“Inconceivable,” whispered Rithinghorm. If he had read it in one of his sister’s storybooks he would have dismissed it as a fantasy.

They had to be kept away from the gate. They had to be cleared from the bridge. They had to be taught a damn lesson.

He pointed towards that shrieking woman.

“Shoot her!”

“Sir?” said Parry, blinking. Damn, his mouth was dry. Kept having to lick his lips.

Captain Rithinghorm came close to point through the arrow-loop. Close enough that Parry could hear his breath echoing in the narrow chain room. Close enough that he could smell him. He must wear some kind of perfume. Hint of lavender. He pointed down, white with anger. Down towards that laundry-woman.

“I said shoot her!”

Parry licked his lips again. Bow was ready. He’d made sure of that. Or his hands had done it for him, following the old routine. He sighted up, nice and careful. Strangest thing. She reminded Parry of his mother. She used to tuck her skirts in like that, when she was mopping floors.

“Shoot, then!”

Parry wanted to follow orders. Always followed ’em before. But his hand wouldn’t let go the string. The woman was coming closer, screeching away. That reminded him of his mother, too. Folk were starting to follow her example, edging out onto the bridge, towards the gate.

He licked his lips. Again. Just didn’t seem right, to shoot that woman.

Slowly, Parry lowered his bow.

“What are you doing?”

Parry took the arrow from the string and, not sure what to do with it, put it behind his back. “Doesn’t seem right,” he said.

Rithinghorm seized him by the jacket. “I gave you an order!”

“I know.” Everyone was looking at them now. “I’m very sorry, sir.”

Rithinghorm started to shake him. “Are you a damn traitor?”

Parry could only swallow, and blink, and grip that arrow tight behind his back, and shake his head. “I… don’t think so.” He honestly wasn’t sure. “Just… doesn’t seem right.”

Rithinghorm threw him back against the wall, jaw muscles squirming on the sides of his taut face. “Sergeant Hope!”

“Sir?” said the sergeant.

Rithinghorm pointed a stabbing finger at Parry. “Kill this man!”

Sergeant Hope stared down at his drawn short-sword, a long slit of light from one of the arrow-loops making the broad blade glint in the shadows. He’d have followed his old captain into hell. He had done, out in Styria. But not this little fucker. This little bastard with his fine accent and his pale face and his thin fingers and his bloody perfume, ordering good men killed. Ordering the citizens of Adua shot at. It came to him that he had more in common with those Breakers chanting outside on the bridge than he did with Rithinghorm. They were just people. People who wanted to be heard. People who wanted enough to get by, while others had so much more’n they could ever need.

Twenty years, he’d been doing as he was told. Never seen another way. But just like that, sharp as fingers snapped under his nose, he decided to stop.