As he lay down he found himself thinking of Lia. When first he had seen her at the river he thought her a pretty girl, nothing more. But earlier, when he had walked with her in the garden, he found himself noticing the tilt of her head as she laughed, the slender perfection of her neck, the fullness of her lips. And when they sat upon the bench, beneath the canvas canopy, he had caught the scent of her hair.

You've been without a woman too long, he told himself. And he fell asleep thinking of the dark-haired girl, and picturing himself walking with her on the slopes of the Druagh mountains, with the morning sun clearing the peaks, and the mist seeping from the Wishing Tree woods.

Oranus, the Captain of the Watch, was tired, his stomach full of cheap red wine, his head pounding. Midweek was usually quiet in Accia, and he had brought the flagon of wine to the small office fronting the cells. It would, he hoped, help give him a good night's sleep. Instead it had left his mood as sour as his belly.

He glared balefully at the small group of angry people crowding around his desk. They were all talking at once, their discordant voices matching the angry pounding behind his eyes. The woman he knew well, a whore who operated in the eastern dock area. The man beside her, sporting a broken nose and a swollen eye, was her pimp, Nestar. He was also the owner of a waterside tavern renowned for foul practices, including robbery, extortion, and the fleecing of customers. Two of his men stood close by. All bore signs of recent violent activity. The captain would have liked nothing better than to close Nestar's tavern, but the pimp had many friends in high places, including the merchant Macrios and the councillor Ban-yon. At forty-four – only eight months from retirement and a free parcel of land – Oranus had no desire to incur the wrath of powerful men.

Oranus rubbed his eyes and transferred his gaze to the thin man standing by the door. He did not recognize him. The man's face was dotted with spots of blood, and there were wooden splinters in the skin of his forehead. Just for a moment the sheer incongruity of the man's injuries lightened his headache. But only for a moment.

The morning had been quiet until the barbarian had been brought in. He glanced back at the chained tribesman, sitting glowering in the cell. He was young, and powerfully built, with long blond hair, a single braid hanging from the temple. He wore no tribal cloak, but Oranus felt sure he was not Cenii. There was something untamed about him, which suggested he had not endured the yoke of Stone. Perhaps Norvii or Rigante, he thought. Oranus filled a cup with water and drained it. Then he turned his attention back to the angry group.