A long wooden building at one side of the yard, perhaps a stables, had caught fire in the attack and was now reduced to a mass of charred beams, the embers still glowing. Those clearing away the mess had too much work outside the walls, and the ground was still scattered with fallen weapons and tangled corpses. The Union dead had been stretched out in rows near one corner and covered up with blankets. The Northmen lay in every attitude, on their faces or on their backs, curled up or stretched out where they fell. Beneath the bodies the stone flags were deeply scored, and not just with the random damage of a three-month siege. A great circle had been chiselled from the rock, and other circles within it, strange marks and symbols laid out in an intricate design. West did not care for its look in the least. Worse still, he was becoming aware of a repulsive stench to the place, more pungent even than the tang of burned wood.

'What ever is that smell?' muttered Jalenhorm, putting one hand over his mouth.

A sergeant nearby overheard him. 'Seems that our Northern friends chose to decorate the place.' He pointed up above their heads, and West followed the gauntleted finger with his eyes.

They were so decayed that it took him a moment to realise he was looking at the remains of men. They had been nailed, spread-eagled, to the inside walls of each of the towers, high above the lean-to buildings round the courtyard. Rotting offal hung down from their bellies, crawling with flies. Cut with the Bloody Cross, as the Northmen would say. Tattered shreds of brightly-coloured Union uniforms were still vaguely visible, fluttering in the breeze among the masses of putrefying flesh.

Clearly they had been hanging there some time. Since before the siege began, certainly. Perhaps since the fortress first fell to the Northmen. Corpses of the original defenders, nailed there, rotting, for all those months. Three appeared to be without their heads. The companion pieces, perhaps, to those three gifts that had been sent to Marshal Burr all that time ago. West found himself wondering, pointlessly, whether any of them had been alive when they were nailed up. Spit rushed into his mouth, the sound of flies buzzing seeming suddenly, sickeningly loud.

Jalenhorm had gone pale as a ghost. He did not say anything. He did not have to. 'What happened here?' muttered West through his gritted teeth, as much to himself as anything.

'Well, sir, we think they were hoping to get help.' The sergeant grinned at him, clearly possessed of a very strong stomach. 'Help from some unfriendly gods, we've been guessing. Seems that no one was listening down below though, eh?'

West frowned at the ragged markings on the ground. 'Get rid of them! Tear up the flags and replace them if you have to.' His eyes strayed to the decaying cadavers above, and he felt his stomach give a painful squeeze. 'And offer a ten-mark bounty to the man with guts enough to climb up there and cut those corpses down.'

'Ten marks, sir? Bring me over that ladder!'

West turned and strode out through the open gates of the fortress of Dunbrec, holding his breath and hoping like hell that he never had occasion to visit the place again. He knew that he would be back, though. If only in his dreams.

Briefings with Poulder and Kroy were more than enough to sicken the healthiest of men, and Lord Marshal Burr was by no means in that category. The commander of His Majesty's armies in Angland was as pitifully shrunken as the defenders of Dunbrec had been, his simple uniform hanging loose around him while his pale skin seemed stretched too tight over the bones. In a dozen short weeks he had aged as many years. His hand shook, his lip trembled, he could not stand for long, and could not ride at all. From time to time he would grimace and shiver as though he was racked by unseen pangs. West hardly knew how he was able to carry on, but carry on he did, fourteen hours a day and more. He attended to his duties with all his old diligence. Only now they seemed to eat him up, piece by piece.

Burr frowned grimly up at the great map of the border region, his hands resting on his belly. The Whiteflow was a winding blue line down the middle, Dunbrec a black hexagon marked in swirly script. On its left, the Union. On its right, the North. 'So,' he croaked, then coughed and cleared his throat, 'The fortress is back in our hands.'

General Kroy gave a stiff nod. 'It is.'

'Finally,' observed Poulder under his breath. The two generals still appeared to regard Bethod and his Northmen as a minor distraction from the real enemy; each other.

Kroy bristled, his staff muttering around him like a flock of angry crows. 'Dunbrec was designed by the Union's foremost military architects, and no expense was spared in its construction! Capturing it has been no mean task!'

'Of course, of course,' growled Burr, doing his best to mount a diversion. 'Damned difficult place to take. Do we have any notion of how the Northmen managed it?'

'None survived to tell us what trickery they employed, sir. They fought, without exception, to the death. The last few barricaded themselves in the stables and set fire to the structure.'

Burr glanced at West, and slowly shook his head. 'How can one understand such an enemy? What is the condition of the fortress now?'

'The moat was drained, the outer gatehouse partly destroyed, considerable damage done to the inner wall. The defenders tore down some buildings for wood to burn and stones to throw and left the rest in . . .' Kroy worked his lips as though struggling to find the words. 'A very poor condition. Repairs will take some weeks.'

'Huh.' Burr rubbed unhappily at his stomach. 'The Closed Council are anxious that we cross the Whiteflow into the North as soon as possible, and take the fight to the enemy. Positive news for the restless populace, and so on.'

'The capture of Uffrith,' leaped in Poulder, with a grin of towering smugness, 'has left our position far stronger. We have gained at a stroke one of the best ports in the North, perfectly situated to supply our forces as we push into enemy territory. Before, everything had to come the length of Angland by cart, over bad roads in bad weather. Now we can bring in supplies and reinforcements by ship and almost straight to the front! And the whole thing managed without a single casualty!'

West was not about to allow him to steal the credit for that. 'Absolutely,' he droned in an emotionless monotone. 'Our northern allies have once again proved invaluable.'

Poulder's red-jacketed staff frowned and grumbled. 'They played a part,' the General was forced to admit.

'Their leader, the Dogman, came to us with the original plan, executed it himself using his own men, and delivered the town to you, its gates open and its people compliant. That was my understanding.'

Poulder frowned angrily across at Kroy, who was now allowing himself the very thinnest of smiles. 'My men are in possession of the city and are already building up a stockpile of supplies! We have outflanked the enemy and forced him to fall back towards Carleon! That, Colonel West, is surely the issue here, and not precisely who did what!'

'Indeed!' cut in Burr, waving one big hand. 'You have both done great services for your country. But we must now look forward to future successes. General Kroy, arrange for work parties to be left behind to complete the repairs to Dunbrec, and a regiment of levies to man the defences. With a commander that knows his business, please. It would be embarrassing, to say the least, if we were to lose the fortress for a second time.'

'There will be no mistake,' snarled Kroy at Poulder, 'you can depend on it.'

'The rest of the army can cross the Whiteflow and form up on the far bank. Then we can begin to press east and northward, towards Carleon, using the harbour at Uffrith to bring in our supplies. We have driven the enemy out of Angland. Now we must press forward and grind Bethod to his knees.' And the Marshal twisted a heavy fist into his palm by way of demonstration.

'My division will be across the river by tomorrow evening,' hissed Poulder at Kroy, 'and in good order!'

Burr grimaced. 'We must move carefully, whatever the Closed Council say. The last time a Union army crossed the Whiteflow was when King Casamir invaded the North. I need hardly remind you that he was forced to withdraw in some disarray. Bethod has caught us out before, and will only grow stronger as he falls back into his own territory. We must work together. This is not a competition, gentlemen.'

The two generals immediately competed with each other to be the one to agree most. West gave a long sigh, and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

The New Man 'And so we return.' Bayaz frowned towards the city: a bright, white crescent spread out around the glittering bay. Slowly but decisively it came closer, reaching out and wrapping Jezal in its welcoming embrace. The features grew distinct, green parks peeping out between the houses, white spires thrusting up from the mass of buildings. He could see the towering walls of the Agriont, sunlight glinting from burnished domes above. The House of the Maker loomed high over all, but even that forbidding mass now seemed, somehow, to speak of warmth and safety.

He was home. He had survived. It felt like a hundred years since he had stood at the stern of a not dissimilar ship, miserable and forlorn, watching Adua slide sadly away into the distance. Over the surging water, the snapping sailcloth, the cries of the seabirds, he began to distinguish the distant rumble of the city. It sounded like the most wonderful music he had ever heard. He closed his eyes and dragged the air in hard through his nostrils. The rotten salt tang of the bay was sweet as honey on his tongue.

'One takes it you enjoyed the trip, then, Captain?' asked Bayaz, with heavy irony.

Jezal could only grin. 'I'm enjoying the end of it.'

'No need to be downhearted,' offered Brother Longfoot. 'Sometimes a difficult journey does not deliver its full benefit until long after one returns. The trials are brief, but the wisdom gained lasts a lifetime!'

'Huh.' The First of the Magi curled his lip. 'Travel brings wisdom only to the wise. It renders the ignorant more ignorant than ever. Master Ninefingers! Are you determined to return to the North?'

Logen took a brief break from frowning at the water. 'I've got no reason to stay.' He glanced sideways at Ferro, and she glared back.

'Why look at me?'

Logen shook his head. 'Do you know what? I've no fucking idea.' If there had been anything vaguely resembling a romance between them, it appeared now to have collapsed irreparably into a sullen dislike.

'Well,' said Bayaz, raising his brows, 'if you are decided.' He held his hand out to the Northman and Jezal watched them shake. 'Give Bethod a kick from me, once you have him under your boot.'

'That I will, unless he gets me under his.'

'Never easy, kicking upwards. My thanks for your help, and for your manners. Perhaps you will be my guest again, one day, at the library. We will look out at the lake, and laugh about our high adventures in the west of the World.'

'I'll hope for it.' But Logen hardly looked as if there was much laughter in him, or much hope either. He looked like a man who had run out of choices.

In silence Jezal watched as the ropes were thrown down to the quay and made fast, the long gangplank squealed out to the shore and scraped onto the stones. Bayaz called out to his apprentice. 'Master Quai! Time for us to disembark!' And the pale young man followed his master down from the ship without a backward glance, Brother Longfoot behind them.

'Good luck, then,' said Jezal, offering his hand to Logen.

'And to you.' The Northman grinned, ignored the hand and folded him in a tight and unpleasant-smelling embrace. They stayed there for a somewhat touching, somewhat embarrassing moment, then Ninefingers clapped him on the back and let him go.

'Perhaps I'll see you, up there in the North.' Jezal's voice was just the slightest bit cracked, in spite of all his efforts. 'If they send me . . .'

'Maybe, but . . . I think I'll hope not. Like I said, if I was you I'd find a good woman and leave the killing to those with less sense.'

'Like you?'

'Aye. Like me.' He looked over at Ferro. 'So that's it then, eh, Ferro?'

'Uh.' She shrugged her scrawny shoulders, and strode off down the gangplank.

Logen's face twitched at that. 'Right,' he muttered at her back. 'Nice knowing you.' He waggled the stump of his missing finger at Jezal. 'Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say he's got a touch with the women.'

'Mmm.'

'Aye.'

'Right.' Jezal was finding actually leaving strangely difficult. They had been almost constant companions for the last six months. To begin with he had felt nothing but contempt for the man, but now that it came to it, it was like leaving a much-respected older brother. Far worse, in fact, for Jezal had never thought too highly of his actual brothers. So he dithered on the deck, and Logen grinned at him as though he guessed just what he was thinking.

'Don't worry. I'll try to get along without you.'

Jezal managed half a smile. 'Just try to remember what I told you, if you get in another fight.'

'I'd say, unfortunately, that's pretty much a certainty.'

Then there was really nothing Jezal could do but turn away and clatter down to the shore, pretending that something had blown into his eye on the way. It seemed a long walk to the busy quay, to stand next to Bayaz and Quai, Longfoot and Ferro.

'Master Ninefingers can look after himself, I daresay,' said the First of the Magi.

'Oh, yes indeed,' chuckled Longfoot, 'few better!'

Jezal took a last look back over his shoulder as they headed off into the city. Logen raised one hand to him from the rail of the ship, and then the corner of a warehouse came between them, and he was gone. Ferro loitered for a moment, frowning back towards the sea, her fists clenched and a muscle working on the side of her head. Then she turned and saw Jezal watching her.

'What are you looking at?' And she pushed past him and followed the others, into the swarming streets of Adua.

The city was just as Jezal remembered it, and yet everything was different. The buildings seemed to have shrunk and huddled in meanly together. Even the wide Middleway, the great central artery of the city, felt horribly squashed after the huge open spaces of the Old Empire, the awe-inspiring vistas of ruined Aulcus. The sky had been higher, out there on the great plain. Here everything was reduced, and, to make matters worse, had an unpleasant smell he had never before noticed. He went with his nose wrinkled, dodging between the buffeting flow of passers-by with bad grace.

It was the people that were strangest of all. It had been months since Jezal had seen more than ten at one time. Now there were suddenly thousands pressed in all around him, furiously intent on their own doings. Soft, and scrubbed, and decked out in gaudy colours, as freakish to him now as circus performers. Fashions had moved on while he was away facing death in the barren west of the World. Hats were worn at a different angle, sleeves had swollen to a wider cut, shirt collars had shrivelled to a length that would have been thought preposterously short a year before. Jezal snorted to himself. It seemed bizarre that such nonsense could ever have interested him, and he watched a group of perfumed dandies strutting past with the highest contempt.

Their group dwindled as they passed on through the city. First Longfoot made his effusive farewells with much pressing of hands, talk of honours and privileges, and promises of reunion that Jezal suspected, and indeed rather hoped, were insincere. Near the great market square of the Four Corners, Quai was dispatched on some errand or other with all his habitual sullen silence. That left only the First of the Magi as a companion, with Ferro slouching angrily along behind.

Being honest, Jezal would not have minded had the group dwindled considerably further. Ninefingers might have proved himself a staunch companion, but the rest of the dysfunctional family would hardly have been among Jezal's chosen dinner guests. He had long ago given up any hope that Ferro's armour of scowls would crack to reveal a caring soul within. But at least her abysmal temper was predictable. Bayaz, if anything, was an even more unnerving companion: one half grand-fatherly good humour, the other half who knew what? Whenever the old man opened his mouth Jezal flinched in anticipation of some ugly surprise.

But he chatted pleasantly enough for the time being. 'Might I ask what your plans are now, Captain Luthar?'

'Well, I suppose I will be sent to Angland, to fight against the Northmen.'

'I imagine so. Although we never know what turns fate may take.'

Jezal did not much care for the sound of that. 'And you? Will you be going back to . . .' He realised he had not the slightest idea of where the Magus had appeared from in the first place.

'Not quite yet. I will remain in Adua for the moment. Great things are afoot, my boy, great things. Perhaps I will stay to see how they turn out.'

'Move, bitch!' came a yell from the side of the road.

Three members of the city watch had gathered round a dirty-faced girl in a tattered dress. One was leaning down over her with a stick clenched in his fist, shouting in her face while she cringed back. An unhappy-seeming press had gathered to watch, workmen and labourers mostly, scarcely cleaner than the beggar herself.

'Why don't you let her be?' one grumbled.

One of the watchmen took a warning step at them, raising his stick, while his friend seized hold of the beggar by her shoulder, kicking over a cup in the road, sending a few coins tinkling into the gutter.

'That seems excessive,' said Jezal under his breath.

'Well.' Bayaz watched down his nose. 'These sort of things happen all the time. Are you telling me you've never seen a beggar moved along before?'

Jezal had, of course, often, and never raised an eyebrow. Beggars could not simply be left to clutter up the streets, after all. And yet for some reason the process was making him uncomfortable. The unfortunate waif kicked and cried, and the guardsman dragged her another stride on her back with entirely unnecessary violence, clearly enjoying himself. It was not so much the act itself that Jezal objected to, as that they would do it in front of him without a thought for his feelings. It rendered him somehow complicit.

'That is a disgrace,' he hissed through gritted teeth.

Bayaz shrugged. 'If it bothers you that much, why not do something about it?'

The watchman chose that moment to seize the girl by her scruffy hair and give her a sharp blow with his stick, and she squealed and fell, her arms over her head. Jezal felt his face twist. In a moment he had shoved through the crowd and dealt the man a resounding boot to his backside, sending him sprawling in the gutter. One of his companions came forward with his stick out, but stumbled back a moment later. Jezal realised he had his steels drawn, the polished blades glinting in the shadows beside the building.

The audience gasped and edged back. Jezal blinked. He had not intended the business to go anything like this far. Damn Bayaz and his idiotic advice. But there was nothing for it now but to carry it through. He assumed his most fearless and arrogant expression.

'One step further and I'll stick you like the swine you are.' He looked from one of the watchmen to the other. 'Well? Do any of you care to test me?' He earnestly hoped that none of them did, but he need not have worried. They were predictably cowardly in the face of determined resistance, and loitered just out of range of his steels.

'No one deals with the watch like that. We'll find you, you can depend on-'

'Finding me will present no difficulty. My name is Captain Luthar, of the King's Own. I am resident in the Agriont. You cannot miss it. It is the fortress that dominates the city!' And he jabbed up the street with his long steel, making one of the watchmen stumble away in fear. 'I will receive you at your convenience and you can explain to my patron, Lord Marshal Varuz, your disgraceful behaviour towards this woman, a citizen of the Union guilty of no greater crime than being poor!'

A ludicrously overblown speech, of course. Jezal found himself almost flushing with embarrassment at that last part. He had always despised poor people, and he was far from sure his opinions had fundamentally changed, but he got carried away halfway through and had no choice but to finish with a flourish.

Still, his words had their effect on the city watch. The three men backed away, for some reason grinning as if the whole business had gone just as they planned, leaving Jezal to the unwanted approval of the crowd.

'Well done, lad!'

'Good thing someone's got some guts.'

'What did he say his name was?'

'Captain Luthar!' roared Bayaz suddenly, causing Jezal to jerk round halfway through sheathing his steels. 'Captain Jezal dan Luthar, the winner of last year's Contest, just now returned from his adventures in the west! Luthar, the name!'

'Luthar, did he say?'

'The one who won the Contest?'

'That's him! I saw him beat Gorst!'

The whole crowd were staring, wide-eyed and respectful. One of them reached out, as though to touch the hem of his coat, and Jezal stumbled backwards, almost tripping over the beggar-girl who had been the cause of the whole fiasco.

'Thank you,' she gushed, in an ugly commoner's accent rendered still less appealing by her bloody mouth. 'Oh, thank you, sir.'

'It was nothing.' Jezal edged away, deeply uncomfortable. She was extremely dirty, at close quarters, and he had no wish to contract an illness. The attention of the group as a whole was, in fact, anything but pleasant. He continued to shuffle backwards while they watched him, all smiles and admiring mutterings.

Ferro was frowning at him as they moved away from the Four Corners. 'Is there something?' he snapped.