Guffaws of laughter. “What for, One-eye? You want a bum-boy? I’ve got better down in the pen.”

“I said I’ll buy him. Look, I’ve got money.” Shef turned towards “Thrall’s-wreak,” stuck in the ground at the entrance to the precinct. From it he had hung his purse with the few coins in it that Brand had doled out as his share of the meager plunder so far.

“No chance. Come down to the pens if you want a slave, sell you one anytime. I’ve got to take this one back, make an example of him. Too many down there run from one master, think they might run from another. Got to show them it doesn’t pay.”

The slave had caught something of the dialogue, and wailed with fear again, this time more desperately. As the men gripped his arms and hands and began to pull him off, trying as they did so not to damage the precinct-markers, he thrashed and fought. “The pendants,” he cried. “They said the pendant-men were safe.”

“We cannot help you,” Shef replied, speaking again in English. “You should have stayed with your English master.”

“My masters were the black monks. You know what they are like to their slaves. And my master was the worst of all—Erkenbert the deacon, who makes the machines … .”

An angry Hebridean lost patience with the man’s struggles, whipped a sandbag from his belt, and struck out. He missed his blow, caught the slave along the jaw instead of on the temple. A crack, the jaw lolling forward, blood trickling from the corner of the mouth.

“Er’en’ert. He’ a de’il. Ma’ ’e de’il-’chines.”

Shef seized his gauntlets, pulled them on, ready to jerk his halberd out of the ground. The knot of struggling men swayed back a few paces.

“Hold on,” he said. “The man’s valuable. Don’t hit him again.” Ten words, he thought, ten words might be all I need. Then I will know the principle of the great bow.

The slave, fighting now with the frenzy of a tormented weasel, got a foot free, kicked out. A Hebridean grunted, bent forward cursing.

“That’s enough,” snapped the head of the gang. As Shef leapt forward in entreaty he whipped a knife from his belt, stepped forward and drove upward, backhand. The slave, still held, arched and contorted, went limp.

“You blockhead!” yelled Shef. “You killed one of the machine-men!”

The Hebridean turned back to him, mouth twisting with anger. As he started to speak, Shef punched him full in the face with his armored glove. He sprawled backward, landed on the ground. A dead silence fell.

The Hebridean climbed slowly to his feet, spat one tooth, then another, into his hand. He looked at his men, shrugged. They dropped the slave’s corpse, turned, walked off together toward their camp.

“You’ve done it now, boy,” said Thorvin.

“What do you mean?”