never believed in pure evil before Sorry showed up,' Quick Ben said. 'But you're right, she's awfully young. How long are they trained before they're sent out?'