And how he had reacted to Corban. There had been something new about Corban, in his voice and also in his eyes, something commanding. She hated that he had come to her rescue, that he had felt the need to step in. She scowled. I can look after myself. A few moments more and I would have had him. She thought about that a while, in all truth not sure if she would have. Javed was so fast, so committed to each move, with nothing held back, as if life and death were of no consequence.

‘Come on, then,’ Dath yelled up to them, ‘we’ve not got all day.’

Coralen made to shout something abusive but then grimaced as her lip pulled.

Farrell caught her wince. ‘I will call him out,’ he snarled from the other side of the boarding-ramp as they lowered it to the bank, their end hooking onto a timber lip.

‘What?’ Coralen said, having no idea what Farrell was talking about.

‘That oarsman,’ he said. ‘If only I’d been there.’

‘Good job you weren’t,’ Coralen said. ‘He put a giant bigger than you on her back.’

‘It’s not about size,’ Farrell said, looking offended. ‘I’ve seen more combat than Laith.’

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Coralen snapped at him. ‘It was nothing.’ And he might have killed you, you big oaf. Much as you get on my nerves, I’d rather you alive than dead.

‘And besides, I can look after myself. Don’t need anyone to fight my battles for me.’

Farrell looked as if he wanted to say something but chose not to.

Not as much of an idiot as I thought.

‘Everyone off,’ Dath yelled, cupping his hands to his mouth. Laith copied him, her voice booming across the river.

They were sitting along the riverbank and spread in a half-circle around a row of fire-pits. Real meat was turning on spits – auroch, boar, deer – all found salted and hanging in one of the large transporters they’d stolen. Close to seven hundred souls sat curving around the fire-pits, stomachs growling and mouths watering at the smells, a murmur of anticipatory conversation thrumming amongst them.

Coralen sat with Farrell, Cywen and Dath. Also Kulla the Jehar, who seemed to have become Dath’s shadow in recent days. A few oarsmen that Farrell had befriended from his shift joined them, a father and son.

‘Atilius and Pax,’ Farrell introduced the two men.

Conversations with the oarsmen had been hesitant at first, so many of them on the verge of death, emaciated, withdrawn and insular. More of them were beginning to mix with Corban’s warband now, though, probably helped by the fact that they were sharing shifts on the oar-benches.

‘Where are you from?’ Dath asked them.