‘No you won’t. I killed an Untan noble here in Aren. Name of Lenestro. Snapped his neck with these two hands.’

Through the clouds of dust before them, a sergeant had clawed free of the mob and was approaching Adjunct Tavore. For a moment Gamet was terrified that he would, insanely, cut her down right there, but the man sheathed his short-sword as he drew up before her. Words were exchanged.

The Fist made a decision. ‘Come with me, soldier.’

‘Aye, sir.’ The man reached down and collected his kit bag.

Gamet led him to where Tavore and the sergeant stood. An odd thing happened then. There was a grunt from the veteran at the Fist’s side, even as the wiry, red-and-grey-bearded sergeant’s eyes flickered past the Adjunct and fixed on the soldier. A sudden broad grin, then a quick succession of gestures – a hand lifting, as if holding an invisible rock or ball, then the hand flipping, index finger inscribing a circle, followed by a jerk of the thumb towards the east, concluded with a shrug. In answer to all this, the soldier from the gaol gave his kit bag a shake.

The sergeant’s blue eyes widened.

They arrived, coming alongside the Adjunct, who swung a blank gaze on Gamet.

‘Your pardon, Adjunct,’ the Fist said, and would have added more, but Tavore raised a hand and made to speak.

She didn’t get a chance.

The soldier at Gamet’s side spoke to the sergeant. ‘Draw us a line, will ya?’

‘I’ll do just that.’

The sergeant pivoted and returned to the heaving ranks.

Tavore’s eyes had snapped to the soldier, but she said nothing, for the man had set his bag down, drawn back its flap, and was rummaging inside it.

Five paces in front of the legion’s uneven ranks, the sergeant once more drew his sword, then drove its blunt tip into the dust and set off, inscribing a sharp furrow in the ground.

Draw us a line, will ya?

The soldier crouched over his kit bag looked up suddenly. ‘You two still here? Go back to them Wickans, then all of you pull back another thirty, forty paces. Oh, and get them Wickans off their horses and a tight grip on the reins, and all of ya, take for yourselves a wide stance. Then when I give the signal, plug your ears.’

Gamet flinched as the man began withdrawing a succession of clay balls from his bag. The bag . . . that thumped down beside me not fifty heartbeats ago. Hood’s breath!

‘What is your name, soldier?’ Adjunct Tavore rasped.

‘Cuttle. Now, better get moving, lass.’

Gamet reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘Adjunct, those are—’

‘I know what they are,’ she snapped. ‘And this man’s liable to kill fifty of my soldiers—’