Yes, the raid had gone well. Until that idiot Polian had incited the others to set fire to the old farmhouse. Wanton destruction of property was anathema to a man of breeding like Camran. It was criminally wasteful. Peasants could always be replaced, but good buildings should be treated with respect. And the farmhouse was a good building, soundly constructed by a man who cared about quality work. Camran had been furious, not only with them but with himself. For instead of merely killing the captured women, he had allowed his needs to override his common sense. He had taken his time, enjoying the screams of the first, luxuriating in the sounds of the desperate pleading of the second, and revelling in the subsequent cries of agony of the third. With each of them dead he had turned his attentions to the dark-haired girl. She had not pleaded, nor made a sound after returning to consciousness to find her hands and ankles bound. She was to be the richest harvest; her cries, when they came, would be the purest and sweetest.

Then smoke had billowed over him. Swinging round, he saw the fires. Leaving the bound girl where she lay, he ran back to the scene, his bloody dagger still in his hand. Polian was grinning as Camran came alongside him. He was still grinning as he died, Camran's blade plunging between his ribs and skewering his heart.

This sudden act of savagery cowed the men. 'Did I not tell you?' he thundered. 'Never property! Not unless directly ordered. Now gather supplies and let's be gone.'

Camran had returned to the young woman. He thought of killing her, but there would be no pleasure in it now, no slow, pounding joy as he watched the light of life fade from her eyes. Dragging her to her feet, he cut the ropes around her ankles and lifted her to the dead Polian's mount. Still she said nothing.

As Camran rode away he gazed back at the burning building, and he was touched by a deep sense of shame. The farmhouse had not been built speedily, but with great patience, the timbers lovingly fashioned, the joints fitting to perfection. Even the window frames had been carved and embellished. Destroying such a place was an act of sacrilege. His father would have been ashamed of him.

Camran's sergeant, the hulking Okrian, rode alongside him. 'Wasn't in time to stop them, sir,' he said.

'It is what happens when one is forced to deal with scum,' Camran replied. 'Let's hope there are better men available when we reach Qumtar. We'll earn little commission with only eleven men.'

'We'll get more, sir. Qumtar is crawling with fighters seeking employment with one or other of the Houses.'

'Crawling is probably an apt description. Not like the old days, is it?'