'Doesn't it, though?'

What was left of Craw's dozen slipped unnoticed back through the press even as most of the crowd were straining forwards.

Wonderful still had Beck's arm, Scorry at his shoulder. They bundled him away from the circle, past a set of wild-eyed men already busy tearing Dow's standard down and ripping it up between 'em, Yon and Flood behind. They weren't the only ones sloping off. Even as Black Dow's War Chiefs were stumbling over his corpse to kiss Black Calder's arse, other men were drifting away. Men who could feel which way the wind was blowing, and thought if they stuck about it might blow 'em right into the mud. Men who'd stood tight with Dow, or had scores with Bethod and didn't fancy testing his son's mercy.

They stopped in the long shadow of one of the stones, and Wonderful set her shield down against it and took a careful look around. Folk had their own worries though, and no one was paying 'em any mind.

She reached into her coat, pulled something out and slapped it into Yon's hand. 'There's yours.' Yon even had something like a grin as he closed his big fist around it, metal clicking inside. She slipped another into Scorry's hand, a third for Flood. Then she offered one to Beck. A purse. And with plenty in it too, by the way it was bulging. He stood, staring at it, until Wonderful shoved it under his nose. 'You get a half-share.'

'No,' said Beck.

'You're new, boy. A half-share is more'n fair-'

'I don't want it.'

They were all frowning at him now. 'He don't want it,' muttered Scorry.

'We should've done ...' Beck weren't at all sure what they should've done. 'The right thing,' he finished, lamely.

'The what?' Yon's face screwed up with scorn. 'I hoped to have heard the last of that shit! Spend twenty years in the black business and have naught to show for it but scars, then you can preach to me about the right fucking thing, you little bastard!' He took a step at Beck but Wonderful held her arm out to stop him.

'What kind of right ends up with more men dead than less?' Her voice was soft, no anger in it. 'Well? D'you know how many friends I lost the last few days? What's right about that? Dow was done. One way or another, Dow was done. So we should've fought for him? Why? He's nothing to me. No better'n Calder or anyone else. You saying we should've died for that, Red Beck?'

Beck paused for a moment, mouth open. 'I don't know. But I don't want the money. Whose is it, even?'

'Ours,' she said, looking him right in the eye.

'This ain't right.'

'Straight edge, eh?' She slowly nodded, and her eyes looked tired. 'Well. Good luck with that. You'll need it.'

Flood looked a patch guilty, but he wasn't giving aught back. Scorry had a little smile as he dropped his shield on the grass and sank cross-legged onto it, humming some tune in which noble deeds were done. Yon was frowning as he rooted through the purse, working out how much he'd got.

'What would Craw have made o' this?' muttered Beck.

Wonderful shrugged. 'Who cares? Craw's gone. We got to make our own choices.'

'Aye.' Beck looked from one face to another. 'Aye.' And he walked off.

'Where you going?' Flood called after him.

He didn't answer.

He passed by one of the Heroes, shoulder brushing the ancient rock, and kept moving. He hopped over the drystone wall, heading north down the hillside, shook the shield off his arm and left it in the long grass. Men stood about, talking fast. Arguing. One pulled a knife, another backing off, hands up. Panic spreading along with the news. Panic and anger, fear and delight.

'What happened?' someone asked him, grabbing at his cloak. 'Did Dow win?'

Beck shook his hand off. 'I don't know.' He strode on, almost breaking into a run, down the hill and away. He only knew one thing. This life weren't for him. The songs might be full of heroes, but the only ones here were stones.

The Currents of History Finree had gone where the wounded lay, to do what women were supposed to do when a battle ended. To soothe parched throats with water tipped to desperate lips. To bind wounds with bandages torn from the hems of their dresses. To calm the dying with soft singing that reminded them of Mother.

Instead of which she stood staring. Appalled by the mindless chorus of weeping, whining, desperate slobbering. By the flies, and the shit, and the blood-soaked sheets. By the calmness of the nurses, floating among the human wreckage as serene as white ghosts. Appalled more than anything else by the numbers. Laid out in ranks on pallets or sheets or cold ground. Companies of them. Battalions.

'There are more than a dozen,' a young surgeon told her.

'There are scores,' she croaked back, struggling not to cover her mouth at the stink.

'No. More than a dozen of these tents. Do you know how to change a dressing?'

If there was such a thing as a romantic wound there was no room for them here. Every peeled-back bandage a grotesque striptease with some fresh oozing nightmare beneath. A hacked-open arse, a caved-in jaw with most of the teeth and half the tongue gone, a hand neatly split leaving only thumb and forefinger, a punctured belly leaking piss. One man had been cut across the back of the neck and could not move, only lie on his face, breath softly wheezing. His eyes followed her as she passed and the look in them made her cold all over. Bodies skinned, burned, ripped open at strange angles, their secret insides laid open to the world in awful violation. Wounds that would ruin men as long as they lived. Ruin those who loved them.

She tried to keep her eyes on her work, such as it was, chewing her tongue, trembling fingers fumbling with knots and pins. Trying not to listen to the whispers for help that she did not know how to give. That no one could give. Red spots appearing on the new bandages even before she finished, and growing, and growing, and she was forcing down tears, and forcing down sick, and on to the next, who was missing his left arm above the elbow, the left side of his face covered by bandages, and- 'Finree.'

She looked up and realised, to her cold horror, that it was Colonel Brint. They stared at each other for what felt like for ever, in awful silence, in that awful place.

'I didn't know ...' There was so much she did not know she hardly knew how to continue.

'Yesterday,' he said, simply.

'Are you ...' She almost asked him if he was all right, but managed to bite the words off. The answer was horribly obvious. 'Do you need-'

'Have you heard anything? About Aliz?' The name alone was enough to make her guts cramp up even further. She shook her head. 'You were with her. Where were you held?'

'I don't know. I was hooded. They took me away and sent me back.' And oh, how glad she was that Aliz had been left behind in the dark, and not her. 'I don't know where she'll be now ...' Though she could guess. Perhaps Brint could too. Perhaps he was spending all his time guessing.

'Did she say anything?'

'She was ... very brave.' Finree managed to force her face into the sickly semblance of a smile. That was what you were supposed to do, wasn't it? Lie? 'She said she loved you.' She put a halting hand on his arm. The one he still had. 'She said ... not to worry.'

'Not to worry,' he muttered, staring at her with one bloodshot eye. Whether he was comforted, or outraged, or simply did not believe a word of her blame-shirking platitudes she could not tell. 'If I could just know.'

Finree did not think it would help him to know. It was not helping her. 'I'm so sorry,' she whispered, unable even to look at him any longer. 'I tried ... I did everything I could, but ...' That, at least, was true. Wasn't it? She gave Brint's limp arm one last squeeze. 'I have to ... get some more bandages-'

'Will you come back?'

'Yes,' she said, lurching up, not sure if she was still lying, 'of course I will.' And she almost tripped over her feet in her haste to escape that nightmare, thanking the Fates over and over and over that they had chosen her for saving.

Sick of penance, she wandered up the hillside path towards her father's headquarters. Past a pair of corporals dancing a drunken jig to the music of a squeaky fiddle. Past a row of women washing shirts in a brook. Past a row of soldiers queuing eagerly for the king's gold, gleaming metal in the paymaster's fingers glimpsed through the press of bodies. A small crowd of yammering salesmen, conmen and pimps had already gathered about the far end of the line like gulls about a patch of crumbs, realising, no doubt, that peace would soon put them out of business and give honest men the chance to thrive.

Not far from the barn she passed General Mitterick, chaperoned by a few of his staff, and he gave her a solemn nod. Right away she felt something was wrong. Usually his intolerable smugness was reliable as the dawn. Then she saw Bayaz step from the low doorway, and the feeling grew worse. He stood aside to let her pass with all the smugness Mitterick had been missing.

'Fin.' Her father stood alone in the middle of the dim room. He gave her a puzzled smile. 'Well, there it is.' Then he sat down in a chair, gave a shuddering sigh and undid his top button. She had not seen him do that during the day in twenty years.

She strode back into the open air. Bayaz had made it no more than a few dozen strides, speaking softly to his curly-headed henchman.

'You! I want to speak to you!'

'And I to you, in fact. What a happy chance.' The Magus turned to his servant. 'Take him the money, then, as we agreed, and ... send for the plumbers.' The servant bowed and backed respectfully away. 'Now, what can I-'

'You cannot replace him.'

'And we are speaking of?'

'My father!' she snapped. 'As you well know!'

'I did not replace him.' Bayaz looked almost amused. 'Your father had the good grace, and the good sense, to resign.'

'He is the best man for the task!' It was an effort to stop herself from grabbing the Magus' bald head and biting it. 'The one man who did a thing to limit this pointless bloody slaughter! That puffed-up fool Mitterick? He charged half his division to their deaths yesterday! The king needs men who-'

'The king needs men who obey.'

'You do not have the authority!' Her voice was cracking. 'My father is a lord marshal with a chair on the Closed Council, only the king himself can remove him!'

'Oh, the shame! Undone by the very rules of government I myself drafted!' Bayaz stuck out his bottom lip as he reached into his coat pocket and slid out a scroll with a heavy red seal. 'Then I suppose this carries no weight either.' He gently unrolled it, thick parchment crackling faintly. Finree found herself suddenly breathless as the Magus cleared his throat.

'By royal decree, Harod dan Brock is to be restored to his father's seat on the Open Council. Some of the family estates near Keln will be returned, along with lands near Ostenhorm from which, it will be hoped, your husband will attend to his new responsibilities as lord governor of Angland.' Bayaz turned the paper around and brought it closer, her eyes darting over the blocks of masterful calligraphy like a miser's over a chest of jewels.

'How could the king not be moved by such loyalty, such bravery, such sacrifice as the young Lord Brock displayed?' Bayaz leaned close. 'Not to mention the courage and tenacity of his wife who, captured by the Northmen, mark you, poked Black Dow in the eye and demanded the release of sixty prisoners! Why, his August Majesty would have to be made of stone. He is not, in case you were wondering. Few men less so, indeed. He wept when he read the despatch that described your husband's heroic assault upon the bridge. Wept. Then he ordered this paper drawn up, and signed it within the hour.' The Magus leaned closer yet, so she could almost feel his breath upon her face. 'I daresay ... if one were closely to inspect this document ... one could see the marks of his Majesty's earnest tears ... staining the vellum.'

For the first time since it had been produced, Finree shifted her eyes from the scroll. She was close enough to see each grey hair of Bayaz' beard, each brown liver spot on his bald pate, each deep, hard crease in his skin. 'It would take a week for the despatch to reach him and another week for the edict to return. It has only been a day since-'

'Call it magic. His Majesty's carcass may be a week away in Adua, but his right hand?' Bayaz held his own up between them. 'His right hand is a little closer by. But none of that matters now.' He stepped back, sighing, and started to roll the parchment up. 'Since you say I have not the authority. I shall burn this worthless paper, shall I?'

'No!' She had to stop herself snatching it from his hand. 'No.'

'You no longer object to your father's replacement?'

She bit her lip for a moment. War is hell, and all that, but it presents opportunities. 'He resigned.'

'Did he?' Bayaz smiled wide, but his green eyes stayed glittering hard. 'You impress me once again. My earnest congratulations on your husband's meteoric rise to power. And your own, of course ... Lady Governess.' He held out the scroll by one handle. She took it by the other. He did not let go.

'Remember this, though. People love heroes, but new ones can always be found. With one finger of one hand I make you. With one finger of one hand ...' He put his finger under her chin and pushed it up, sending a stab of pain through her stiff neck. 'I can unmake you.'

She swallowed. 'I understand.'

'Then I wish you good day!' And Bayaz released her and the scroll, all smiles again. 'Please convey the happy news to your husband, though I must ask that you keep it between yourselves for the time being. People might not appreciate, as you do, quite how the magic works. I shall convey your husband's acceptance to his Majesty along with the news that he made the offer. Shall I?'

Finree cleared her throat. 'By all means.'

'My colleagues on the Closed Council will be delighted that the matter has been put to rest so swiftly. You must visit Adua when your husband is recovered. The formalities of his appointment. A parade, or some such. Hours of pomp in the Lords' Round. Breakfast with the queen.' Bayaz raised one eyebrow as he turned away. 'You really should procure some better clothes. Something with a heroic air.'

The room was clean and bright, light streaming in through a window and across the bed. No sobbing. No blood. No missing limbs. No awful not knowing. The luck of it. One arm was bound under the covers, the other lying pale on the sheet, knuckles scabbed over, gently rising and falling with his breath.

'Hal.' He grunted, eyelids flickering open. 'Hal, it's me.'

'Fin.' He reached up and touched her cheek with his fingertips. 'You came.'

'Of course.' She folded his hand in hers. 'How are you?'

He shifted, winced, then gave a weak smile. 'Bit stiff, honestly, but lucky. Damn lucky to have you. I heard you dragged me out of the rubble. Shouldn't I be the one rushing to your rescue?'

'If it helps it was Bremer dan Gorst who found you and carried you back. I just ran around crying, really.'

'You've always cried easily, it's one thing I love about you.' His eyes started to drift shut. 'I suppose I can live with Gorst ... doing the saving ...'

She squeezed his hand tighter. 'Hal, listen to me, something has happened. Something wonderful.'

'I heard.' His eyelids moved lazily. 'Peace.'

She shrugged it off. 'Not that. Well, yes, that, but ...' She leaned over him, wrapping her other hand around his. 'Hal, listen to me. You're getting your father's seat in the Open Council.'

'What?'

'Some of his lands, too. They want us ... you ... the king wants you to take Meed's place.'

Hal blinked. 'As general of his division?'

'As lord governor of Angland.'

For a moment he looked simply stunned then, as he studied her face, worried. 'Why me?'

'Because you're a good man.' And a good compromise. 'A hero, apparently. Your deeds have come to the notice of the king.'

'Hero?' He snorted. 'How did you do it?' He tried to get up onto his elbows but she put a hand on his chest and held him gently down.

Now was the opportunity to tell him the truth. The idea barely crossed her mind. 'You did it. You were right after all. Hard work and loyalty and all those things. Leading from the front. That's how you get on.'

'But-'

'Shhhh.' And she kissed him on one side of the lips, and on the other, and in the middle. His breath was foul, but she did not care. She was not about to let him ruin this. 'We can talk about it later. You rest, now.'

'I love you,' he whispered.

'I love you too.' Gently stroking his face as he slipped back into sleep. It was true. He was a good man. One of the best. Honest, brave, loyal to a fault. They were well matched. Optimist and pessimist, dreamer and cynic. And what is love anyway, but finding someone who suits you? Someone who makes up for your shortcomings?

Someone you can work with. Work on.

Terms 'They're late,' grumbled Mitterick.

The table had six chairs around it. His Majesty's new lord marshal occupied one, stuffed into a dress uniform swaddled with braid and too tight about his neck. Bayaz occupied another, drumming his thick fingers upon the tabletop. The Dogman slumped in the third, frowning up towards the Heroes, a muscle on the side of his head occasionally twitching.

Gorst stood a pace behind Mitterick's chair, arms folded. Beside him was Bayaz' servant, a map of the north rolled up in his hands. Behind them, posed stiffly within the ring of stones but out of earshot, were a handful of the most senior remaining officers of the army. A sadly denuded complement. Meed, and Wetterlant, and Vinkler, and plenty more beside could not be with us. Jalenhorm too. Gorst frowned up towards the Heroes. Standing on first name terms with me is as good as a death sentence, it seems. His Majesty's Twelfth Regiment were all in attendance, though, arrayed in parade ground order just outside the Children on the south side, their forest of shouldered halberds glittering in the chilly sun. A little reminder that we seek peace today, but are more than prepared for the alternative.

In spite of his battered head, burning cheek, a score of other cuts and scrapes and the countless bruises outside and in, Gorst was more than prepared for the alternative as well. Itching for it, in fact. What employment would I find in peacetime, after all? Teach swordsmanship to sneering young officers? Lurk about the court like a lame dog, hoping for scraps? Sent as royal observer to the sewers of Keln? Or give up training, and run to fat, and become an embarrassing drunk trading on old stories of almost-glory. You know that's Bremer dan Gorst, who was once the king's First Guard? Let's buy the squeaking joke a drink! Let's buy him ten so we can watch him piss himself!

Gorst felt his frown grow deeper. Or ... should I take up Black Dow's offer? Should I go where they sing songs about men like me instead of sniggering at their disgrace? Where peace need never come at all? Bremer dan Gorst, hero, champion, the most feared man in the North- 'Finally,' grunted Bayaz, bringing a sharp end to the fantasy.

There was the unmistakable sound of soldiers on the move and a body of Northmen began to tramp down the long slope from the Heroes, the rims of their painted shields catching the light. It seems the enemy are prepared for the alternative, too. Gorst gently loosened his spare long steel in its sheath, watchful for any sign of an ambush. Itching for it, in fact. A single Northern toe too close and he would draw. And peace would simply be one more thing in my life that failed to happen.