“I’m not going to call him anything,” said Ark. “Just keep that insect away from me!” He was more than nervous. In two hours, the feast would begin. If they weren’t ready, they might as well hand over their country on a wooden platter. As the Rootshooters began work, Ark cracked open the door and crouched down to wait.

Without thinking why, he took the raven feather and laid it before him. Then he reached around his neck to untie the leather strap holding the phial. His hand trembled as he reached toward the stopper. But there was no time for doubt, even when the stopper plopped from its end and a thin trail of vapor rose up.

He tried not to smell it, but his nostrils caught a stench that almost made him gag, his mind now choked with images of bursting boils, and pus, all things rank and decomposing. Quickly, before he lost the will to do it, he dipped the sharpened quill deep inside the phial until it sucked up several drops of shadow ink. It was done — the phial was back safely around his neck, the feather hidden deep inside his sleeve — though for what purpose, he still did not know. Ark prayed he would never have to find out.

They’d tested the engine half an hour earlier. Now the flypod stank with the nervous sweat of male bodies. Soldiers, attached by safety harnesses to the curving walls of the hold, checked their weapons carefully. A jammed breech could mean the difference between life and death. Lady Fenestra walked between them, gossip falling silent as she passed by.

She finally squeezed through a small hatch to the storeroom, where Petronio was resentfully taking stock of the equipment. “Not long now!” she said.

“And I’m stuck in here counting pairs of boots!” Petronio was furious.

“If all goes well, the Moss-siders will do all the work for us. Better a battle where you don’t lose a single one of your men, but still win, hmmm?”

Petronio could see the logic of her words, but his heart burned for action.

“My men will provide backup if anything goes wrong. Now, you must promise me you won’t do anything stupid!”

Petronio wondered if she could make out the bulge of the g-gun 100 in his doublet. “I promise,” he said, his eyes meeting hers defiantly.

“Good. There will be much work for you when this is all over.” She turned to go.

Petronio wasn’t bothered about the far future, and as for his promise? Of course he wouldn’t do anything stupid. But he might do something smart.

41• ALL THE KING’S MEN