Which was good, because in the murky dawn he was galloping along a farm road with a dozen other company archers at his back.

The farm road was in Central Etrusca, almost fifty leagues south of the fields of San Batiste. He and his party had ridden all night; they had Short Tooth from the green banda guiding them.

They saw the mill silhouetted against the dawn before they heard the river or the clack of the waterwheel. Dogs were barking at every farm; the dozen of them had made plenty of noise galloping over the plains of Firensi.

Short Tooth reined in. “That’s her, Tip.”

Tippit chewed on an end of his mustache while he looked at the big mill in the growing light. “No rest for the wicked,” he said, loosening the sword on his hip. “Where’s Long Paw?”

Short Tooth shook his head. “Not a fuckin’ clue, Tip. He were ’ere yestere’en.”

Tippit looked around. He had all veterans; of his cronies, only Smoke was missing, back with the main column. In the distance the mill made an odd sound; tick-bang. Tick-bang.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Like old times,” Simkin said.

Several of them smiled.

They rode to the very door of the mill unopposed, and dismounted. There was a big stone bridge in easy bowshot, and beyond, her towers gilded by the rising sun, was the magnificent city of Firensi—one of the richest cities in the whole of the world. A huge church was being built; even in the pale light, Tippit could see the unfinished dome.

“No Head should see that,” he said.

“Ee will, in two hours, if we do our bit,” snapped Simkin.

Flarch was busy looking for something to batter the door. Simkin slipped the latch with his dagger and pushed it open cautiously. A man shouted, a woman called, and the heavy shutter opened over their heads.

“Fuck it,” Simkin said, and rolled through the door.

Tippit was right behind him. There was a man in a nightshirt roaring in terrified Etruscan. Tippit used the pommel of his sword to sweep the man off his feet; when the man moved, Tippit kicked him, and Scrant hit him again and the man fell facedown on the brick floor.

The woman was screaming now. Tippit raced up the open wooden stairs. The mill was running; he could hear the sound of the grindstone, and something else. His feet pounded on the steps, and he shouted, “Check the mill floor!”

Simkin kicked another door, and hurt his foot; the doors were heavy oak. Scrant put his left hand on the latch and pulled.

Tippit reached the first floor. There was a short hall; the woman was screaming in the first room, and the door was locked. Tippit put his shoulder against it, and broke the wooden latch.

A middle-aged woman with long hair unbound was screaming out her window. Tippit’s Etruscan was virtually nonexistent but banditti came through.