‘Aye, well, just thinking how the last couple of places we’ve sojourned with a reputation for clement neutrality have come to a, you know, somewhat explosive denouement.’

‘Evil days, Lemon.’

‘Evil days, Fossy.’

The plateau unfolded before them, and with it, the camps: a spread of tents and semi-permanent dwellings, organized in rows and clusters with clear roads and pathways cut between. They carpeted the plateau from the drop of the peaks on either side, all the way to near the lip of the gorge. Chel counted standards and improvised pennants, the milling denizens matched by the determined progress of riders and carts along the thoroughfares.

‘What is all this? Army camp?’

Foss squinted through the glare. ‘Doubtful, friend. These are pilgrims and refugees.’

Chel thought of the squalor of the Shanties beyond Roniaman, the incinerated remains of the slums that had ringed Denirnas. ‘They’re very well organized.’

‘They got through the fortress. They must have had some coin to their names. Probably bought a better class of camp.’

‘But they’re not allowed inside the city?’

‘Guess space is limited to the citizenry, friend. Connections or coin only get you so far.’

Chel peered over the ordered rows, shimmering in the haze of the day’s heat. ‘At least they’re safe here.’

Foss nodded, but did not comment. The riders either side of them pulled in as another procession approached, a thundering column of burnished cavalry riding two-by-two, then a stream of half a dozen wagons, each loaded to the gills with guardsmen, their elevated spears waving as they trundled over the rocky road. Chel turned to watch as they passed, the jangle of mail and tack barely audible over the sound of hooves and steel-rimmed wheels. Foss followed his gaze, then made the sign of the crook.

‘What’s wrong, Foss?’

‘Something is occurring, back at the fortress. They closed the gate behind us. Those folks were in a hurry.’

Chel nodded, unsettled. At least they were safe behind the fortress. Assuming Tarfel could say the right things to those who ran the city, ensure they weren’t thrown straight out. He looked back, watched the column begin their descent down the slope toward the fortress, dropping out of sight beneath the tips of the still-visible tower-tops. Unusual flags decked the top-most tower, facing inwards, toward the city, huge and patterned, he guessed as signals. Of the three on view, red featured predominantly.

He turned back and caught a lungful of road-dust, displaced by the column’s passage, blown straight into his mouth by a capricious swirl of the ever-present wind. Spitting grit, he cursed the wind and all who sailed on her. ‘Is it always so fucking windy here?’

Foss shrugged, Lemon likewise. Kosh, beyond them, leaned over. ‘What do your own eyes tell you?’

‘My eyes are full of this piss-cursed dust.’

‘Look around. The open plain beyond, the narrow gully of these mountains, the shape of the plateau.’