That night he made a point of sitting next to Pokwas at the fire. The mood was celebratory. Xonghis had felled a doe, which the company then portioned according to rank—the unborn fetus included. Achamian said nothing, knowing that the sacrilege of consuming pregnant game would mean nothing to these men.

“I’m curious,” Achamian asked after eating his fill, “about these Rules of the Slog …”

The black man said nothing at first. He looked particularly fierce, limned in firelight, his lips drawn back as he tore meat from bone. He chewed in contemplation a moment, then said, “Yah.”

“If it were, say, Galian lying at the side of th—”

“It would be the same,” the Zeümi interrupted through a mouthful of venison. He looked to Galian as he said this, shrugged in mock apology.

“But he’s your … your brother, is he not?”

“Course he is.”

Galian made kissing noises from across the fire.

“So,” Achamian pressed, “what about the rules of brotherhood?” This time it was Galian who answered. “The only rules on the slog, Wizard, are the rules of the slog.”

Achamian scowled, pausing to sort between a number of different questions, but Galian interrupted him before he could speak. “Brotherhood is well and fine,” the former Columnary said, “so long as it doesn’t cost. As soon as it becomes a luxury …” He shrugged, resumed gnawing on the bone he still held in his right hand. “The skinnies,” he said with an air of distracted finality.

The Sranc, he was saying. The Sranc were the only rule.

Achamian studied their faces across the firelight. “No liabilities, is that it? Nothing that could afford your opponent any advantage.” He raised a finger to scratch the side of his nose. “That sounds like something our glorious Aspect-Emperor would say.”

Aside from the vague intuition that discussing the Aspect-Emperor was generally unwise, the old Wizard really didn’t know what to expect.

“I would help,” Soma blurted. “If Galian was dying, that is. I really would …”

The eating paused. The ring of faces turned to the young Nilnameshi, some screwed in mock outrage, others sporting skeptical grins.

With a guileless smile, Soma said, “His boots fit as fine as my own!”

There was a moment of silence. Soma’s jokes, Achamian had learned, generally occasioned a kind of communal trial and conviction, especially when he was trying to be funny. Heads were shaken. Eyes were rolled to heaven. Oxwora, the enormous Thunyeri with shrunken Sranc heads tangled in his shaggy mane, looked up from the glistening rib he had been gnawing, scowling as though his appetite had been ruined. Without a word he tossed the bone at the Nilnameshi. Either by fluke or by dint of grease, the thing slid rather than bounced from his head.

“Ox!” Somandutta cried with real anger, but in the harmless way of the long heckled. The giant grinned, his beard and moustache spackled with flecks of meat.