Strings’s eyes widened slightly. That’s a damned finger bone.

More words between the man and the woman, then the Adjunct nodded and proceeded towards the squads.

Alone, her steps slow, her face expressionless.

Strings saw the flicker of recognition as she scanned the squads. Himself, then Cuttle. After a long moment, during which she entirely ignored the ramrod-straight Lieutenant Ranal, she finally turned to the man. ‘Lieutenant.’

‘Adjunct.’

‘There seems to be a proliferation of non-standard accoutrements on your soldiers. More so here than among any of the other companies I have reviewed.’

‘Yes, Adjunct. Against my orders, and I know the man responsible—’

‘No doubt,’ she replied. ‘But I am not interested in that. I would suggest, however, that some uniformity be established for those... trinkets. Perhaps from the hip belt, opposite the scabbard. Furthermore, there have been complaints from Aren’s citizenry. At the very least, the looted pits and tombs should be returned to their original state ... as much as that is possible, of course.’

Ranal’s confusion was obvious. ‘Of course, Adjunct.’

‘And you might note, as well,’ the Adjunct added drily, ‘that you are alone in wearing a ... non-standard uniform of the Fourteenth Army, at this time. I suggest you correct that as soon as possible, Lieutenant. Now, you may dismiss your squads. And on your way out, convey my instruction to Captain Keneb that he can proceed with moving the company’s medium infantry to the fore.’

‘Y-yes, Adjunct. At once.’ He saluted.

Strings watched her walk back to her entourage. Oh, well done, lass.

Gamet’s chest was filled with aching as he studied the Adjunct striding back to where he and the others waited. A fiercely welling emotion. Whoever had come up with the idea deserved ... well, a damned kiss, as Cuttle would have said. They’ve turned the omen. Turned it!

And he saw the rekindled fire in Tavore’s eyes as she reached them. ‘Fist Gamet.’

‘Adjunct?’

‘The Fourteenth Army requires a standard.’

‘Aye, it does indeed.’

‘We might take our inspiration from the soldiers themselves.’

‘We might well do that, Adjunct.’

‘You will see to it? In time for our departure tomorrow?’

‘I will.’

From the gate a messenger arrived on horseback. He had been riding hard, and drew up sharply upon seeing the Adjunct.

Gamet watched the man dismount and approach. Gods, not bad news . . . not now ...

‘Report,’ the Adjunct demanded.

‘Three ships, Adjunct,’ the messenger gasped. ‘Just limped into harbour.’

‘Go on.’

‘Volunteers! Warriors! Horses and wardogs! It’s chaos at the docks!’

‘How many?’ Gamet demanded.

‘Three hundred, Fist.’

‘Where in Hood’s name are they from?’

The messenger’s gaze snapped away from them – over to where Nil and Nether stood. ‘Wickans.’ He met Tavore’s gaze once more. ‘Adjunct! Clan of the Crow. The Crow! Coltaine’s own!’

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER NINE

At night ghosts come

In rivers of grief,

To claw away the sand

Beneath a man’s feet