He snorts, but comes forwards to release the net from the buzzard. As he does, the stench of the wounds reaches me.

‘You try and run,’ he says, ‘I’ll slice your hamstrings.’

Free, I haul myself up on my side, but the Marshal takes hold of my coat and drags me the rest of the way, as I cry out in pain.

‘Well?’ He drops down onto the box as if at a lesson, his good eye bright and fixed.

‘What… is that?’ I wheeze, pointing to the bottle he’s using.

He sets it down at the edge of the fire.

‘Can’t see,’ I murmur weakly.

He moves it closer. DANDICAT’S LINIMENT, the label declares, FINE FOR AILMENTS INSIDE AND OUT.

‘Good,’ I whisper. ‘Now, let me look.’

Frowning, the Marshal hunches towards me.

With all my strength, I grab the bottle and push myself from the ground, though the pain almost makes me pass out. He snarls and reaches for his gun, too late; I’m on him, digging my fingers into his wounded face until he howls in agony. The bottle, I raise up and bring down hard on his skull.

Plastic. It does nothing but spill foul oil over his face. Gasping, I roll away from him, kicking hot embers into his path as he lunges for me.

Get up. I force myself to my feet, though they shake under me. Run. Enough distance, enough darkness, he might not find me…

But my body is hurt, weakened by thirst and pain and blood loss and after a dozen steps I go sprawling. Frantically, I crawl one-armed, though I can hear him staggering after me, swearing and screaming, and I know he’ll make good on his threat; he’ll cut the tendons in my legs, and I will die hanging in a net above the desert, my blood dripping out across the miles to disappear like snakes into the sand. Is this the end they have been leading me towards? Have they saved me a dozen times from the hulks, the Seekers, the Rooks – for this?

My heart is loud in my ears as I crawl, as if it knows it is on its final beats. The Marshal is at my heels, rabid with violence. He grabs my boot and hauls me back, raising his knife.

The noise of my heart explodes, but it’s not my heart at all, it’s engines: the steady pounding strokes of engines. I look past the Marshal’s oozing face to see four crafts hurtle from the night sky.

They open fire, charges of red and pure white lighting the desert. Joliffe staggers back, his arms shielding his head, screaming obscenities. As the crafts bank and wheel for another attack, he looks up. Fear twists his features as he realises what he is seeing.