A bald man in a blue robe stood with his legs apart and arms folded over his chest as he watched two marines making stabs at each other with spears. Twenty paces away a pair of archers shot arrows at distant straw targets. Dion was relieved to see that the sun king’s captains employed bows. If he was tested for his swordsmanship, he would never be accepted.

Dion walked over to the bald man, guessing he was a captain. ‘I want to enlist.’

‘Don’t need anyone,’ he said without looking. ‘Find someone else.’

Turning away, Dion wondered who else he should approach. He shielded his eyes as he saw the shipbuilding sheds, where a stocky man stood directing some slaves.

Seeing an opportunity to learn about the warships’ construction, Dion walked over, discretely watching from behind the stout, muscular man as he gruffly ordered the slaves to hammer wooden dowels through an expanse of planked flooring.

He decided that if Xanthos were to build a navy they would first need to make some of these sheds, sunken into the ground and stepped at the sides so that workers could access the vessel from all quarters. He saw that they would need a great deal of timber; but there were countless pine trees in the mountainous wilds near the Gates of Annika. People would need to learn specific tasks: from cutting the planks into regular sizes to warping them so they would bend. Currently Sarsican or Phalesian shipbuilders built vessels for Xanthos. That would have to change.

He watched in fascination, then realized that the stocky man was looking at him. He also realized that the man was a woman.

‘What do you want?’ she barked.

Her hair was cut close to her scalp, a look that Dion had never seen on a woman and was so unfamiliar that for a moment he was stunned into silence. Exposure to the sun had bleached her hair near white and at the same time tanned her skin to a reddish brown.

‘I . . . I’m here to enlist,’ Dion said, finally finding his voice.

She proceeded to growl a series of rapid questions. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Dion.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘A small village on an island in the Maltherean. You won’t have heard of it.’

She grunted. ‘What are your skills, Dion of No-land?’

‘I’m a good sailor. I’m skilled with a bow. I can ride a horse.’

She scratched a white scar just under her right eye. ‘Ever shot from a chariot, Dion?’

He frowned. ‘No.’

‘Can you drive a chariot?’

Dion’s frown became even more furrowed. ‘No.’

‘Not sure if you’ve noticed, but horse riding is about as useful to me as the ability to drive and repair a chariot.’ She strode over and looked at the bow he clutched. ‘Give it to me,’ she held out a hand.

Dion handed it to her.