The room was fairly big and dusty-disused, set in a far corner of the Drover’s Delight. With only one alcohol lantern on the table there was a puddle of light and faces in a surround of gloom. Alleyne was carefully measuring distances on the map with a pair of compass needles; he’d always been a detail man. Eilir was lying back in her chair, her arms crossed on her chest and eyes closed, either thinking very hard about the rounds of fruitless discussion or asleep.

“Sod this for a game o’ soldiers,” John said, finishing his sandwich and wiping his hands on the red-and-white checked cloth it had been wrapped in. “Woburn promised us she went out, ’er and the kiddies. Without that, it’s not just ’ard, it’s bloody impossible.”

“Old information,” Charlie Gleam said, rubbing an exasperated hand over his pate. “Last three weeks, Mrs. Thurston doesn’t go out except by day, and always without her daughters Shawonda and Janie.”

Charming youngsters, Ritva remembered. And I liked their mother Cecile too.

“They go out without her. Always heavy guards, all from the Sixth Battalion, which is not only Martin’s pet but a lot of the men have become Cutters just lately.”

Eilir opened her eyes and Ritva filled her in. Is it a leak? she Signed when the younger Dúnedain was finished. About us, that is.

Ritva said the words aloud; she was officially in the inner circle because she was translator between Eilir and the locals, and Ian was here because he was the Drumheller representative. The other eight Rangers were on guard in strategic places. Being inside a walled city made everyone nervous. You could lose yourself in a crowd here, but actually getting out would be hard.

“No,” Gleam said. “No, I don’t think so. I think it’s just that they’ve been getting less ready to put up with Martin. He’s really antsy about anything they might say that could get spread around. So now they don’t talk at all when they go out. The word from my contact in the Presidential Compound is that it’s gone beyond quarrels. Now there’s just this icy silence, they tell me. Even Martin’s given up talking, though he insists on having dinner with them every Friday. Martin’s wife Juliet is the only one who still tries and she’s been drinking a lot lately. Mrs. Thurston . . . Cecile Thurston, sorry . . . talks to her a little, about young Lawrence Jr. Only to be expected since he’s her grandson.”

“Wait,” Astrid said, holding up a finger.

She had been sitting silent with her elbows on the table and her chin on her paired fists, her silver-rimmed eyes looking at the map from under heavy lids.

“Alleyne?” she said after a long moment. “Possibilities? What can we do without getting the targets out of the compound? Is any form of direct assault possible?”