Long Fist gazed up at the shifting clouds, as though the answer to the question was scrawled across the wind. “What do I want?” he mused. “I suppose that what I want is to know whom to help, and whom to destroy.”

“I volunteer for the former,” Balendin said, stepping forward, managing an awkward bow over his bound hands.

Long Fist considered the leach for a moment. “I recognize Valyn from his eyes and from his father’s description.” Valyn stared at the mention of his father, but Long Fist pressed ahead as though he’d said nothing surprising. “Huutsuu informs me that these others are the prince’s warriors. . . .”

“Not all of us,” Pyrre said.

The chieftain raised an eyebrow, studied the assassin for a moment, then turned back to Balendin as though she had not spoken. “You, however. You were captured separately.”

The leach shrugged. “Different Wing. We’re all Kettral.”

“You fickle, traitorous fuck,” Gwenna spat, shouldering her way forward. She glared at Balendin for a heartbeat, as though deciding whether or not to tackle him, then turned to Long Fist. “You should kill him. You can’t keep him drugged forever, and whatever he tells you now, when he comes undrugged you’ll wish to Hull he was dead.”

“I do not wish,” Long Fist replied, “I pray. And I do not pray to Hull. More, I do not kill men until I know what use they might have.”

Balendin smiled. “Oh, I’m useful. I can promise you that.”

Long Fist merely nodded, considering the leach once more, then gesturing to someone behind them with one extended finger. A young ksaabe, barely older than Valyn, came running with a wooden pipe. She set it in the shaman’s outstretched hand, then retreated. Long Fist took a long drag, held it a moment, then exhaled slowly, the smoke wreathing his face.

“I have questions,” he said finally.

“You can bugger yourself with your questions,” Laith replied, spitting at the shaman’s feet.

Long Fist took another long puff on his pipe, staring at the flier from behind the cloud of smoke.

“If you speak to me like that again, I will cut out your tongue.” The words were level, matter-of-fact, as though he were discussing a new bowstring or the morning rain.

Laith looked ready to snap, but Valyn spoke into the ensuing silence before the flier could respond.

“What are your questions?”

“First,” the shaman raised a finger, “what are you doing on my steppe?”

Valyn had expected the question, but he responded carefully. Balendin might know nothing about the Flea, about Assare and the kenta, and Valyn didn’t intend to give him any extra information. “My Wing was forced down after a fight in the mountains.”

Long Fist glanced at Huutsuu, and she nodded.

“A fight,” he mused. “You killed the monks?”