‘This can’t be true,’ Silas stutters, ‘there’s no way, they would have found her by now.’

Moloney climbs to his feet with a grunt. ‘The brass put it about that she died in the escape craft wreck, to save face. But those of us with connections know they want her back bad. A hundred thousand credits bad.’

‘But—’

Moloney reaches towards my neck. I struggle, but three Rooks hold me firm, and there’s nothing to stop him from ripping the scarf away to reveal the livid scar.

‘There,’ he says. ‘Max-security prisoners wear full collars, not partial ones. They have to be surgically removed. She must have cut her own throat to get it off.’

Tears of rage fill my eyes. You don’t understand.

The wind howls, slamming the door against the wall, and an empty drum clatters to the ground.

‘Enough of this,’ Moloney barks. ‘Weather’s turning. Cuff her, get them all to the hold.’

Hands sticky with engine grease bind my wrists behind me.

‘I’m not going with you,’ the General protests. ‘We have a deal.’

‘Deal’s not done ’til I get my money, sweet cheeks. And since you did for the wire here, looks like you’ll be our guest for a while. Jax, where’s the nearest wire?’

‘Prob’ly Depot Twelve,’ one of the Rooks answers. ‘Chances are we can score prisoner transfer there too.’

‘Good. You too, Silas, you taplicker. You’ll ride with us ’til I’m sure you ain’t going to run to the Accord.’

‘Moloney, I’d never.’

‘Shut up. Get to the ship.’

Hands pull me to my feet, dragging me through the broken wares. Past the beating of blood in my head, I hear the wind, I hear the voices that ride upon it, swirling from between the stars.

The Rooks haul me out of the post to where a large ship waits, guarded by men with guns. Through the swirling dust, I see the name, scratched into the oil-black paintwork.

Longrider.

Whatever the Augur saw – whatever they had shown – it’s coming true. The light turns thick and yellow as paste, the seconds are becoming unstuck, the skin of the world sloughing away. They are here.

‘Rook,’ I whisper. ‘Longrider. Spindigo. Hell.’

‘What she say?’ a Rook asks, but the question is lost in the roar of the wind.

They crowd into my body, numberless, nameless, ravenous.

A grease-black Rook crashes from the sky towards the earth. Moloney’s blue eyes are wide in death, sand clinging to the wet blood on his face. The General and I walk away, into the desert…

And then I know; they are showing me the way.

I laugh as the sedative does its work, dragging me into the void.

* * *