Bottle nodded. ‘I know, it’s amazing. She’s so tiny ...’

‘That’s our secret,’ Strings said quietly.

‘What is?’

‘The reason why I picked a Birdshit, soldiers.’

‘You didn’t pick ...’

At the suspicious silence that followed, Strings simply smiled. Then he shrugged. ‘Hunting’s one thing. An easy thing. Birdshits don’t need to get... elaborate, killing a maimed capemoth. It’s when they have to fight. Protecting territory, or their young. That’s when the surprise comes. You think Joyful’s going to lose tonight, Bottle? Think your heart’s going to get broken? Relax, lad, old Strings here has always got your tender feelings in mind ...’

‘You can drop that “Strings” bit, Sergeant,’ Bottle said after a moment. ‘We all know who you are. We all know your real name.’

‘Well, that’s damned unfortunate. If it gets out to the command—’

‘Oh, it won’t, Fiddler.’

‘Maybe not on purpose, but in the heat of battle?’

‘Who’s going to listen to our screams of panic in a battle, Sergeant?’

Fiddler shot the young man a look, gauging, then he grinned. ‘Good point. Still, be careful what you say and when you say it.’

‘Aye, Sergeant. Now, could you explain that surprise you were talking about?’

‘No. Wait and see.’

Strings fell silent then, noting a small party of riders approaching down the line of march. ‘Straighten up, soldiers. Officers coming.’

Fist Gamet, the sergeant saw, was looking old, worn out. Getting dragged out of retirement was never a good thing, he knew, since the first thing that an old soldier put away was his nerve, and that was hard, if not impossible, to get back. That stepping away, of course, marked a particular kind of retirement – and one a cautious soldier usually avoided. Abandoning the lifestyle was one thing, but surrendering the deadly edge was another. Studying the Fist as the man rode up, Fiddler felt a tremor of unease.

Accompanying Gamet were Captain Keneb and the lieutenant, the latter so grim-faced as to be near comical. His officer mask, with which he tries to look older and thus more professional. Instead, it’s the scowl of a constipated man. Someone should tell him ...

The threesome reined in to walk their horses alongside Fiddler’s own squad – somewhat unnerving to the sergeant, though he offered them a nod. Keneb’s eyes, he noted, were on Cuttle.

But it was Ranal who spoke first. ‘Sergeant Strings.’

‘Aye, sir?’

‘You and Cuttle, please, off to one side for a private conversation.’ Then he raised his voice to the squad marching ahead. ‘Sergeant Gesler and Corporal Stormy, back with us on the double.’

‘Four should be enough,’ the Fist rumbled, ‘to see the instructions properly delivered to the other squads.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Ranal, who had been about to call over Borduke.