‘And that’s what this is?’

‘No. This is because a noblewoman was embarrassed at her party and wishes to lash out.’

I shook my head. ‘She cannot order this. She has no military power.’

‘No, but her residence came under attack. She can demand protection, and has enough political capital to ensure she receives it. She wants the land swept clean. So here we are. Sweeping.’

‘She cannot command your forces,’ I repeated, adamant despite the current situation.

‘No more than you can command me where to fly.’

‘Could I command you?’

‘It’s an interesting question,’ she mused. ‘On the one hand, no, because I am a flight commander and you have no military rank. Then again, you could pull a gun on me, aim it at the back of my head. There is a fair chance that would work. Or I suppose you could produce a scroll or letter of support from Governor Zanwich, confirming he has invested his authority in you. Then we would be in a difficult situation. I could refuse you, but if the governor took offence, my life would go downhill very quickly.’

‘Does Dolos have a scroll, or a gun?’

‘Both,’ she replied. ‘Are you still attached to that seer-skull of yours?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you separate a moment? I need to pull away and I don’t want you having a fit and soiling your breeches again.’

‘I did not soil myself.’

‘There’s no shame in it. Many fresh recruits find their bowels loose when they first see combat. It rarely comes up more than once.’

‘Because they learn to master their fear?’

‘No. They just tend to die in the first wave. Solves the problem.’

‘How reassuring.’

‘Are you free of the floaty-skull yet?’

‘I have disengaged, left Mizar on reconnaissance.’

‘Good. Because there’s another blip on the auspex.’

We accelerated, the convoy disappearing behind us, leaving only the featureless swamps. The sun blazed bright and, blinded by its glare, it took me a moment to spot the burnt-out ruins rapidly approaching. All that remained was twisted metal blackened by flames, but according to Shard it had once been a refinery tasked with processing vine-fruit, the first stage of the production of Bacchus’ wine.

‘The orks destroyed it?’ I asked.

‘Destroyed, stripped for parts. There used to be dozens of these, one every fifty miles or so. Little infrastructure holds out now, at least not here. Few are still standing.’

‘I saw one like this,’ I murmured.

‘I doubt it. The only one close to the château is Dolos’ private vineyard. You wouldn’t be permitted within a league of it.’

‘I meant in Mizar’s memory. I saw one in ruins. Two orks duelled upon it.’

‘They kept it intact?’ she said. ‘I’m surprised. Then again, they need somewhere to forge their aircraft and their fanboats. Maybe that’s why they’ve stripped these platforms, to assemble their own manufactoria deeper in the swamp.’