‘Just another player, aye, jostling on the same board. Right now, he just keeps kicking it whenever he gets the chance. When he’s on it, he won’t have that privilege. Anyway, that’s how it seems to me, Captain. So when you said you wanted to sanction the House, I thought: why the fuss? Sounds perfectly reasonable to me. The gods can be damned thick-witted on occasion – probably why they need us mortals to do the straight thinking when straight thinking’s required. Listen to that lone voice, lad, that’s my advice.’

‘And it’s good advice—’

‘Maybe, or maybe not. I might end up being roasted over the eternal fires of the Abyss by Trake and all the other gods for having given it.’

‘I’ll have company, then,’ Paran said, grinning.

‘Good thing we both hate solitude.’

‘That’s a soldier’s humour, Gruntle.’

‘Is it? But I was being serious, Captain.’

‘Oh.’

Gruntle glanced over. ‘Got you.’

A sliding downdraught of cool air brought Quick Ben onto the gritty flagstones of the plaza. A dozen paces ahead loomed the gatehouse. Beyond it, seated side by side on the Thrall’s wide, low steps, were Captain Paran and the Mortal Sword.

‘Just the two I wanted to talk with,’ the wizard muttered, relinquishing the Warren of Serc.

‘No more arguments, please,’ Talamandas replied from his perch on Quick Ben’s shoulder. ‘Those are two powerful men—’

‘Relax,’ the wizard said. ‘I’m not anticipating a confrontation.’

‘Well, I’ll make myself unseen, just in case.’

‘Suit yourself.’

The sticksnare vanished, though the wizard could still feel his meagre weight, and the twig fingers gripping his cloak.

The two men looked up as Quick Ben approached.

Paran nodded a greeting. ‘Last time I saw you, you were racked with fever. I’m glad to see you’re better. Gruntle, this is Quick Ben, a soldier in the Bridgeburners.’

‘A mage.’

‘That, too.’

Gruntle studied Quick Ben for a moment, and Paran sensed a bestial presence shifting uneasily behind the man’s amber, feline eyes. Then the Daru said, ‘You smell of death and it’s not to my liking.’

Quick Ben started. ‘Indeed? I’ve been consorting with the wrong company lately. Unpalatable, agreed, but, alas, necessary.’

‘Is it just that?’

‘I hope so, Mortal Sword.’

A brutal threat glared for a moment in Gruntle’s eyes, then, slowly, dimmed. He managed a shrug. ‘It was a Bridgeburner who saved Stonny’s life, so I’ll keep my reins taut. At least until I see if it wears off.’

‘Consider it,’ Paran said to Quick Ben, ‘an elaborate way of saying you need to bathe soon.’

‘Well,’ the wizard replied, eyes on the captain, ‘humour from you makes for a change.’

‘Plenty of changes,’ Paran agreed, ‘of late. If you’re looking to rejoin the company they’re in the Gidrath barracks.’

‘Actually, I bring word from Whiskeyjack.’

Paran sat straighter. ‘You’ve managed to contact him? Despite the poisoned warrens? Impressive, Wizard. Now you have my utmost attention. Has he new orders for me?’