‘That wizard had better show up soon,’ Blend murmured after a time.

Picker nodded in the darkness, then said, ‘Might be the captain and the rest are with the White Faces already. Might be Quick Ben and us’ll come too late to make any difference in the outcome—’

‘We won’t make any difference anyway,’ Blend said. ‘What you mean is we’ll be too late to see the spectacle.’

‘Could be a good thing, that.’

‘You’re starting to sound like Antsy.’

‘Yeah, well, things ain’t looking too good,’ Picker said under her breath. ‘The company’s best mage has disappeared. Add that to a green noble-born captain and Whiskeyjack gone and what do you know – we ain’t the company we once was.’

‘Not since Pale, that’s for sure.’

Visions of the chaos and horror in the tunnels the day of the Enfilade returned to the corporal and she grimaced. ‘Betrayed by our own. That’s the worst thing there is, Blend. I can take falling to enemy swords, or magefire, or even demons tearing me limb from limb. But to have one of your own flash the knife when your back’s turned ...’ She spat into the fire.

‘It broke us,’ Blend said.

Picker nodded again.

‘Maybe,’ the woman at her side continued, ‘Trotts losing his contest with the White Faces and us getting executed one and all might be a good thing. Barghast allies or not, I ain’t looking forward to this war.’

Picker stared into the flames. ‘You’re thinking of what might happen when we next step into battle.’

‘We’re brittle, Corporal. Riven with cracks ...’

‘Got no-one to trust, that’s the problem. Got nothing to fight for.’

‘There’s Dujek, to answer both of those,’ Blend said.

‘Aye, our renegade Fist...’

Blend softly snorted.

Picker glanced over at her friend, frowned. ‘What?’

‘He ain’t no renegade,’ Blend said in a low voice. ‘We’re only cut loose ‘cause of Brood and the Tiste Andii, ‘cause we couldn’t have managed the parley otherwise. Ain’t you wondered, Corporal, who that new standard-bearer of Onearm’s is?’

‘What’s his name? Arantal? Artanthos. Huh. He showed up—’

‘About a day after the outlawry proclamation.’

‘So? Who do you think he is, Blend?’

‘A top-ranking Claw, is my wager. Here at the command of the Empress.’

‘You got proof of that?’

‘No.’

Picker swung her scowl back to the fire. ‘Now who’s jumping at shadows?’

‘We’re no renegades,’ Blend asserted. ‘We’re doing the Empire’s bidding, Corporal, no matter how it looks. Whiskeyjack knows, too. And maybe so does that healer over there, and Quick Ben—’

‘You mean the Ninth.’

‘Aye.’

Her scowl deepening, Picker rose, strode to Mallet’s side and crouched down. ‘How’s the sapper, Healer?’ she asked quietly.

‘Not as bad as it first looked,’ Mallet conceded. ‘Mild concussion. A good thing – I’m having trouble drawing on my Denul warren.’