The Imperial Tracker glanced from his Captain to Sarl, who said, “Do as he says,” pinched through a scarcely restrained cackle. For all the world, the bandy-legged sergeant seemed like a man who had gambled everything on the mad turns of this encounter—nothing could spoil his run. Xonghis knelt in their midst, pulling a Jekki saw-knife from his boot as he did so. The dead Pick lay in his own inert shadow, his blood making black wool of the surrounding dust. His chest thudded like a broken drum when Xonghis cracked his ribcage. The Tracker worked with the thoughtless concentration of a long-time hunter: deer, wolf, or man, it was all the same to him, it seemed.

He pulled the heart from the overflowing cup that was the Pick’s breast, held the gory mass up for Achamian to inspect. The shadow of his arm fell long across the floor beyond.

“Rinse it.”

With a kind of bemused scowl, the Imperial Tracker shrugged and reached back with his free hand. He raised his waterskin to his teeth to unstop, grinning as though it were whisky. His fingernails shone fresh and pink as he gingerly rinsed the blood from the lobes. The water drained rose from the back of his knuckles. He kneaded the heart, turning the clear meat to his palm. The tubular cluster at the top was soaked white.

Suddenly he stopped. Everyone leaned forward, breathless, struck by the sight of a scar or suture along one of the heart’s fat-sheathed chambers. With his thumb Xonghis pressed open the upper lid …

A human eye stared at them.

“Sweet Seju!” Sarl hissed, stumbling back bandy-limbed.

The Imperial Tracker laid the heart on the Pick’s gore-soaked stomach, but carefully, as though fearful of waking something asleep.

“What does it mean?” Kiampas cried.

But Achamian was staring directly at Cleric. “Do you know the way forward?” he asked. “Do you remember?”

The ageless face regarded him for an inscrutable moment. “Yes.”

“What does it mean?” Kiampas fairly shouted, demanding the Wizard’s attention. “How did you know?”

Achamian looked to him. “This place is cursed.”

“It’s not time to follow the donkey shit home yet,” the Captain growled.

“Cursed?” Kiampas pressed. “What do you mean? Haunted?”

Achamian matched the sergeant’s gaze, silently thanked the Hundred for his sober eyes. The two of them had much to discuss.

“What happened here—”

“Means nothing,” Lord Kosoter grated, his voice and manner as menacing as the dead eye watching. “There’s nothing here but skinnies. And they’re coming to shim our skulls.”

The Captain’s word signalled the end of the matter. Nothing was said to the others, but they all knew that something had happened. On the long walk back, Sarl harangued them with the Captain’s story. The skinnies had got the best of the Bloody Picks, true, but then they were the Picks, and not the Skin Eaters. They didn’t have their Captain, nor did they have two “light-spitters,” as scalpers were wont to call sorcerers.