"Them dogs is ours," Pomeroy said. Drogon shrugged and held out the leash, and the distorted animal looked at Pomeroy and showed its teeth. "What’s your story?" Pomeroy said.

Drogon pointed at Elsie, whispered, and she walked toward him. He took her hands and put them on his forehead, and she went into her hexing state. He kept speaking, enunciating something only she could hear.

When he was done she opened her eyes. "He told me to read him. He told me to verity-gauge. And he said, ‘I want what you want, I want to find the Council.’ He said he’s from the city, but he sure isn’t bloody Parliament, and he isn’t militia. Says he’s a vaquero, a horseman. Lived nomad for twenty years.

"He says there are too many stories for the Council not to be real. And it’s precious to wilderness-men. Iron Council. Like a promised place. So when he got word what was happening-when he heard who’d gone to protect it-he had to come after him to help. To find it. He followed us. Till he was sure he could trust us."

"You ain’t a truesayer," Pomeroy said. "This don’t mean shit."

"No I ain’t, but I’ve got something." Elsie glowered. "I can feel. I was verity-gauging."

The whispersmith replaced his hat and turned back to the dogs, subvocalising till they skittered for his affection among the bodies of their handlers.

"She ain’t got the puissance to be sure, Cutter," Pomeroy said.

Why am I supposed to fucking decide? thought Cutter.

Drogon held the cloths to the dogs’ absurd noses, and the animals slobbered and wheeled north. "We have to go." Drogon spoke to Cutter. "We’re still being followed. We’re close, now, we’re close."

Elsie tried to thank the tardy, with no reaction. "You have to go," she shouted. "Handlingers are coming." But the ge’ain did not answer. They stood among their revenge and waited for nothing. The humans could only shout their thanks and leave the plant- giants in stupor. Cutter saluted Fejh’s grave.

The dogs fanned on their leads ahead of Drogon, sniffing urgently. Sometimes he let them career through the hard vegetation, their outsized heads swinging. While Cutter and the others continued their trudging, he would ride out.

He whispered to the travellers each in turn, from miles ahead. He let the dogs run, their leads trailing behind them, and when they went too far he would whisper commands and they would come back.

"Keep walking," he told Cutter. "Handlinger’s behind you."

Handlingers. The malefic hands of history. Five-fingered parasites, come out now to the light.

Up through a col in the hills. Cutter thought of Fejh slowly baking in the earth. He looked at the mark they had left, the dead and nearly dead, the two tardy standing like trees, the ruins of the skirmish like a soot stain.

The land before them was more wooded, the ground become peaked, slopes of scree gripped in the roots of olives. Drogon’s dust scattered into a low cloud. He was ahead, his path visible like a seam. There was sage, and dog-rose. Each of Cutter’s steps dispersed a gathering of cicadas.