She stepped from the path and out across the hillside, pulling her coat tight around her. Wind-lashed grass sloped away into the darkness. Patches of sedge tangled at her boots. A bald man stood, coat-tails flapping, looking out across the darkened valley. He had one fist clenched behind him, thumb rubbing constantly, worriedly at forefinger. The other daintily held a cup. Above him, in the eastern sky, the first faint smudges of dawn were showing.

Perhaps it was the after-effects of the husk, or the sleeplessness, but after what she had seen yesterday the First of the Magi did not seem so terrible. 'Another day!' she called, feeling as if she might take off from the hillside and float into the dark sky. 'Another day's fighting. You must be pleased, Lord Bayaz!'

He gave her a curt bow. I-'

'Is it "Lord Bayaz" or is there a better term of address for the First of the Magi?' She pushed some hair out of her face but the wind soon whipped it back. 'Your Grace, or your Wizardship, or 'your Magicosity?'

'I try not to stand on ceremony.'

'How does one become First of the Magi, anyway?'

'I was the first apprentice of great Juvens.'

'And did he teach you magic?'

'He taught me High Art.'

'Why don't you do some then, instead of making men fight?'

'Because making men fight is easier. Magic is the art and science of forcing things to behave in ways that are not in their nature.' Bayaz took a slow sip from his cup, watching her over the rim. 'There is nothing more natural to men than to fight. You are recovered, I hope, from your ordeal yesterday?'

'Ordeal? I've almost forgotten about it already! My father suggested that I act as though this is just another day. Then, perhaps it will be one. Any other day I would spend feverishly trying to advance my husband's interests, and therefore my own.' She grinned sideways. 'I am venomously ambitious.'

Bayaz' green eyes narrowed. 'A characteristic I have always found most admirable.'

'Meed was killed.' His mouth opening and closing silently like a fish snatched from the river, plucking at the great rent in his crimson uniform, crashing over with papers sliding across his back. 'I daresay you are in need of a new lord governor of Angland.'

'His Majesty is.' The Magus heaved up a sigh. 'But making such a powerful appointment is a complicated business. No doubt some relative of Meed expects and demands the post, but we cannot allow it to become some family bauble. I daresay a score of other great magnates of the Open Council think it their due, but we cannot raise one man too close in power to the crown. The closer they come the less they can resist reaching for it, as your father-in-law could no doubt testify. We could elevate some bureaucrat but then the Open Council would rail about stoogery and they are troublesome enough as it is. So many balances to strike, so many rivalries, and jealousies, and dangers to navigate. It's enough to make one abandon politics altogether.'

'Why not my husband?'

Bayaz cocked his head on one side. 'You are very frank.'

'I seem to be, this morning.'

'Another characteristic I have always found most admirable.'

'By the Fates, I'm admirable!' she said, hearing the door clatter shut on Aliz' sobs.

'I am not sure how much support I could raise for your husband, however.' Bayaz wrinkled his lip as he tossed the dregs from his cup into the dewy grass. 'His father stands among the most infamous traitors in the history of the Union.'

'Too true. And the greatest of all the Union's noblemen, the first man on the Open Council, only a vote away from the crown.' She spoke without considering the consequences any more than a spinning stone considers the water it skims across. 'When his lands were seized, his power snuffed out as though it had never existed, I would have thought the nobles felt threatened. For all they delighted in his fall they saw in it the shadow of their own. I imagine restoring his son to some prudent fraction of his power might be made to play well with the Open Council. Asserting the rights of the ancient families, and so on.'

Bayaz' chin went up a little, his brows drew down. 'Perhaps. And?'

'And while the great Lord Brock had allies and enemies in abundance, his son has none. He has been scorned and ignored for eight years. He is part of no faction, has no agenda but faithfully to serve the crown. He has more than proved his honesty, bravery and unquestioning loyalty to his Majesty on the field of battle.' She fixed Bayaz with her gaze. 'It would be a fine story to tell. Instead of lowering himself to dabble in base politics, our monarch chooses to reward faithful service, merit and old-time heroism. The commoners would enjoy it, I think.'

'Faithful service, merit and heroism. Fine qualities in a soldier.' As though talking about fat on a pig. 'But a lord governor is first a politician. Flexibility, ruthlessness and an eye for expediency are more his talents. How is your husband there?'

'Weak, but perhaps someone close to him could supply those qualities.'

She fancied Bayaz had the ghost of a smile about his lips. 'I am beginning to suspect they could. You make an interesting suggestion.'

'You have not thought of everything, then?'

'Only the truly ignorant believe they have thought of everything. I might even mention it to my colleagues on the Closed Council when we next meet.'

'I would have thought it would be best to make a choice swiftly, rather than to allow the whole thing to become ... an issue. I cannot be considered impartial but, even so, I truly believe my husband to be the best man in the Union.'

Bayaz gave a dry chuckle. 'Who says I want the best man? It may be that a fool and a weakling as lord governor of Angland would suit everyone better. A fool and a weakling with a stupid, cowardly wife.'

'That, I am afraid, I cannot offer you. Have an apple.' And she tossed it at him, made him juggle it with one hand before catching it in the other, his cup tumbling into the sedge, his brows up in surprise. Before he could speak she was already walking away. She could hardly even remember what their conversation had been about. Her mind was entirely taken up with the way that blue cheek bulged as steel slid underneath it, pushing it in, pushing it in.

For What We Are About to Receive ...

It's an awful fine line between being raised above folk like a leader and being raised above 'em like a hanged man on display. When Craw climbed up on an empty crate to give his little speech, he had to admit he felt closer to the latter. A sea of faces opened up in front of him, the Heroes packed with men from one side of the circle to the other and plenty more pressing in outside. Didn't help that Black Dow's own Carls were the grimmest, darkest, toughest-looking crowd you'd find anywhere in the North. And you'll find a lot of tough crowds in the North. Probably these were a long stretch more interested in doing plunder, rape and murder than anyone's idea of the right thing, and didn't care much who got on the pointy end of it either.

Craw was glad he had Jolly Yon, and Flood, and Wonderful stood frowning around the crate. He was even gladder he had Whirrun just beside. The Father of Swords was enough metal to add some weight to anyone's words. He remembered what Threetrees told him when he made him his Second. He was trying to be their leader, not their lover, and a leader's best feared first, and liked afterward.

'Men o' the North!' he bellowed into the wind. ''Case you didn't hear, Splitfoot's dead, and Black Dow's put me in his place.' He picked out the biggest, nastiest, most scornful-looking bastard in the whole crowd, a man looked like he shaved with an axe, and leaned towards him. 'Do what I fucking tell you!' he snarled. 'That's your job now.' He lingered on him for long enough to make the point he feared nothing, even if the opposite was closer to the truth. 'Keeping everyone alive, that's mine. There's a strong likelihood I ain't going to succeed in every case. That's war. Won't stop me trying, though. And by the dead it won't stop you lot trying either.'

They milled about a little, a long way from won over. Time to list the pedigree. Bragging weren't his strong suit these days but there'd be no prize for modesty. 'My name's Curnden Craw, and I'm thirty years a Named Man! I stood Second to Rudd Threetrees, back in the day.' That name got a nodding rustle of approval. 'The Rock of Uffrith himself. Held a shield for him when he fought his duel with the Bloody-Nine.' That name got a bigger one. 'Then I fought for Bethod, and now Black Dow. Every battle you pricks heard of I had a part in.' He curled his lip. 'So safe to say you needn't worry about whether I'm up to the task.' Even if Craw was worrying his bowels loose over it himself. But his voice rang out gruff and deep still. Thank the dead for his hero's voice, even if time had given him a coward's guts.

'I want each man here to do the right thing today!' he roared. 'And before you start sneering and I'm forced to stick my boot up your arse, I ain't talking about patting children on the head, or giving your last crust to a squirrel, or even being bolder'n Skarling once the blades are drawn. I ain't talking about acting the hero.' He jerked his head towards the stones around them. 'You can leave that to the rocks. They won't bleed for it. I'm talking about standing by your Chief! Standing with your crew! Standing with the man beside you! And above all I'm talking about not getting yourselves fucking killed!'

He picked Beck out with a pointed finger. 'Look at this lad here. Red Beck, his name.' Beck's eyes went wide as the whole front rank of killers turned to look at him. 'He did the right thing yesterday. Stuck in a house in Osrung with the Union breaking down the door. Listened to his Chief. Stood with his kind. Kept his head. Put four o' the bastards in the mud and came through alive.' Maybe Craw was flowering up the truth a little but that was the point of a speech, wasn't it? 'If a lad o' seventeen years can keep the Union out of a shack, I reckon men o' your experience should have no trouble keeping 'em off a hill like this one here. And since everyone knows how rich the Union is ... no doubt they'll leave plenty behind 'em as they go running down that slope, eh?' That got a bit of a laugh at least. Nothing worked like tickling their greed.

'That's all!' he bellowed. 'Find your places!' And he hopped down, little wobble as his knee jarred but at least he kept standing. No applause, but he reckoned he'd won enough of 'em over not to get stabbed in his back before the battle was done. And in this company that was about as much as he could've hoped for.

'Nice speech,' said Wonderful.

'You reckon?'

'Not sure about the whole right thing bit, though. You have to say that?'

Craw shrugged. 'Someone should.'

'You may have heard some commotion this morning.' Colonel Vallimir gave the assembled officers and sergeants of his Majesty's First Regiment a stern glance. 'That was the sound of a raid by the Northmen.'

'That was the sound of someone fucking up,' muttered Tunny. He'd known that as soon as he heard the clamour floating across from the east. There's no better recipe for fuck-ups than night-time, armies and surprises.

'There was some confusion on the front line ...'

'Further fuck-ups,' muttered Tunny.

'Panic spread in the darkness ...'

'Several more,' muttered Tunny.

'And ...' Vallimir grimaced. 'The Northmen made off with two standards.'

Tunny opened his mouth a crack, but he lacked the words for that. A disbelieving murmur went through the gathering, clear in spite of the wind shaking the branches. Vallimir shouted them down.

'The standards of the Second and Third were captured by the enemy! General Mitterick is ...' The colonel gave the impression of choosing his words with great care. 'Not happy.'

Tunny snorted. Mitterick wasn't happy at the best of times. What effect having two of his Majesty's standards stolen from under his nose might have on the man was anyone's guess. Probably if you stuck a pin in him right now he'd explode and take half the valley with him. Tunny realised he was clutching the standard of the First with extra-special care, and made his fists relax.

'To make matters a great deal worse,' Vallimir went on, 'apparently we were sent orders to attack yesterday afternoon and they never reached us.' Forest gave Tunny a hard look sideways but he could only shrug. Of Lederlingen there was still no sign. Possibly he'd volunteered for desertion. 'By the time the next set came it was dark. So Mitterick wants us to make up for it today. As soon as there's light, the general will launch an assault on Clail's Wall in overwhelming force.'

'Huh.' Tunny had heard a lot about overwhelming force the last few days and the Northmen were still decidedly underwhelmed.

'The wall at this far western end he's going to leave to us, though. The enemy cannot possibly spare enough men to hold it once the attack is underway. As soon as we see them leave the wall, we cross the river and take them in the flank.' Vallimir slapped one hand with the other to illustrate the point. 'And that'll be the end of them. Simple. As soon as they leave the wall, we attack. Any questions?'

What if they don't leave the wall? was the one that immediately occurred, but Tunny knew a great deal better than to make himself conspicuous in front of a crowd of officers.

'Good.' Vallimir smiled as though silence meant the plan must be perfect, rather than just that his men were too thick, eager or cautious to point out its shortcomings. 'We're missing half our men and all our horses, but that won't stop his Majesty's First, eh? If everyone does his duty today, there's still time for all of us to be heroes.'

Tunny had to choke off his scornful laughter as the thick, eager, cautious officers broke up and began to drift into the trees to make their soldiers ready. 'You hear that, Forest? We can all be heroes.'

'I'll settle for living out the day. Tunny, I want you to get up to the treeline and keep a watch on the wall. Need some experienced eyes up there.'

'Oh, I've seen it all, Sergeant.'

'And then some more, I don't doubt. The very instant you see the Northmen start to clear out, you give the signal. And Tunny?' He turned back. 'You won't be the only one watching, so don't even think about pulling anything clever. I still remember what happened with that ambush outside Shricta. Or what didn't happen.'

'No evidence of wrongdoing, and I'm quoting the tribunal there.'

'Quoting the tribunal, you're a piece of work.'

'First Sergeant Forest, I am crushed that a colleague would hold so low an opinion of my character.'

'What character?' called Forest after him as he threaded his way uphill through the trees. Yolk was crouched in the bushes pretty much where they'd been crouching all night, peering across the stream through Tunny's eyeglass.

'Where's Worth?' Yolk opened his mouth. 'On second thought, I can guess. Any signs of movement?' Yolk opened his mouth again. 'Other than in Trooper Worth's bowels, that is?'

'None, Corporal Tunny.'

'Hope you don't mind if I check.' He snatched the eyeglass without waiting for an answer and scanned along the line of the wall, uphill from the stream, towards the east, where it disappeared over a hump in the land. 'Not that I doubt your expertise ...' There was no one in front of the drystone but he could see spears behind it, a whole lot of them, just starting to show against the dark sky.

'No movement, right, Corporal?'

'No, Yolk.' Tunny lowered his eyeglass and gave his neck a scratch. 'No movement.'

General Jalenhorm's entire division, reinforced by two regiments from Mitterick's, was drawn up in parade-ground order on the gentle slope of grass and shingle that led down to the shallows. They faced north. Towards the Heroes. Towards the enemy. So we got that much right, at least.

Gorst had never seen so many arrayed for battle in one place and at one time, dwindling into darkness and distance on either side. Above their massed ranks a thicket of spears and barbed pole-arms jutted, the pennants of companies fluttered, and in one spot nearby the gilded standard of the King's Own Eighth Regiment snapped in the stiff breeze, proudly displaying several generations of battle honours. Lamps cast pools of light, picking out clutches of solemn faces, striking sparks from polished steel. Here and there mounted officers waited to hear orders and give them, swords shouldered. A ragged handful of the Dogman's Northmen stood near the water's edge, gawping up towards this military multitude.

For the occasion General Jalenhorm had donned a thing more work of art than piece of armour: a breastplate of mirror-bright steel engraved front and back with golden suns whose countless rays became swords, lances, arrows, entwined with wreaths of oak and laurel in the most exquisite craftsmanship.

'Wish me luck,' he murmured, then gave his horse his heels and nudged it up the shingle towards the front rank.

'Good luck,' whispered Gorst.

The men were quiet enough that one could hear the faint ringing as Jalenhorm drew his sword. 'Men of the Union!' he thundered, holding it high. 'Two days ago many of you were among those who suffered a defeat at the hands of the Northmen! Who were driven from the hill you see ahead of us. The fault that day was entirely mine!' Gorst could hear other voices echoing the general's words. Officers repeating the speech to those too far away to hear the original. 'I hope, and I trust, that you will help me gain redemption today. Certainly I feel a great pride to be given the honour of leading men such as you. Brave men of Midderland, of Starikland, of Angland. Brave men of the Union!'

Staunch discipline prevented anyone from shouting out but a kind of murmur still went up from the ranks. Even Gorst felt a patriotic lifting of his chin. A jingoistic misting of the eye. Even I, who should know so much better.

'War is terrible!' Jalenhorm's horse pawed at the shingle and he brought it under control with a tug of the reins. 'But war is wonderful! In war, a man can find out all he truly is. All he can be. War shows us the worst of men their greed, their cowardice, their savagery! But it also shows us the best our courage, our strength, our mercy! Show me your best today! And more than that, show it to the enemy!'

There was a brief pause as the distant voices relayed the last sentence, and as members of Jalenhorm's staff let it be known that the address was at an end, then the men lifted their arms as one and gave a thunderous cheer. Gorst realised after a moment that he was making his own piping contribution, and stopped. The general sat with his sword raised in acknowledgement, then turned his back on the men and rode towards Gorst, his smile fading.

'Good speech. Far as these things go.' The Dogman was slouched in the battered saddle of a shaggy horse, blowing into his cupped palms.

'Thank you,' answered the general as he reined in. 'I tried simply to tell the truth.'

'The truth is like salt. Men want to taste a little, but too much makes everyone sick.' The Dogman grinned at them both. Neither replied. 'Quite some piece of armour, too.'

Jalenhorm looked down, somewhat uncomfortably, at his magnificent breastplate. 'A gift from the king. It never seemed like quite the right occasion before ...' But if one shouldn't make an effort when charging to one's doom, then, really, when should one?

'So what's the plan?' asked the Dogman.

Jalenhorm swept his arm towards his waiting division. 'The Eighth and Thirteenth Foot and the Stariksa Regiment will lead off.' He makes it sound like a wedding dance. I suspect the casualties will be higher. 'The Twelfth and the Aduan Volunteers will form our second wave.' Waves break on a beach, and melt away into the sand, and are forgotten. 'The remnants of the Rostod Regiment and the Sixth will follow in reserve.' Remnants, remnants. We all will be remnants, in due course.

The Dogman puffed his cheeks out as he looked at the massed ranks. 'Well, you've no shortage of bodies, anyway.' Oh no, and no shortage of mud to bury them in either.

'First we cross the shallows.' Jalenhorm pointed towards the twisting channels and sandbars with his sword. 'I expect they will have skirmishers hidden about the far bank.'

'No doubt,' said the Dogman.

The sword drifted up towards the rows of fruit trees, just becoming visible on the sloping ground between the glimmering water and the base of the hill. 'We expect some resistance as we pass through the orchards.' More than some, I imagine.

'We might be able to flush 'em out of the trees.'

'But you have no more than a few score men over here.'

The Dogman winked. 'There's more to war than numbers. Few o' my boys are already across the river, lying low. Once you're over, just give us a chance. If we're able to shift 'em, fine, if not, you've lost nothing.'

'Very well,' said Jalenhorm. 'I am willing to take any course that might save lives.' Ignoring the fact that the entire business is an exercise in slaughter. 'Once the orchards are in our hands ...' His sword drifted implacably up the bare hillside, pointing out the smaller stones on the southern spur, then the larger ones on the summit, glowing faintly orange in the light of guttering fires. He shrugged, letting his sword drop. 'We climb the hill.'

'You climb that hill?' asked the Dogman, eyebrows high.

'Indeed.'

'Fuck.' Gorst could only silently concur. 'They've been up there two days now. Black Dow's all kinds of things but he's no fool, he'll be ready. Stakes planted, and ditches dug, and men at the drystone walls, and arrows showering down, and-'

'Our purpose is not necessarily to drive them off,' Jalenhorm interrupted, grimacing as though there were arrows showering on him already. 'It is to fix them in place while General Mitterick on the left, and Colonel Brock on the right, force openings on the flanks.'

'Aye,' said the Dogman, somewhat uncertainly.