“Ain’t a window big enough.” Laughter.

Broad kept climbing. His legs burned. The breath cut at his chest. But he hardly felt it. Someone else’s legs. Someone else’s breath.

Out from the darkness and onto the roof and he blinked at a clear, crisp day. Adua spread out below them, the chimneys jutting, plumes of smoke carried off by the chill wind, tiny ships at tiny wharves in the bay. Toy people swarming in a toy city.

“Damn, that’s high!” Sarlby took his red cap off to wipe his forehead, thin hair whipping around a smile full of yellow teeth. He’d found an empty crate somewhere, and he dragged it up next to the parapet. A little step to stand on.

The prisoners were dragged from the stair, breathing hard from the climb, whooping sobs, puffs of smoke on the chill air. The Burners watched in their red hats and their red sashes and their clothes dashed and spattered with red paint, their weapons drawn and their eyes bright and righteous.

Broad noticed a bird perched on the roof of the little turret above the stairwell. Watching the whole business, unblinking.

“Right, then.”

Sarlby and one of the other Burners took the nearest prisoner under the arms and marched him across the rooftop. Tall fellow, he was, with a birthmark under his ear. He went meekly enough, till he got to the box, then he snarled and twisted, his shoes scraping on the stones.

“Help us out, Bull!”

Broad caught a fistful of the man’s jacket from behind, kicked his foot away and helped shove him up onto the box. He stood there, breathing hard, staring down in disbelief at the city below, feet level with the embrasure in front of him.

Broad saw the lump on his neck bob as he swallowed. “Tell my wife that I— Oh!”

Sarlby shoved him off. He turned in the air, surprised. Then he was gone. Broad felt like he should flinch, look away, cover his face with his hands. But he just watched. Sweat from the climb tickled under his red-daubed breastplate. He scratched at his sticky armpit.

Sarlby peered eagerly over the battlements, like a boy who’d tossed something off a bridge into a river and was waiting for it to show up on the other side.

There was a sharp smack far below. Like a whip-crack. Sarlby straightened up, puffing out his cheeks. “Well, that’s the end o’ that, eh?”

Sarlby had been a good man. In Styria, and in Valbeck. One of the better ones. Better than Broad had been. A good man. What kind of good was this, though? What would Liddy have said to it? What would May? Broad felt like he should be crying. Should be screaming. But all he did was check his sleeves were rolled right, then guide another one over from the stairs. A clerk, he thought, used to sit at the far end of the table with a ledger. The man had rolled his eyes at Broad when Risinau was spouting off one time, and Broad had stopped himself smiling. Across the roof he went now, towards the box, stumbled on the way, but one of the Burners caught him before he fell, helped him back up. Wouldn’t want him falling before time.