The woman looked at him. She was covered in blood like an actor at the end of a tragedy. She was also burned all over her body, her clothes full of holes as if she’d been attacked by deadly moths.

Brown grabbed the corpse. It was hot to the touch, and it felt wrong, and he used his revulsion to hurl it as far as he could. It didn’t weigh much.

Long Paw’s eyes fluttered open.

Brown’s dagger hand was steady and the point of the dagger was at Long Paw’s throat.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Long Paw’s eyes met his. “What the fuck was that?” he asked.

Four hours had passed, and they were in the mill at the side of a river. Long Paw was sensible enough to know it when they got him off his horse; the rain was lighter, but he was cold, soaked through, and none of them looked good. M’bub Ali was badly wounded; one of his horse boys was dead and two more wounded. All of them stank of mud; all were cold and wet.

Sauce was there in person with the duchess. Long Paw smiled at her; he knew her; his head was coming back together, although there were odd flashes in the corner of his eyes and things were not right in his head; Donna Beatrice had him under one shoulder and Lucca under the other.

“Lay him down. There’s beds. Magistera Tancreda is here and ready to work. And our doctors. Thank God we had no casualties today.” Sauce shook her head. “Paw, you look like shit.”

They pushed Long Paw down.

“Talk when you are better,” she said. “Who is this?”

“Donna Beatrice,” Long Paw said. “Put her on the rolls. She killed the fucking thing.”

The Duchess of Venike was right behind his commander, but her eyes went unerringly to Brown. “Did you get him?” she asked.

Brown shook his head. “It’s a fairly complex matter,” he said. “But the Patriarch is inarguably dead.”

Sauce waited until the two company doctors and Tancreda were clearly at work, and then she went up the mill steps with the duchess, Brown, Donna Beatrice, and Daniel Favour.

“Who are they?” she asked from the landing.

Brown followed her finger. “Captain, that’s M’bub Ali. He is . . . hmm. An officer of the Sultan.”

The duchess nodded. “Alison, they helped us at Mitla; seems like years ago. They were here to scout the Darkness.”

“Spies,” Alison said.

“Allies,” Giselle said.

“Good allies,” Brown muttered. He handed over a long bundle. “Fell Sword. It had it.”

Sauce raised an eyebrow. But she shrugged and continued up the steps to the room that had once been occupied by the mill’s owners. There her body squire poured wine and Brown slumped into a chair.

“Not used to all these people,” he muttered.

Giselle smiled. “But the Patriarch is dead.”