“Some things are worth going hungry for,” said Armund. “My sister and I cannot unmake the wrongs done us, but nor need we sit idle. Not while we’ve strong arms and sharp axes. Destiny is forged through deeds, not stolen like table-scraps.”

“I hate arguing with Thrakkians,” muttered Drenn.

“You hate being wrong,” said Anliss.

“And Thrakkians love hopeless battles.”

Anliss offered an unfriendly smile. “There are no hopeless battles, only warriors who have lost heart.”

Drenn leapt to her feet. “Why, you . . .!”

Josiri cleared his throat, interrupting her exclamation before things worsened. “Fifteen years ago I promised to finish what my mother could not. To free the Southshires from the Republic’s yoke.” He spoke not to the Vagabond Council, but to the crowd above. “I’ve spent those fifteen years preparing myself for this day – helping all of you prepare—”

“And we’re grateful,” Crovan interrupted. “Truly, your mother would be proud. Five years ago, I wouldn’t have believed we’d even sit around the same fire, let alone have the numbers to challenge the northwealders. But that’s just it. We’ve the numbers to challenge the northwealders, but no more.”

“Then what?” demanded Revekah. “We hide, and hope everything works out? I’m old, I’m tired and I’m sick of living on the run!”

“So we should throw our lives away because you’re dreaming of a goose-down bed?” snapped Drenn. “I don’t think so.”

“Your duke calls you to war! Piss on the idea of duty all you want, but Josiri is the Phoenix’s son.” She stabbed a finger at each of the Vagabond Council in turn, and emphasised every second or third word with an angry flourish. “You owe him fealty! Every last one of you!”

“Not me.” A grin cracked beneath Armund’s plaited beard. “But I’ll fight. Give me an axe and firm ground, and I’ll fight.”

At his side, Anliss murmured her agreement. Josiri nodded his thanks, and fought to keep worry from his face. Rank had bought the twins a seat in the circle; rank, and their trading contacts in Thrakkia. But they spoke only for themselves. By contrast, Crovan spoke with the authority of several hundred swords.

“Josiri,” said the Wolf King. “The oaths I swore and the fealty I owe are to the Republic. But I turned my back on that when I saw the Southshires’ suffering for myself. Duty isn’t enough. Men must think for themselves. They must deal with the world before them, not one laid down by a distant council, or a dead mother’s wish . . .”

Revekah scowled but held her tongue.

“I know you understand this in your heart,” Crovan went on. “Ask yourself what your mother would want. Katya Trelan valued the lives of her people above all things.”