Calder watched him for a moment, looking calmly off across the darkened fields as though they were full of flowers rather than corpses. ‘Have you eaten here, within a long piss of a mass grave … just to show me how ruthless you are?’

‘Must everything have some sinister motive? I have eaten here because I was hungry.’ Bayaz tipped his head to one side as he looked down at Calder. Like the bird looks at the worm. ‘Graves mean nothing to me either way.’

‘Knives,’ muttered Calder, ‘and threats, and bribes, and war?’

Bayaz’ eyes shone with the lamplight. ‘Yes?’

‘What kind of a fucking wizard are you?’

‘The kind you obey.’

The servant reached for his plate but Calder caught him by the wrist before he got there. ‘Leave it. I might get hungry later.’

The Magus smiled at that. ‘What did I say, Yoru? He has a stronger stomach than you’d think.’ He waved over his shoulder as he walked away. ‘I believe, for now, the North is in safe hands.’

Bayaz’ servant took up the basket, took down the lamp, and followed his master.

‘Where’s dessert?’ Calder shouted after them.

The servant gave him one last smirk. ‘Black Dow has it.’

The glimmer of the lamp followed them around the side of the house and they were gone, leaving Calder to sink into his rickety chair in the darkness, eyes closed, breathing hard, with a mixture of crushing disappointment and even more crushing relief.

Just Deserts

My dear and trusted friend,

It gives me great pleasure to tell you that the circumstances have arisen in which I can invite you back to Adua, to once again take up your position among the Knights of the Body, and your rightful place as my First Guard.

You have been greatly missed. During your absence your letters have been a constant comfort and delight. For any wrong on your part, I long ago forgave you. For any wrong on mine, I earnestly hope that you can do the same. Please, let me know that we can continue as we were before Sipani.

Your sovereign,

The High King of Angland, Starikland, and Midderland, Protector of Westport and Dagoska, His August Majesty …

Gorst could read no further. He closed his eyes, tears stinging at the inside of the lids, and pressed the crumpled paper against his chest as one might embrace a lover. How often had poor, scorned, exiled Bremer dan Gorst dreamed of this moment? Am I dreaming now? He bit his sore tongue and the sweet taste of blood was a relief. Prised his eyelids open again, tears running freely, and stared at the letter through the shimmering water.

Dear and trusted friend … rightful place as First Guard … comfort and delight… as we were before Sipani. As we were before Sipani …

He frowned. Brushed his tears on the back of his wrist and peered down at the date. The letter had been despatched six days ago. Before I fought at the fords, on the bridge, at the Heroes. Before the battle even began. He hardly knew whether to laugh or cry more and in the end did both, shuddering with weepy giggles, spraying the letter with happy specks of spit.