The Vin Thalun galley reached the ford in the river, a gangplank appearing and men swarming down it. Some carried great lengths of timber, half a dozen stripped trunks and spare masts. With an efficiency that Maquin grudgingly respected they set about portage of the ship across the ford, placing the lengths of timber in front of the ship’s prow, at the same time ropes were hurled down for men to haul the ship over the masts, warriors running to the stern of the ship to collect the timber as it rolled over it and carry it back to the prow, repeating the process until the ship was back in the water on the northern side of the ford. Then they boarded the ship and set to rowing again.

The sun was low in the sky when the Vin Thalun galley disappeared over the horizon, heading north-west.

‘They are going to Jerolin,’ Fidele said.

‘Most likely. And we’re going to Ripa. Come, let’s go get our feet wet.’

Maquin watched Fidele as she skinned a rabbit, the first rays of dawn dappling her skin through the canopy above. Her cuts were economical and precise, first gutting the dead animal, dumping the offal in the river, keeping the heart and liver, slicing a neat line all along the underbelly, then ripping the skin free in a series of fluid tugs.

She’s not useless now. Not that I thought she was before. Stubborn, pig-headed, maybe, but not useless. Over their time together Maquin had learned a quiet respect for her. She was a lady of rank and clearly not capable of surviving in the wild – well, not when I met her – but to her credit she had refused just to rely upon him. She asked more questions than an inquisitive bairn, and slowly built up a set of skills that would look after any woodsman in the wild.

The rabbit was skinned and quartered now. She pierced each piece on a long knife and set it over their small fire, a luxury Maquin would not normally have agreed to, but they were half a day from Ripa now. Fidele was focusing on turning her makeshift spit, face set in lines of concentration so as not to burn any of the meat. The last two moons had taken their toll on her. She was pale, her face gaunt, dark shadows beneath her eyes, streaks of grey in her otherwise jet hair. Yet something else had changed about her. When Maquin had led her from the arena at Jerolin there had been a rage within her, something cold and hard. Brittle. Over their journey that had changed, gradually melting away. She was relaxed in the wild, appearing more comfortable than Maquin had ever witnessed her in Jerolin.