Iwazar’s internal chronometer must have been damaged, for I could not sense the passage of time by anything other than the shadows shifting. But night was approaching, and it was some time since Shard had hauled her last load of scrap. It was a shock when her face suddenly loomed into view, skin scorched red by the burning sun, nose peeling and cheeks marred by dirt and blood. Her eyes were bright and brittle as ice, and I feared they glimmered with a hint of insanity.

‘What do we have here?’ she whispered, staring straight into Iwazar’s lens. ‘Still functional? I suppose they build you to last.’

A blade flashed in her hand. I am unsure what she did with it, the weapon flicking from my view. But I felt a surge run through the seer-skull, and with a wrench I was torn from its housing and once more condemned to darkness.

I smelled the fire before I heard the crackle of fuel, but did not open my eyes. Would not, in fact. Because once my eyes were open, I would have to face my fate. And I did not see how it could be anything good.

The pain had lessened, the blade in my ribs now merely an ache, my shattered leg a distant annoyance. But the tingling in my fingers and dryness of my mouth indicated a sedative was responsible. That was mildly encouraging. It suggested medical support was available. Then again, my bed was hard and nobbled as rock, and the campfire blazing close by was not indicative of a medi-unit. I reached out for Iwazar, but could not find it.

‘Good evening, Propagandist Simlex.’

I knew Shard’s voice well enough. But it carried an edge that was neither familiar nor reassuring.

I risked a glance through narrowed eyes. The firelight barely etched the contours of our abode. It appeared almost a cave, except the walls had an organic, bark-like texture. We were, in fact, nestling in the hollowed roots of a mandack tree. The fire had been set at its entrance, most of the smoke billowing into the swamp beyond, though the air was thick with the stench of the burning wood.

There, silhouetted by the fire, sat Shard. She did not look at me, her focus the darkness beyond the cave. Her flight suit was torn, the exposed flesh reddened by Bacchus’ harsh sun. The sabre was laid out beside her, but she held a smaller knife, using it to shave a length of wood.

I tried to speak, but coughed instead.

‘There’s water beside you. Don’t try and guzzle it. Small sips.’

I groped for the canteen, unscrewing the cap with shaking fingers. Though recycled and stale, it tasted as glorious as anything from Governor Dolos’ vineyard. But my throat rebelled, almost expelling the vital fluid. I held it in my mouth, allowing a trickle to pass at a time.

‘Better?’ she asked.

I nodded.